I winced inwardly, but Jack seemed to hear himself because he immediately rephrased his comment.
“That is to say,” he said, in a plummy English accent, “jet lag’s a dreadful bore.”
I grinned and gave him an approving thumbs-up, then suggested that he slow down again as we approached my cottage. A moment later, he pulled into the graveled drive, switched off the ignition, and turned to face me. Upon closer inspection, his sky-blue eyes were bloodshot and there was a hint of pallor beneath his deep tan. The sooner he went to bed, I thought, the better.
“May I beg a favor, Lori?” he asked.
“Beg away,” I told him.
“The thing is,” he said, “I’ll never finish all the tucker the ladies piled onto me. Would they mind if I asked you to take some of it off my hands?”
“Yes,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. “Gifts, once given, may not be re-gifted and they must never, under any circumstances, be returned. Not in Finch, at any rate.”
“It could be our little secret,” he said imploringly. “No one would have to know.”
“Everyone would know within the hour,” I said flatly. “Don’t ask me how it happens. It just happens. There are no secrets in Finch, Jack, and the sooner you accept this fact of life, the better off you’ll be. If you want to get rid of the excess, uh, tucker, I suggest you bury it in the woods in the dead of night, but even then there’s a fifty-fifty chance that someone will see you.”
He frowned for a moment, then brightened.
“I could invite people to lunch,” he suggested. “Are you and Bill and the twins free tomorrow?”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “Sundays are family days. We spend them with Bill’s father.”
“Just as well, really,” Jack said resignedly. “I’ll be bumping into walls until I adjust to the time change. How about Monday?”
“The boys will be in school and Bill will be at the office,” I said, “but I’d be happy to join you for lunch on Monday.”
“You think Bree Pym might come, too?” Jack asked. “It’d give me a chance to thank her for looking after Uncle Hector’s grave.”
“I’ll extend an invitation to her in your name. In the meantime . . .” I took a pen from my purse, scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper scrounged from the bottom of my trench coat pocket, and handed it to Jack. “If you need anything, give me a call. We may be temporary neighbors, but we’re still neighbors.”
“And in Finch, neighbors help neighbors.” Jack nodded. “I’m beginning to see why Uncle Hector loved it here. See you on Monday, then, around noon or thereabouts?”
“I’ll be there.” I opened the car door. “Are you sure you’re alert enough to get back to Ivy Cottage in one piece? The curve by Bree’s house can be a little tricky, especially when the roads are slick.”
“No worries,” he assured me. “Thanks for the tour, Lori.”
“Thanks for the lift,” I said, getting out of the car. “And welcome to Finch.”
I waited to make sure he was driving toward the village rather than away from it, then splashed up the flagstone path and let myself into the cottage.
An ominous silence greeted me.
I hung my trench coat on the coat rack, stepped out of my rain boots, placed my shoulder bag on the hall table, and tiptoed into the living room, where I found my menfolk—including our sleek black cat, Stanley—asleep in a heap on the couch.
Stanley raised his head briefly at my entrance, but Bill, Will, and Rob didn’t stir. The sugar high had apparently become a sugar low and Bill, worn out from the former, had clearly taken advantage of the latter. I left the four of them to their naps and crept quietly into the kitchen to prepare a simple, nourishing dinner.
With no dessert.
? ? ?
Bill and I spent after-dinner time looking through books about Australia with the boys. As we marveled at pictures of kangaroos, wallabies, and cassowaries, we also made it clear that people from other countries were allowed to use words little boys living in England were not. I couldn’t tell if the message sank in, but it was a start. Jack’s willingness to change his ways for the sake of the ankle biters would, I hoped, render remedial lessons unnecessary.
Once Will and Rob were in bed, Bill and I snuggled up on the couch in the living room, with a fire crackling in the hearth and Stanley curled into a black ball on Bill’s favorite armchair. While the wind swirled around the chimney and raindrops splashed against the bay window, I told Bill what I’d learned about Hector Huggins’s nephew.
He was unimpressed.
“Are you joking?” he scoffed. “You had Jack MacBride at your mercy for a solid fifteen minutes and all you managed to find out was that Uncle Hector didn’t have a pet?” He wagged a finger at me in mock outrage. “If you go on like this, you’ll be drummed out of the gossips’ guild.”