Aunt Dimity and the Summer King (4 page)

“Grab all the daddy-daughter time you want,” I told him, getting to my feet. “If you need me, I'll be in the study, chatting with Aunt Dimity.”

H
ardly anyone knew about Aunt Dimity. Bill was one of the scant handful of people who were aware of her existence. I didn't advertise her presence in the cottage because she wasn't a normal house guest. She was, in fact, about as far from normal as it was possible to get.

When I was a little girl, my mother told me stories about a wonderful woman named Aunt Dimity who lived in a magical, faraway place known as England. They were my favorite stories and since none of my friends were familiar with them, I grew up believing that my mother had invented Aunt Dimity for the sole purpose of entertaining me, her only child. Many years passed before I learned that my mother had modeled her fictional creation on a real-life Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood.

Dimity Westwood had been my mother's closest friend. The two women had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War. They'd been very young, very frightened, very brave, and very determined to live life to the fullest despite long work hours, short rations, and the ever-present threat of high-explosive bombs blowing them to kingdom come.

When the war in Europe ended and my mother returned to the States, she and Dimity maintained their friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic. After my father's sudden death, those letters became my mother's refuge, a peaceful haven in which she could find respite from the rigors of teaching full time while raising a rambunctious daughter on her own.

My mother was extremely protective of her refuge. I knew nothing of her close ties with Dimity Westwood until I was almost thirty years old and both she and Dimity were dead. It was only then that I learned through a law firm—Bill's law firm—that the seemingly fictional Aunt Dimity had been a living, breathing woman who'd bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she'd grown up, the precious correspondence she'd exchanged with my mother, and a curious book filled with blank pages and bound in smooth blue leather.

It was through the blue journal that I came to know the real Aunt Dimity. Whenever I gazed at its blank pages, her handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when one-room schoolhouses were commonplace. I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time Aunt Dimity wrote to me, but after I'd calmed down enough to read what she had written, I quickly realized that my mother's best friend had become mine.

I had no idea how Aunt Dimity managed to pass through the barrier between this world and the next, and she wasn't too clear about it, either. I occasionally thought that I might be her unfinished business on earth, an ongoing project she had to complete before she could move on. When I was in a less egocentric frame of mind, however, I suspected her of sticking around simply because she couldn't fathom spending eternity without a daily dose of village gossip. As I had pointed out to Bill, I wasn't the only inquisitive soul in the cottage. And for that, I was profoundly grateful.

I stood in the study's doorway for a moment, listening to Bill commune with his darling daughter, then stepped inside and closed the door behind me. I didn't want the sound of my voice to distract Bess from her father's.

The study was silent, but not entirely still. The breeze that had lifted the Hargreaves horde's kites continued to stir the strands of ivy that crisscrossed the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk, causing shadows to dance across the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. I lit the lamps on the mantel shelf, then paused again.

“'Afternoon, Reginald,” I said.

Reginald was a small, powder-pink flannel rabbit who'd entered my life on the same day I'd entered it. He'd been my confidant and my companion in adventure throughout my childhood and he was still a very good listener. A more mature woman might have put him away when she put away childish things, but I couldn't imagine treating my old friend so shabbily. Instead, Reginald sat in his own special niche in the bookshelves, very near the blue journal, and I rarely entered the study without greeting him.

“Bess and I rubbed elbows with royalty this morning,” I continued.

Though Reginald didn't speak his thoughts aloud, I could tell by the gleam in his black button eyes that he was intrigued.

“You and me both, little buddy,” I said. “I'm counting on Aunt Dimity to give me a crash course on the Summer King.”

I touched a fingertip to the faded grape-juice stain on Reginald's pink flannel snout, then took the blue journal from its shelf and sat with it in one of the pair of tall leather armchairs facing the hearth.

“Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal.

I smiled as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl gracefully across the page.

Good afternoon, Lori. How are you, my dear? Feeling better, I hope?

I suppressed an impatient sigh. During my pregnancy, Aunt Dimity had fallen into the habit of inquiring after my health and she hadn't yet fallen out of it. I found her concern touching, if a bit outdated.

“I'm as strong as an ox,” I assured her.

And Bess?

“She's in the kitchen, showing Bill how to do push-ups,” I said.

And her brothers?

“It's Saturday, Dimity,” I reminded her. “Will and Rob are galloping over hill and dale on Thunder and Storm.”

Of course they are. They spend every Saturday with their ponies. What about Bill, then? Is he well?

“He was when I left him,” I said, “but if Bess wins the push-up contest, he might be a bit demoralized.”

And how is everyone else? Have you heard from Bree and Jack lately?

Bree Pym and Jack MacBride were from New Zealand and Australia, respectively, though they currently resided in Finch. Both were in their early twenties and each had been drawn to the village by the death of a relative. Bree had inherited her great-grandaunts' redbrick house, just as Jack had inherited his uncle's ivy-covered cottage, but while Bree intended to go on living in her inheritance, Jack had put his up for sale.

Bree and Jack were the youngest unmarried couple in Finch by a matter of decades. As such, they'd been subjected to an excruciating degree of scrutiny by their neighbors. The women hazarded endless guesses about when, where, and how they would marry and the men placed bets on when Jack would move in with Bree, whether they were married or not.

While speculation swirled around them, the young couple had decided—quite wisely, in my opinion—to put their fledgling relationship to the test by embarking on a lengthy tour of their home countries. They'd been away for two months already, but they'd kept in touch with me, and as far as I could tell, they were still a couple.

“We received a postcard from them this morning,” I said in reply to Aunt Dimity's question. Bree and Jack were gracious enough to acknowledge my lack of computer skills by resorting to quaint, old-fashioned methods of communication, none of which required the use of a keyboard. “They've made it to Uluru, but I don't think Bree will ever love the place as much as Jack does. All she wrote was: ‘The flies are horrible and the heat is worse.'”

Oh, well. They don't have to agree on everything. Few couples do. And Bree adored Sydney and the Great Barrier Reef. You don't suppose Jack will persuade her to stay in Australia, do you?

“I'll never forgive him if he does,” I said fervently. “Finch needs Bree's energy, not to mention her sense of humor. What it doesn't need is another empty house. Two is already too many.”

Three, if you count Pussywillows.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I said gloomily. “But you're right. When Amelia takes her rightful place as the mistress of Fairworth House, Pussywillows will be empty, too. And Finch will be one step closer to becoming a ghost town.”

Are there still no prospective buyers on the horizon?

“I'm sure there are plenty of prospective buyers on the horizon,” I said, “but they don't seem to come any closer. It's weird, Dimity. It's as if Finch is surrounded by a home-buyer-repelling force field.”

I suspect that something other than a force field may be to blame for the situation. The cottages may be overpriced. They may have structural defects of which we are unaware.

“None of them have structural defects,” I said swiftly, though honesty compelled me to add, “At least, they don't have any
visible
defects.”

Exactly so. They could have dry rot or rising damp or cracked foundations or an infestation of deathwatch beetles or any number of invisible defects that would keep a rational home buyer at bay.

“Impossible,” I said. “Jack spent a small fortune refurbishing Ivy Cottage and Amelia wouldn't have bought Pussywillows in the first place if it had been a wreck. And if Rose Cottage was on the verge of collapse, I would have heard about it. Someone in the village would have told me.”

Are you certain? You've been rather busy for the past four months. You may not be as up-to-date with village news as you once were.

Aunt Dimity's comment hit me like a bucket of cold water because I knew as soon as I read it that it was true. Since Bess's birth, I'd been too preoccupied to dive into the stream of gossip that flowed ceaselessly through the village. For all I knew, Rose Cottage might be filled to the rafters with dry rot, rising damp, and deathwatch beetles.

While I stared in dismay at the journal, Aunt Dimity's handwriting continued.

Then again, the cottages may not be the problem. Finch may be too small and too isolated for some people. Families with children, for example, might prefer to live closer to a school or to a hospital or to both.

“Bill and I have children,” I said resentfully, “and we don't feel the need to live near a school or a hospital.”

Your children have never had a medical emergency, have they, my dear?

“No,” I conceded grudgingly. “I'm the only member of my family who's seen the inside of an emergency room, but that's beside the point.” I could feel my temper flare at the mere thought of outsiders belittling my community. “The point is: People have been raising children in Finch since the year dot and they've gotten along perfectly well without a hospital on their doorstep. And the schools in Upper Deeping are practically next door. What kind of parents would begrudge spending a few extra minutes in a car if it meant that they could raise their children in a safe and healthy environment?”

You needn't convince me, Lori. I was born and raised in Finch and I couldn't have had a happier childhood.

“Nor could Will and Rib,” I declared angrily. I glared at the empty hearth, as if it had insulted my village, then muttered gruffly, “Sorry, Dimity. I didn't mean to raise my voice to you.”

No offense taken, my dear. I know how much Finch means to you. If you weren't devoted to the village, you wouldn't worry about its future.

“I am worried about its future,” I acknowledged. “Will and Rob have lots of playmates at the stables, but what if Bess doesn't care for horses? Where will she find friends? Local friends, I mean, children she can play with after school. If I could have my way, Dimity, I'd fill those empty cottages with young couples and babies.”

I doubt that many young couples with babies can afford to own a country cottage, especially if the cottage is overpriced. I can't imagine that any would wish to purchase a property that required an immense investment of time and money to repair.

“I agree with you, Dimity,” I said, “but what can I do about it?”

What can you do?
Aunt Dimity's handwriting paused and when it began again, it dashed across the page in a flurry of royal-blue ink.
You can set a good example for your daughter. You can stand up and fight for her future as well as Finch's because, as you so rightly indicated, the two are intimately entwined. If you want Bess's childhood to be as happy as mine—as happy as your sons'—I suggest that you stop wasting your time on tantrums and tirades and start using it wisely. I suggest, in short, that you use your resourcefulness, your creativity, and your considerable intelligence to find a solution to Finch's empty-cottage dilemma!

If ink could yell, my ears would have been ringing. Aunt Dimity had never taken me to task quite so forcefully before, but I felt as though I'd earned a good scolding. I'd been bemoaning Finch's fate as if I were powerless to change it, despite my firm conviction that no creature on earth was more powerful than a mother rising up to defend her young.

“Message received, Dimity,” I said, sitting bolt upright and squaring my shoulders. “I'll find out who the estate agents are and whether or not they've priced the houses correctly. If not, I'll have a word with them about local property values and the advantages of a speedy sale.”

Lori.

I glanced down at the journal and saw my name, but I was on a roll, so I continued, “I'll ask Mr. Barlow about invisible defects. Our peerless handyman has been in and out of every cottage in Finch more times than I can count. If anything's wrong with Rose Cottage, Mr. Barlow will know what it is and how to fix it. I'll pay him with my own money to make sure that the cottage isn't hiding any unpleasant surprises.”

Lori?

Again, I glanced down at the journal and again, I went on without stopping. It was as if my brain had awakened from a long nap and was raring to go. I couldn't slow it down.

“I'll also speak with the headmistress, the teachers, and the other parents at Morningside School,” I said. “I'll speak with Emma's riding school parents, too. Someone is bound to know of someone who's looking for a home in the country.” I looked at the clock on the mantel shelf. “It's a bit late in the day to get started and I'd rather not pester people on a Saturday, but—”