“Let’s assume for the sake of argument that someone did overhear the wishes,” I said. “How in heaven’s name could he or she make them come true? How could I, for instance, arrange for a publisher to give Jemma Renshawe an assignment that would lead her straight to her aunt’s guest room? How could I arrange for Dabney Holdstrom to drive into Finch with a disconnected exhaust pipe? How could I bring Peter and Cassie Harris back to Anscombe Manor? The answer is: I couldn’t.”
You underrate your scheming skills, Lori, but I take your point. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a rational explanation, my dear, but I remain convinced that a rational explanation exists. You simply haven’t discovered it yet. I’m not even certain it’s worth discovering. Not now, at any rate.
“Why not?” I asked.
At the moment, everyone seems to be happy. The time to look for an explanation will come when the moment of happiness passes.
“Why should it pass?” I asked.
Wishes can backfire, Lori. They sometimes backfire spectacularly. A child may wish with all her heart to eat a whole chocolate cake without pausing to consider how sick she would be afterward. A greedy man may wish for a pile of gold, but if the gold came from your pocket, you might object. One person’s dream-come-true can be another person’s worst nightmare.
“I see what you mean,” I said, nodding thoughtfully. “I wanted it to stop raining, but if the rain stops for too long, crops die.”
When the drought begins, you’ll have to find a rational explanation for the strange things that are happening in Finch. Otherwise, you won’t be able to stop it. And it will be essential to stop it. If you don’t, crops will die. I speak metaphorically, of course. You and I both know that you aren’t responsible for the weather.
“What should I do in the meantime?” I asked.
In the meantime, let your neighbors enjoy their apparent good fortune. It would be cruel to intercede too soon. It would also be useless. Most people refuse to accept reality until it jumps up and hits them on the nose.
“Let me get this straight,” I said slowly. “It’s my job to figure out what’s really going on in Finch, but not until some sort of crisis occurs?”
An admirable summation. I suspect you won’t have long to wait. As I said before, Lori, wishes can backfire.
? ? ?
I spent the rest of the day racing from one neglected chore to another. I cobbled together a beef stew for dinner and made a (small) chocolate cake for dessert in between catching up with the laundry, the vacuuming, the dusting, the scrubbing, and the straightening. I paused at odd intervals to scan the driveway from the window seat in the living room or to glance expectantly at the telephone in the kitchen, but to my relief, neither the doorbell nor the telephone rang.
I’d had all the good news I could stand.
Will and Rob provided a welcome distraction from the weird goings-on in Finch. I picked the boys up from school and played cricket with them in our back meadow until I ran out of breath and traded chasing down balls for cheering from the sidelines. I called them in to wash their hands and to set the table shortly before Bill came home from work.
I was putting the finishing touches on a green salad when my husband strode into the kitchen, with Stanley padding faithfully at his heels.
“What smells so good?” Bill asked.
“I’d like to think I do,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him, “but it’s probably the beef stew.”
Bill gave me an absentminded kiss on the cheek, then lifted the lid from the dutch oven and inhaled deeply.
“Will it be ready soon?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
“Dinner will be served in two shakes of a kitten’s tail,” I assured him, giving the salad a final toss. “Why are you so hungry, anyway? Hard day at the office?”
“It was a hard day at the office,” he acknowledged, “but I’m hungry because I didn’t have my three o’clock doughnut to sustain me. Sally closed the tearoom all day to get ready for the photo shoot tomorrow.”
“She closed the tearoom?” I said, astonished. “Sally never closes the tearoom during regular working hours. She can’t afford to shut it down.”
“She shut it down today,” said Bill, moving to the kitchen counter to examine the chocolate cake. “The Handmaidens had a fit because they missed their daily tea-and-backstabbing session. Lilian Bunting ran out of bread and had to settle for the plastic-wrapped stuff Peggy sells at the Emporium. And Henry . . .” Bill sighed. “Poor Henry was banished to the pub.”
“Why?” I exclaimed.
“Sally didn’t want him to distract her with his jokes and his funny stories,” said Bill. “She’s taking the whole thing very seriously.”
“I suppose it’s understandable,” I said. “I doubt she’ll have another chance to appear on the cover of a national magazine.”
“Good God, I hope not,” Bill said vehemently as he went off to round up the boys. “I need my three o’clock doughnut.”