Jack was wearing his rumpled blue pullover and his sandals, but he’d covered his bare feet with a pair of thick woolen socks and swapped his cargo shorts for khaki trousers. He beamed at us as if we were old friends.
“Good to see you, Lori,” he said. “Good to meet you, Bree. Nice nose ring.”
“Nice tan,” said Bree. “Did you come by it honestly or is it sprayed on?”
My heart sank, but Jack didn’t bat an eye.
“It won’t rub off,” he replied good-naturedly. “I spent the summer doing conservation work at Uluru. Not much shade out there and the sun’s hot enough to scorch rocks.” He shrugged. “Sunblock can only do so much.”
“Oh,” said Bree, and I was pleased to see that she was disconcerted.
Our meal was waiting for us on a round oak table in the center of the room. A straight-backed wooden chair at the table was flanked by two folding chairs that seemed very familiar.
“I had to borrow the folding chairs from the schoolhouse,” Jack said, following my gaze. “As I explained to Mr. Barlow when he opened the schoolhouse for me, Uncle Hector didn’t do much entertaining, so my seating options were limited. Nice bloke, Mr. Barlow.”
The oak table looked like a rainbow in the midst of a dull brown desert. Though its three place settings were composed of plain white china, the spaces in between were filled with the covered casserole dishes Jack had received from the villagers. I’d seen the dishes at so many village events that I could identify their owners as well as their contents by their colors alone.
The blue dish invariably contained Peggy Taxman’s shepherd’s pie; the yellow, Sally Pyne’s chicken in sherry sauce; the green, Charles Bellingham’s braised lamb shanks; the red, Christine Peacock’s beef in beer; the orange, Opal Taylor’s sausage and apples; and the purple, Miranda Morrow’s solitary vegan offering of lentils with sweet potatoes. The savory fragrances rising from the dishes added a homey touch to a room that couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered homey.
“Right, then,” said Jack, clapping his hands together. “Sling your jackets on the hooks, hop out of your boots, and help yourselves to the fire. Tea for two is on its way.”
I waited until he’d left the room, then turned to glare at my companion.
“Is it sprayed on?” I parroted back at her in a hissing whisper. “Really, Bree?”
“Sorry,” she said, pulling her poncho over her head.
“Open mind, remember?” I said. “You’re keeping an open—” I interrupted myself with an exasperated huff when I saw what my young friend was wearing. The navy blue sweatshirt emblazoned with the New Zealand flag was about as subtle as a declaration of war.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said, gazing down at her shirt. “I could take it off, but I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
“Keep it on,” I advised her wearily. “There’s such a thing as being too welcoming.”
Jack returned, carrying two plain white teacups on two plain white saucers.
“Great shirt, Bree,” he said, handing each of us a brimming cup. “The Southern Cross is my favorite constellation. There’s milk and sugar on the table, courtesy of Mrs. Bunting. Would you like to tuck in now or wait until you’ve dried out a bit?” He peered ruefully at our soaked trousers. “Sorry about the rain forest.”
“No worries,” Bree said as Jack strolled with her to the fireplace. “Not everyone’s a gardener.”
“Uncle Hector didn’t like to impose his will on nature,” Jack explained.
“He imposed his will on fish,” Bree pointed out.
“He always threw them back,” Jack countered.
I placed myself between them before Bree could decide to lecture our host on the pain suffered by a hooked trout.
“How’s the jet lag?” I asked.
“Gone,” said Jack.
“In one day?” I sighed wistfully. “Oh, to be young again . . .”
“You’re not exactly in your dotage,” said Jack.
“I’m a lot closer to it than you are,” I returned, smiling. “Tell me about Uluru.”
“It’s a great big rock in the middle of Australia,” said Bree.
“Too right, it’s big,” Jack said, then turned to me. “Uluru’s what they call an island mountain—a hunk of sandstone a thousand feet high and a thousand feet long, with another thousand feet hidden belowground. It stands alone in a great, wide-open landscape and at sunrise and sunset it turns a thousand shades of red. The Anangu—the local Aboriginal tribe—regard it as a sacred place. Uluru is their name for it, but you might know it by another name. In 1873, a surveyor named William Gosse christened it Ayers Rock.”
“I’ve heard of Ayers Rock,” I said, nodding, “but I didn’t know it was called Uluru. It sounds impressive.”
“It is,” said Jack. “Have you seen it, Bree?”
“No,” said Bree. “Seems a long way to go to see a big rock.”