Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  “And you reckon . . . what?” said Mr. Barlow, looking perplexed. “He’s been nice to us because he has fond memories of his boyhood home?” He shrugged. “Makes sense, I suppose, except for the part about him not growing up in Finch.”

  “Yes,” I agreed dryly, “that does put a dent in my theory.”

  “I should be going, Lori,” said Mr. Barlow, getting to his feet. “Mr. Holdstrom will be coming to pick up his Morris this afternoon and I want to make sure it’s humming. I hope he won’t take it too hard when I tell him I’m done with classic cars.”

  “You’re done with them?” I said. “I thought you were having the time of your life, fiddling with those fancy engines.”

  “I was fiddling while Finch burned,” said Mr. Barlow. “No more. I’ve had my fun. It’s time I got back to my proper jobs. Anything need doing around here, Lori? Squeaky hinge? Loose floorboard?”

  “You could give me a painkiller,” I said. “I’m not sure I can open the childproof lid.”

  Mr. Barlow was pleased to be of service. He bustled off to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and a sandwich consisting of a slab of cheese between two thick slices of bread.

  “It says on the label ‘to be taken with food,’” he pointed out.

  I was still full from breakfast, but I dutifully ate a few bites of the sandwich before taking the tablet Mr. Barlow placed in my palm. He unwrapped the box of chocolates, too, and apologized to me once more before letting himself out of the cottage.

  I rested my head against the pillows and wondered how long it would take for the drug to start working, but my reverie was interrupted by the crunch of tires on gravel. Groaning, I sat up, looked through the bay window, and saw Selena Buxton walking up my flagstone path. She was dressed as neatly as ever, in a baby-blue skirt and blazer, with matching pumps, and she was carrying a baby-blue casserole dish. The casserole parade had begun.

  I counted to three, then hollered, “Come in! It’s open!”

  The front door opened and closed. Selena put her head into the living room and held the dish up for me to see.

  “Chicken Divan,” she said. “I’ll pop it in the fridge, shall I?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “Then come back and keep me company.”

  I wanted nothing more than to sink into a deep and dreamless sleep, but I couldn’t let Selena go without interrogating her. As a Handmaiden, she was honor bound to stay up-to-date on the latest gossip. I could count on her to pass along anything that had been said by or about Dabney Holdstrom since his arrival in Finch.

  I smiled up at her as she returned to the living room and took a seat in my armchair.

  “Will and Rob adore your Chicken Divan,” I said, “and so does Bill. Thank you for making one of their favorite dishes.”

  “It’s nothing, really,” she said. “As soon as I heard about your accident I realized that you’d need help feeding your family.” She pursed her lips primly and smoothed her skirt as she continued, “I’m afraid your other neighbors are far too busy with their own affairs to give your suffering a second thought.”

  “Maybe they haven’t heard about my suffering,” I said.

  Selena eyed me incredulously.

  “You can’t imagine that a mad dash to hospital would go unnoticed in Finch,” she said. “Your poor thumb has been the talk of the village. By rights, your fridge should be full by now, but it appears that neighborliness has gone by the wayside in our little community.”

  I shrugged. “If people are busy—”

  “Oh, yes, people are busy, busy, busy,” Selena broke in sourly. “Miranda is dosing her patients with bottles of well water, Sally is sewing a striped waistcoat for Henry to wear on stage, Peggy is taking an inventory of the tearoom’s furnishings, and Emma is closeted with Peter and Cassie at Anscombe Manor. Even my closest friends . . .” She faltered, then straightened her shoulders and continued spiritedly, “Even my closest friends are too busy to give you the attention you deserve. Elspeth is running around after that dreadful niece of hers and Opal asked Millicent to help her set up a mail-order business for her jams and marmalades.”

  “A mail-order business?” I repeated. “What’s wrong with selling her wares through the Emporium?”

  “Opal doesn’t feel the Emporium will be able to handle the volume of sales that will come in once her products appear in Cozy Cookery,” Selena replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “She has no idea what she’s getting herself into, of course. I told her that increased production will mean increased costs for supplies, equipment, packaging, postage, publicity, licenses, health inspections, and so on, and she called me—” Selena’s nostrils flared with indignation. “She called me an interfering know-it-all, told me to mind my own business, and asked Millicent to help her instead of me.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “That must have hurt.”

  “What hurts,” Selena said angrily, “is that I have no business to mind! I went to the wishing well, just like everyone else, but has my wish been granted? No! It has been snatched away from me, ruined, annihilated!”

  “What did you wish for?” I asked, wondering what kind of wish could provoke such strong emotions.

  Selena took a few calming breaths and folded her well-manicured hands in her lap.

  “Last year, after Sally and Henry became engaged,” she began, “I offered my services to Sally. As you know, I spent twenty-five years as a professional wedding planner and I thought my knowledge and experience would be useful to her.”

  “Have they picked a date for the wedding?” I asked, my gossip’s antennae quivering.

  “They’re leaning toward August,” she replied.

  “A year after they became engaged,” I said, smiling. “How romantic.”

  “I leave romance to the bride and groom,” said Selena. “And they leave the wedding to me. A lot of groundwork can be laid before a specific date is selected. I offered to lay the groundwork.”

  “Did Sally accept?” I asked.

  “She did,” said Selena. “She’s a marvelous seamstress, so she’ll make her own gown, but I’ve sketched age-appropriate gowns for the bridesmaids and the matron of honor and lined up morning suits for the groom, the best man, and the groomsmen at a rental shop in Upper Deeping.”

  “I’ll bet Sally makes her own cake, too,” I put in.

  “Naturally,” said Selena, “but I’ve selected the invitations, the flowers, the music, the reception hall, the band, and the caterers, as well as the gifts for the wedding party. I’ve also devised a tasteful decorative scheme for St. George’s, and I’ve kept overall expenses within Sally’s declared budget.” Selena’s eyes gleamed with pleasure, as if the lovingly orchestrated spectacle were unfolding in her imagination.

  “It sounds as though you’ve put a lot of work into planning the wedding,” I said.

  “I have,” Selena agreed. “I wanted Sally and Henry’s wedding day to go off without a hitch. That was my wish, Lori. No sudden rain showers, no embarrassing speeches, no broken zippers, no quarrels, no drunks, everyone arriving on time and having a splendid time. I asked the wishing well for a perfect wedding.”

  “It’s a beautiful wish,” I said.

  The gleam in Selena’s eyes went out.

  “Beautiful, yes, but it won’t come true!” she cried. “Sally has thrown my plans back in my face.” Selena made a noise like a growl in the back of her throat. “She’s decided to be married in a registry office without attendants or guests or music or anything.”

  “Why?” I asked, though I thought I knew the answer.

  “It’s this ridiculous notion she has about the rebirth of Henry’s career,” Selena said fretfully. “She wants to get the wedding over and done with before the bookings start to pour in. She’s talking about buying a caravan to live in while they’re ‘on the road.’”

  “What about Cozy Cookery?” I asked. “Dabney Holdstrom is writing a feature article about her. Is she going to leave him in the lurch?”
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  “Haven’t you heard?” Selena’s look of astonishment quickly turned into one of pity. “Of course you haven’t. You’ve been out of circulation since yesterday afternoon.”

  “What’s happened?” I demanded.

  Selena sounded like her old gossipmongering self as she leaned forward to impart her news.

  “Sally won’t allow Mr. Holdstrom to publish the article,” she said. “She won’t be on the cover, either. Sally says it’s because she lost the tearoom, but rumor has it that Mr. Holdstrom offended her by objecting to the green gingham monstrosity she wore for the photo shoot.”

  “Her outfit was a bit much,” I conceded, “but I don’t think it would have mattered if she’d held on to the tearoom. After all, the article was as much about the tearoom as it was about her. I’m sure she’s trying to do the honorable thing by letting Dabney Holdstrom off the hook, but she must be incredibly disappointed.”

  “She’s not half as disappointed as Mr. Holdstrom,” Selena said. “I saw him leave Sally’s flat and he looked devastated. I felt for him, poor man. He put a lot of work into his article and Sally threw it back in his face.” Selena’s face darkened. “My wish won’t come true and his won’t, either.”

  I blinked. “Did Dabney Holdstrom visit the wishing well?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Selena. “Sally egged him on to have a go at it last week. No one knows what he wished for, of course, but if I were an editor of a magazine like Cozy Cookery, I’d wish for a pastry chef like Sally Pyne on my cover if she agreed to wear a less ridiculous costume. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “I suppose I would.”

  “Then you’d be as devastated as Dabney Holdstrom,” Selena declared, “and as disappointed as I am. Disappointment seems to be the order of the day in Finch and friendship doesn’t mean what it used to mean. If you need proof, look in your fridge. Only one casserole? It’s shameful.” She clucked her tongue and got to her feet. “I’ll let you rest, Lori. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. No one else seems to have time for me.”

  She smiled wanly and departed, leaving me to my very tangled thoughts.

  Twenty

  Sally Pyne had given up her church wedding and her magazine cover in order to follow her fiancé on his dubious comeback trail. Opal Taylor was starting a mail-order business without knowing the first thing about mail-order businesses. Noon was approaching and I had only one casserole in my refrigerator because friendship didn’t mean what it used to mean in Finch. Selena’s best friends had abandoned her and the wishing well had failed her. It had, apparently, failed Dabney Holdstrom, as well.

  “The world has gone mad,” I muttered.

  I pulled Reginald out from under the quilt and gazed into his black button eyes while I tried to follow the various scenarios to their logical conclusions.

  “We know the tearoom will go straight downhill after Peggy buys it,” I said, “but what will Sally do if Henry flops? A good baker can always find a job, but will she be content to work for someone else after she’s been her own boss for so many years? Will cookies, cakes, and summer puddings be enough for her after she’s set her sights on Hollywood? Will the church wedding be back on again or will she and Henry be too poor to pay for it? Or,” I went on with a small gasp of dismay, “will she break it off with Henry because she blames him for dashing her dreams?”

  Reginald offered no answers, but I was on a roll, so I kept going.

  “Opal is setting herself up for a fall, too,” I told him. “Even if she does figure out how mail order works, mass-produced marmalades never taste as good as the ones made in small batches. Apart from that, she won’t be able to pick enough fresh berries to fill hundreds, maybe thousands, of orders. The quality of her products will decline, orders will tail off, and she’ll lose the investment she’s made in expanding her business. Instead of supplementing her income by selling her homemade goodies through the Emporium, she’ll drain it by wasting her hard-earned cash on a hopeless venture. What will happen to Opal when her bank account runs dry?”

  I stroked Reginald’s hand-sewn whiskers as I continued, but my mind was so full of calamities that I hardly saw him.

  “Miranda Morrow won’t poison people with her bottles of well water,” I said, “but she won’t heal anyone either. If her patients lose confidence in her, she’ll be written off as a crackpot and no one will remember how effective her herbal ointments and poultices and tisanes are.”

  It took me a while to conjure a bad outcome for model railway enthusiast George Wetherhead, but I managed it.

  “What if his antique locomotive turns out to be stolen property?” I said. “It would explain why such a rarity was sold for a bargain price. George would be heartbroken if his new toy was taken away from him, but he’d have a heart attack if a constable showed up on his doorstep, asking questions.”

  Satisfied, I moved on.

  “Dabney Holdstrom’s had a double disappointment,” I said. “Mr. Barlow won’t repair his cars and Sally won’t star in his magazine. I guess I’d be pretty devastated if I granted a wish for someone who said, ‘No, thank you.’ But if Dabney’s the wish granter, why did he make a wish? Was he trying to blend in with the villagers? When in Finch, visit the wishing well? And last but not least: Why does the wishing well grant some wishes, but not others?”

  I gazed blindly at my pink bunny for several minutes before it dawned on me to share my troubled thoughts with Aunt Dimity. I was about to remove the blue journal from its pillowy hiding place when I heard the unmistakable clip-clopping sound of horses walking sedately up the lane. Reginald and I watched through the bay window as two gray mares turned into my driveway. I recognized the riders instantly, though I hadn’t seen them in a long time.

  Peter and Cassie Harris were the most unexpected and the most welcome visitors I’d had all morning. They dismounted, tied their steeds to the hitching post Will and Rob used for their ponies, unloaded their saddlebags, and strode up the flagstone walk with their arms full of everything, it seemed, except a casserole dish.

  Peter and Cassie were in their midtwenties. His dark good looks complimented her blond prettiness and though he was slightly taller than she was, they were both tall, lean, and blessed with the healthy glow that comes from working in the great outdoors.

  “It’s open!” I bellowed as I tucked Reginald beneath the quilt. “Come in!”

  The pair strode into the living room, deposited their offerings on the coffee table, and bent to give me kisses on both cheeks and much gentler hugs than usual, presumably out of deference to my injury.

  “We come bearing gifts,” Peter announced, nodding toward the coffee table. “Mum sent the lilacs, the soup, and the grapes—”

  Though Emma was Peter’s stepmother, he never referred to her as such. Emma had come into his life when he was a young boy and she’d been “Mum” to him ever since.

  “—Dad sent the book of crossword puzzles,” Peter continued, “and Kit and Nell send their love. The magazines were my idea and the eye pillow was Cassie’s.”

  “It’s made of raw silk and filled with lavender,” said Cassie, “to promote relaxation and sleep.”

  “Thank you,” I said, thinking of how little sleep I’d had since I’d sent Bill to work. “Thanks for everything.”

  Cassie scooped up the lilacs and the soup and carried them into the kitchen. Peter perched on the edge of the coffee table and surveyed my bandaged thumb.

  “Does it feel as bad as it looks?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t,” I said in mild surprise. “The painkiller must have kicked in.”

  “Dad thought you would be on pain pills,” said Peter. “That’s why he sent the book of crossword puzzles instead of a bottle of brandy.”

  “It’s the thought that counts,” I said, smiling.

  Cassie returned with the lilacs arranged in a vase. She placed the vase on the end table nearest my head—the shortest distance between the flowers’ fragrance
and my nose—and sat beside Peter on the coffee table.

  “The others will be along later,” Peter informed me, “but Cassie and I couldn’t wait to see you.”

  “He’s right,” said Cassie. “One of the advantages of living next door is that we’ll be able to spend more time with our favorite people.”

  “It’s all settled, then?” I said. “You’re moving into Anscombe Manor?”

  “It’s all settled,” Peter confirmed. “Dad hopes to have our flat fitted out by next month.”

  “Emma’s throwing a party in our honor tomorrow night,” said Cassie. “You, Bill, and the twins are invited.”

  “Mum would have asked you herself,” said Peter, “but she left for Ivy Cottage right after breakfast.”

  I laughed. “If I know your mother, she’ll be gone until dark.”

  “You know my mother,” Peter agreed.

  “The party starts at eight o’clock,” said Cassie, “but if you’re worried about the boys staying up past their bedtime, come early. Our homecoming wouldn’t be complete without them.”

  “Your homecoming has made Emma and Derek very happy,” I said.

  “They’ve made us very happy by taking us in,” said Peter.

  “It’ll be a big change from what you’re used to,” I warned. “Swapping fresh air and freedom for an office job won’t be easy.”

  “It’ll be easy for us,” said Cassie. “Our funding dried up six months ago. We’ve been living on our savings, but they’re almost gone.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” said Peter. “Our enforced holiday made us realize that we were ready to change gears.”

  “Living out of a duffel bag gets old after a while,” Cassie explained, “as does living in huts, tents, and rusty old caravans. Peter and I love the wilderness, but it isn’t the best place to raise a family.”

  “A family!” I exclaimed, putting my good hand out to Cassie. “Are you—”

  “Not yet,” she said, laughing, “but I hope to be, soon.”

  Peter gazed at his wife with such tenderness that tears sprang to my eyes even as I smiled. I might never have another child of my own, I told myself, but I’d have the infinite pleasure of pampering theirs.