The Wishing Game(83)

“He was incredibly brave,” Hugo said.

She shrugged. “Too bad he didn’t get his wish.”

“He’s got you in his life,” Hugo said. “He’s a lucky kid.” She felt her face growing hot. Hugo smiled back. “Don’t go anywhere. Back in a tick.”

Lucy breathed deeply through her hands when he was gone. Okay, so she’d lost the game. It hurt. It sucked. She wanted to cry again, wanted to scream…but here she was—still standing, still breathing, and tomorrow she would see Christopher. That’s all that mattered.

She got out her phone to check for messages. Nothing important. They hadn’t released the news to the press yet about the contest. Jack had warned them that tomorrow they would be inundated. Lucy considered calling Angie. Jack had given her Angie’s phone number. Even after all these years, all the neglect and loneliness and cruelty, she still wished she had one person in her family she could call when her heart was breaking.

She put her phone away. She just wasn’t ready to get hurt again, not when she was already hurting so much.

“Knock, knock?”

Lucy composed her face. Jack stood in the open doorway to her bedroom. He was still wearing his usual uniform of rumpled trousers, a light blue button-down shirt with a coffee stain on it, and a baggy cardigan starting to unravel at the seams. He had a paperback stuffed in one of the cardigan pockets, and she wondered if that was why he wore such huge sweaters—book-sized pockets.

“Jack,” she said. “You’re not in bed?”

“No, no, finishing up some paperwork in my office. May I?”

“Sure, come in.”

He shuffled into the room. “I hope you’re not too upset about not winning.”

“Hanging in there. I’m glad the book is going to be published. I’m kind of glad I got to see Angie. I’m very glad I got to see you again.”

“And Hugo?”

She blushed bright red. “And Hugo. But not for the reasons you think. He’s my favorite artist.”

“I don’t blush when I talk about Paul Klee.”

“You should,” she said. “I’m sure he was very handsome.”

Jack laughed. It was good to see him laughing. He looked just like he did the day she met him when she was thirteen. The years melted away along with the pain.

“Where is our Hugo anyway? Wasn’t he just here?”

“He’s getting his sketchbook to draw something for Christopher.”

“Ah, well, before he gets back, I wanted to give you a little something.” He pulled the book from his cardigan pocket. “I’d like you to have The House on Clock Island.”

She looked down. It was a well-worn copy of Book One in the Clock Island series.

“Ah, thank you,” she said. “Is it signed, I hope? Can you make sure it’s signed to Christopher?”

“The book isn’t your gift. Or Christopher’s.”

She furrowed her brow. “What?”

“The book isn’t your gift. I don’t want you to have The House on Clock Island,” he said. “I want you to have the house…on Clock Island.”

He opened the book. A key was lying in the center of it. A house key.

A house key.

A key to a house.

A key to the house on Clock Island.

“Jack…” she breathed. “What—”

“You don’t get the book, but you do get your wish. Lucy Hart—do you still want to be my sidekick?”





Chapter Thirty-One





She sat down hard on the bed. Her feet had failed her. Her vision was blurry. Then everything cleared. The fog lifted. Her heart lifted.

“You’re giving me…”

“The house,” Jack said. “If you’ll have it—and me, because I don’t plan on leaving until I’m carted off in a box. And if you can talk that Christopher of yours into moving to Maine, I’d love to have him here too.”

“I’m not even fostering him yet. Even if I were, I can’t take him out of the state. It’ll take months—” She could hardly think, hardly breathe. Was this really happening?

“Oh, I can help with that. Luckily, I have more money than I know what to do with.”

“You can’t…This is too generous, Jack. I can’t accept—”

“You can, Lucy. You can accept help. And if you can’t, Christopher can.” He took a bundle of papers out of the other pocket of his cardigan and handed it to her.

Lucy unfolded the papers. In Christopher’s sweet, shaky, lopsided crayon-colored handwriting, he’d written, My wish is Lucy can adop me.

She flipped through the stack and found half a dozen letters from Christopher to Master Mastermind. Apparently, he and Jack had been writing to each other for several months. Christopher, with a thousand misspellings, had told Jack—in his guise of the Mastermind—his dreams of being Lucy’s son, the death of his parents, his fear of phones. In the last letter, Christopher promised that the next time Lucy tried to call him on the phone, he would answer it.

“You helped Christopher get over his fear of phones,” she said, looking up at him. “Not the books. You did.”