“It’s a wishing well,” Bree said wonderingly. “A real, live wishing well.” She craned her neck to peer up at Jack, who’d bent over us to read the inscription. “You mustn’t put a lid on it,” she said urgently, “not a solid lid. If you do, the well won’t be able to hear you.”
For a moment it looked as though Jack would lose whatever ground he’d gained with Bree by laughing at her, but he bit his lip, straightened, and gave a passable imitation of taking her seriously.
“I’ll put a removable lid on it,” he assured her. “That way, it’ll be safe for the nippers, but accessible to, um, well wishers. Have a wish in mind, Bree?”
Bree’s rosy cheeks became rosier as she looked away, muttering, “Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as a wishing well. It’s just a . . . a silly game.”
“I’m always up for a silly game,” I said brightly. I sprang to my feet, leaned low over the well, and bellowed into its black depths, “I wish it would stop raining!”
Bree and Jack laughed—Bree, somewhat sheepishly.
“Problem solved,” Jack declared. He gave Bree a hand up and tilted his head toward the cottage. “Tea, anyone? And brandy snaps? I’d offer you Anzac biscuits as well, but I’ve already scoffed the lot.”
Bree’s face went from rose to beet-red as the compliment registered and she looked more confused than ever as Jack turned his back on her and strode jauntily into the cottage.
? ? ?
The fresh pot of tea arrived too late in the day for me to take full advantage of it. I had things to do at home before I picked Will and Rob up from school—not the least of which was to change into dry clothes—so I gulped the scalding brew, gobbled a brandy snap, thanked Jack for his hospitality, and promised to return the following morning to begin work on Hector Huggins’s gardens.
Bree seemed relieved rather than disappointed when I cut our tea party short. She thanked Jack politely, though without quite meeting his gaze, and scampered out to the Rover like a rabbit pursued by a wolf.
Our return journey was conducted in a Hector Hugginsesque state of silence. Bree was absorbed in her own thoughts, and since anything I said would have sounded like “I told you so,” I kept my mouth shut. Though we had a cornucopia of fresh subjects to discuss, we didn’t exchange a single word until we reached Bree’s house and she turned to me, looking perplexed.
“What’s he up to?” she asked.
“Jack?” I hazarded. “Why should he be up to anything?”
“Because I was a complete cow,” she stated flatly, “and he was a complete . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Gentleman?” I suggested.
“Yes, he was a gentleman,” she admitted, frowning. “It doesn’t make sense, Lori. I was horrible to him. Why was he so nice to me?”
“Because he’s a nice guy,” I said mildly. With heroic self-restraint, I refrained from adding, And because not all Aussies are ockers, you young idiot!
“He does seem like a nice guy,” Bree acknowledged reluctantly, “but I still think it’s weird.”
She undid her seat belt, hopped out of the Rover, said she’d see me at Ivy Cottage in the morning, and trudged through the pouring rain to her front door.
I opened my own front door ten minutes later and threw a hasty greeting to Stanley, who was in the living room, curled into a sleek black ball on Bill’s favorite armchair. I ripped off my rain jacket, kicked off my boots, tore upstairs to change, and tore back downstairs to turn on the lights in the study, pat Reginald’s pink flannel snout, snatch the blue journal from its shelf, and drop into one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth, opening the journal as I fell.
“Dimity?” I said, panting slightly. “I’m back from Ivy Cottage and I have tons to tell you!”
Good afternoon, Lori. Your fact-finding luncheon was a success, was it?
“It was like bathing in a waterfall of gossip,” I confirmed. “I’d intended to draw Jack out gradually, but Bree went straight for his jugular and as a result, I now know three thousand times more about him than I did this morning. I know about his mousy mother and his blowhard father and his bullying big brother, Conor, Jr., and when he met his uncle and how they kept in touch and why Jack never came to Finch and where he got his tan and—” I broke off to catch my breath and Aunt Dimity took advantage of the pause to ask a question.
What did you mean when you said that Bree went straight for Jack’s jugular?
“I meant that she more or less accused him of being a rotten, no-good, absentee nephew,” I said. “It was more than a little tactless of her, but it worked. In order to defend himself, Jack had to tell us all sorts of things about his family and himself.” I sighed happily. “Oh, Dimity, it was wonderful!”
I’m sure it was, my dear, but I’d be grateful to you if you’d give me an intelligible account of what, exactly, Jack told you.