Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

“Recognized?” I repeated. “What are you talking about?”

 

 

I jumped sideways as he came toward me, but he did nothing more than grab a wheeled office chair from its place near the electronics-strewn table and roll it closer to me.

 

“Have a seat,” he said. “This could take a while.”

 

He sat on the floor, with his back against one of the few blank spots on the walls. With his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands folded loosely in his lap, he looked as threatening as a surfer waiting for a wave. I switched off my flashlight and sank onto the office chair.

 

“Do you remember the first time you came to Ivy Cottage?” he asked. “I told you and Bree about Uluru and the conservation work I did there.”

 

“You eradicated invasive plants,” I said. “I remember.”

 

“Then you probably remember the rest of it,” he said, “the projects that took me to Mount Tongariro, Fox Glacier, the Waipoua Kauri Forest, and the Kaikoura coast in New Zealand.”

 

“I haven’t forgotten any of it,” I said, “but I don’t see what it has to do with—”

 

“It has to do with why Bree’s brassed off with me,” he interrupted. “I’m trying to explain.”

 

“Sorry,” I said. “Go ahead.”

 

“Thanks,” he said. He bent his legs, rested his wrists on his knees, and laced his fingers together. “It’s all true, what I told you, but I didn’t quite tell you everything. I didn’t simply work on the projects I mentioned. I designed them.” He ducked his head, as if he were embarrassed. “The fact is, Lori, I’m a bit of a prodigy. I could afford to leave home when Dad cut me off because I’d already received a full scholarship to university along with a generous living allowance and a research grant. By the time I was twenty, I’d earned a whole string of degrees. I’ve spent the past five years doing field work and making a name for myself as an eminent ecologist.”

 

“Hold on,” I said. “You told Bree and me that you were broke. You told us you were too broke to visit your uncle. Ecologists get paid, don’t they?”

 

“Most of my personal income is tied to grants,” he explained. “I can’t use it for private jaunts around the globe, and I plow what I earn from writing or appearance fees back into my projects. I’ve never been in it for the money, Lori.”

 

“Okay,” I said. “You’re a child prodigy who became an eminent ecologist. Why didn’t you just say so?”

 

“How?” he asked in return. “What was I supposed to say? How do you do, I’m Jack MacBride, the brightest bloke on the block?” He ducked his head again and this time he was actually blushing. “I reckoned if it came up, it came up, but until then, I’d just be Jack, the bloke from Oz.”

 

“You sound like Henry Cook,” I said. “He just wants to be the chap in the tearoom who tells funny stories.”

 

“There’s a lot to be said for maintaining a low profile,” said Jack. “People treat you differently when they find out you’re well known.”

 

“Was it Peter or Cassie who recognized you?” I asked and when Jack looked up in surprise, I said, “It must have been one or the other. No one else at the party knows enough about your field to pick an eminent ecologist out of a crowd.”

 

“They both recognized me,” he said. “They’d seen a documentary film I was in and they’d read articles I’d written for various academic journals. They read my blog as well.” He shook his head. “Emma told me they were involved in conservation work, but if I’d known they were such big fans, I wouldn’t have gone to the party.”

 

“Why not?” I asked. “You’re not ashamed of what you do, are you?”

 

“No,” he replied, “but I would have found another way to break it to Bree. I was working my way up to it, but something kept holding me back.”

 

“Natural diffidence,” I said. “It can be a major handicap.”

 

“You’re telling me,” he said feelingly. “She didn’t like hearing about my achievements from someone else. She accused me of being dishonest, disingenuous, and deceitful, which mean the same thing but pack a punch when they’re strung together. That’s when I left the party.”

 

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “But Jack . . . If Bree’s upset with you for being too modest to tell her the truth about yourself, how do you think she’ll feel when she finds out about . . .” I swept an arm through the air to indicate the bizarre collage surrounding us.

 

“No worries,” he said, brightening. “Bree knows all about Uncle Hector’s project. I showed it to her last week.”

 

“Uncle Hector’s project?” I echoed uncomprehendingly.

 

“That’s right,” he said and got to his feet. “Come with me.”

 

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