“I hope he did,” Lilian said. “He always struck me as a rather lonely man, but a man with a vivid imagination is never lonely.”
“I’ll find out what I can from Jack,” I said. “I’m having lunch with him tomorrow. Which reminds me . . .” I caught Bree’s attention with a wave of my hand. She strode over to join us, rain streaming from her camouflage rain poncho and splashing onto her bumblebee-striped Wellington boots, her nose ring glinting dully in the diluted daylight.
“What’s up?” she asked. “You two look like you’re conspiring. Are vicars’ wives allowed to conspire, Mrs. Bunting?”
“It’s the first thing they teach us at vicars’ wives’ school,” Lilian replied.
“I suspected as much,” said Bree, nodding wisely.
“What’s up,” I said, “is an invitation to lunch at Ivy Cottage on Monday. Jack MacBride would like to thank you for a number of things, including his uncle’s grave and your Anzac biscuits.”
“Did he eat the biscuits?” Bree asked, her dark-brown eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Or did he sneer at them?”
“Why would he sneer at your biscuits?” asked Lilian.
“Because he’s on the wrong side of the great Anzac biscuit debate,” Bree replied. “They were invented in New Zealand, of course, but Aussies claim them for Oz. The Aussies are delusional, but they’ll never admit it, not to a Kiwi, at any rate.”
“Jack made no such claim,” I assured her. “He loved the biscuits and he’d love to meet you. Will you come?”
“Sure,” said Bree. “It’ll be a novel experience, hearing an Aussie thank a Kiwi. What time?”
“If it’s raining, I’ll pick you up at noon in the Range Rover,” I said. “If not, I’ll still be at your place at noon, but I’ll be on my bicycle. I’d offer you a seat on my handlebars, but you’d probably be safer jogging alongside.”
“No fear,” said Bree. “I’ll be ready and waiting for you on my bike. We can race to Ivy Cottage.” She thrust a fist into the air. “The first stage in the Tour de Finch!”
Since Bree was a good deal younger, ten times more energetic, and in much better shape than I, I excused myself and went back into the church. It suddenly seemed like a good idea to pray for a little more rain.
Five
My prayers were answered. The first stage of the Tour de Finch was canceled, due to inclement weather.
Though the rain slackened during the night, it returned in full force at the dawn’s early light. I smiled as I sent Bill off to work, sang as I drove the boys to school, and skipped merrily from room to room while I completed my morning chores. The pangs of guilt I felt when I thought of the rising river were assuaged by the knowledge that my journey to Ivy Cottage wouldn’t leave me with strained hamstrings and a badly bruised ego.
Bree was waiting for me when I pulled up to her house in my canary-yellow Range Rover. She splashed down her front walk, clambered into the passenger’s seat, gathered her billowing poncho into a manageable bundle, and gave me a commiserating look.
“Too bad about the weather,” she said.
“A real shame,” I agreed, shaking my head regretfully.
I waited until she’d fastened her seat belt, then drove slowly and carefully through the small streams flowing across the lane. I’d once slid into a ditch while negotiating the tricky curve near Bree’s house and I did not intend to give Bill a reason to remind me of my mishap.
“I was looking forward to seeing your new toy,” Bree continued.
“She’s a beauty,” I said.
“She?” said Bree, raising an eyebrow.
“Definitely,” I said. “She’s what used to be called a girl’s bike, but the man at the cycling shop informed me that they’re now referred to as ‘low-entry’ bikes.”
Bree snorted, but I ignored her.
“Her name is Betsy,” I went on, “and she’s the most gorgeous shade of blue. Twenty-one speeds, a rattan basket, a two-tone brass bell, a generously padded seat, and tires that will handle everything from dirt to gravel.”
“Do you and Betsy plan to do much mountain biking?” Bree asked skeptically.
“We plan to stay on paved roads,” I replied, “but you never know. An emergency might crop up. I might be forced to ride cross-country to save a life. Best to be prepared.”
“I hope it’s not my life you’re saving,” Bree muttered. Before I could muster a stinging retort, she continued brightly, “It was great to see William at church yesterday. He looks as fit as a fiddle.”
“We can thank his housekeeper and his sweetheart for his recovery,” I said. “Deirdre and Amelia have taken excellent care of him.”
“Which is a polite way of saying they’ve locked him in his bedroom for the past month,” said Bree.