A small ripple of apprehension fluttered through me as I ladled the stew into a tureen. Bill was whining and Bill never whined. The Handmaidens were fuming, Lilian Bunting was spreading butter on inferior bread, and Henry Cook was wondering why his fiancée no longer cared for his sense of humor. Sally’s wish for fame appeared to be having unintended and rather unpleasant consequences.
“Wishes can backfire,” I murmured. “I wonder if Sally’s wish will explode in her face?”
The phone rang and I nearly dropped the ladle. I managed to lower it into the dutch oven without splashing stew all over the stove, but I was still a bit jumpy when I picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” I said uneasily.
“Lori?”
I heard Emma’s voice and relaxed. She couldn’t have more wonderful news to pass along, I told myself. Nothing could be more wonderful than Peter’s return.
“I know it’s dinnertime,” she said, “so I’ll keep it short. Would you please let Jack know that I’ll be volunteering my services at Ivy Cottage on Friday?”
“Friday?” I said, surprised. “You said you’d need a few days to bring Peter and Cassie up to speed.”
“I know,” said Emma, “but I didn’t take into account how bright and eager Peter and Cassie are. They won’t need more than a day to learn the ropes.”
“Great,” I said. “What do you suggest Jack and Bree and I do tomorrow? We don’t want to spoil your big plans.”
“You can make a start on fixing or replacing the bird tables and the birdbaths,” Emma replied decisively. “I’d rather you didn’t touch the greenery until I’m on hand to supervise.”
“We won’t pluck a blade of grass without you,” I said, smiling.
“Did you hear about the tearoom?” she asked.
“Bill told me,” I replied. “What a kerfuffle.”
“Derek was bitterly disappointed,” said Emma. “He’d counted on having a custard tart after lunch. He nearly wept when I told him the tearoom would be closed again tomorrow, for the photo shoot.”
“Bill’s displaying withdrawal symptoms, too,” I said.
“Do not come between a man and his pastries,” Emma intoned and we both chuckled. “Did Bill tell you about George Wetherhead?”
“No,” I said, my smile fading. “What about George Wetherhead?”
“Christmas came early for him,” Emma said. “Derek ran into him during his failed quest for custard tarts and heard the whole story firsthand. You know how passionate George is about his train collection.”
“It’s the only thing he talks about voluntarily,” I said. George Wetherhead was the most bashful man in Finch, but he was a rabid model railway enthusiast.
“Well,” said Emma, “George spotted an ad for a rare antique brass locomotive in one of his newsletters last week. The seller had placed a ridiculously low price on it and George snapped it up. It arrived in the mail today and George swears it’s worth ten times what he paid for it. Derek said he looked as if he were walking on air.”
“I’ll bet he did,” I said in a hollow voice. “Does Derek happen to know whether or not George visited Ivy Cottage recently?”
“Derek doesn’t,” Emma replied, “but I do. I saw George there last Thursday evening, when I dropped in to take more photographs. He was chatting with Jack about a long-distance passenger train in Australia called the Ghan. I thought it was very bold of George to strike up a conversation with a total stranger.”
“Did George look around the back garden?” I asked.
“He and Jack were in the back garden,” said Emma. “That’s where I found them.”
“Of course you did,” I said faintly. “Listen, Emma, I have to go.”
“I know and I’m sorry,” said Emma. “I didn’t mean to keep you so long. Go. Feed your family. I’ll see you on Friday!”
“See you then,” I said.
I hung up the phone and wobbled unsteadily to the kitchen table, where I sank onto the nearest chair and stared anxiously into the middle distance.
“Pixies and leprechauns and fairies aren’t real,” I said to the thin air. “But I’m not so sure about wishing wells.”
Sixteen
I spent most of the night tossing and turning and asking myself what would happen next. Would Finch crumble beneath the weight of its good fortune, as Aunt Dimity had predicted? A trickle of discontent was already seeping through the village and I didn’t have the faintest notion of how to stop it. What little sleep I did get was disrupted by dreams of Finch being pulverized by a gargantuan tidal wave. I woke feeling seasick, but a cup of strong, sweet tea and yet another sun-filled morning restored my faith in my village’s ability to survive whatever maelstrom Fate had in store for it.
I made breakfast for Bill and the boys, drove Will and Rob to school, and rode Betsy to Ivy Cottage, allowing the gentle downhill slope to do most of the work for me. Bree and Jack were sitting on the front doorstep when I rolled Betsy into the driveway. I tried not to smile when Jack slid closer to Bree to make room for me.
“Good news,” he announced. “Aldous Winterbottom has given Emma’s master plan his blessing.”