The one truly remarkable feature of the six-day span was Emma’s failure to keep her word. Though she’d promised to deliver her garden plan to Jack by “Thursday at the latest,” we didn’t see her or her plan until the following Wednesday. Bree, Jack, and I were too busy snipping ivy and studying stonework to let the delay worry us, but by Wednesday morning, we’d run out of things to do.
We were standing in the front garden, admiring the cottage’s neat appearance and comparing calluses, when Emma arrived with a three-ring binder containing her master plan for the gardens’ restoration. The binder’s thickness seemed to explain why she’d taken so long to deliver it.
Emma had created a fifty-page opus that included plant lists, diagrams, instructions, general layouts, detailed layouts, and thumbnail photographs of each plant she hoped to preserve. She’d also made a series of technical drawings to show how the pergola, the trellis, the birdbaths, the bird tables, and the old stone wall would look once they were repaired. Jack seemed to be stunned by the sheer weight of the tome and Emma was clearly embarrassed by it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s overkill, I know, but once I got started, I couldn’t stop.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Jack. “You’ve put in the hard yards and I’m grateful.” He leafed through the binder, then closed it with a snap. “Tell you what. I’ll read it today and figure out how much of it I can handle.”
“You don’t have to handle it on your own,” said Bree. “Lori and I aren’t going anywhere.”
“We wouldn’t dream of letting you have all the fun,” I chimed in.
“I wish I could help, too,” said Emma. “But I’ve already fallen behind on my own work.”
“You’ve done your part,” said Jack. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Okay,” said Emma. “If you have any questions, feel free to call me. Or send an e-mail. Or a text. Or a note. My contact information is inside the front cover.” She looked regretfully from the three-ring binder to the three-ring circus of greenery bordering the brick paths and said with a valiant attempt at cheerfulness, “Well. I’d better be going. Insurance forms wait for no woman.”
It pained me to watch her drag herself reluctantly from the garden because I knew how badly she wanted to stay behind.
“Let’s pack it in,” said Jack, after she’d gone. “It’ll take me all day to digest Emma’s scheme and I’ll need to speak with Aldous Winterbottom about it before I decide whether or not to go ahead with it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’ll know if there’s enough money in Uncle Hector’s estate to pay for the scheme,” said Jack. “I want to do right by Uncle Hector, but if the dosh isn’t there, I may have to take some shortcuts.”
“Tell Mr. Winterbottom you’re getting the labor for free,” said Bree.
“You’re not cheap labor,” Jack protested. “We’re a team.”
“Team Ivy,” I suggested.
“Team Ivy,” chorused Jack and Bree, laughing.
After an exuberant round of high-fives, Bree and I collected our bicycles from the garage and rode side by side up the lane. I’d so far resisted the almost irresistible urge to plumb the depths of Bree’s feelings for Jack and she’d given me no access to her thoughts. Observation told me that Jack was besotted with her, but she was less easy to read.
I listened to her intently as we climbed the gentle slope, in part because I didn’t want to miss any hints she might drop about the state of her heart, but mainly because I didn’t yet have the lung power to conduct a conversation and cycle uphill with her at the same time.
She rattled on about Sally’s summer pudding, Opal’s jams and marmalades, Millicent’s tooth, and Mr. Barlow’s love affair with Dabney Holdstrom’s classic cars. She invented wishes for the rest of our neighbors and laughed at them for their naiveté, but the only time Jack’s name came up was when she guessed at the identities of his night callers.
“Peggy Taxman is at the top of my list,” she said. “She’s spent the past week laughing at anyone who mentions the well. She’d lose face if anyone saw her talking to it in broad daylight.”
“What . . . wish?” I gasped.
“To buy another business,” Bree said promptly. “She may be queen of the Emporium, the post office, and the greengrocer’s, but she won’t rest until she’s conquered every shop in Finch. Henry Cook is high on my list of suspects, too.”
“Why . . . Henry?” I wheezed.
“He used to be a star,” said Bree. “He used to entertain hundreds of people on cruise ships. He must miss it, don’t you think? He must be longing for the limelight now that Sally’s taken center stage, but he can’t say it out loud because she’s his fiancée.”
“Anyone . . . else?” I panted.