Hugo waved his arms around the room. “There are no children here.”
“Weren’t we all children once?” Jack said.
Point taken. Hugo retreated to the roof.
But even up here, he couldn’t find peace and quiet. His pocket began to vibrate. Yet another phone call from yet another unknown number, no doubt. Who was it this time? TMZ? The New York Post? National Enquirer? Out of pure spite, he answered the call.
“Yes?”
“Hugo Reese? This is Thomas Larrabee with Shelf Talker.”
“Never heard of it.”
“We’re a renowned literary blog.”
“What’s a blog?” Hugo asked with pure unadulterated spite.
“It’s a, well, it’s a—”
“Never mind. What do you want?”
“We were hoping you’d answer a few questions—”
“I have a one-question limit.”
“Oh, well, all right,” he said. Hugo heard pages flipping in a notebook. “What’s the real Jack Masterson like?”
“Good question,” Hugo said.
“Thank you.”
“If I ever meet the real Jack Masterson, I’ll tell you.”
Hugo hung up. How were these people getting his phone number? Because he was on the roof, he could get just enough cell phone reception to google Shelf Talker. No surprise, this renowned literary blog had all of seventeen followers, most of which looked like Russian bot accounts.
It wasn’t a bad question, though. What’s the real Jack Masterson like? Hugo wished he knew.
Suddenly last year, out of nowhere, without warning, and with no explanation, Jack got out of bed one day and started writing again. And then, again with no explanation, without warning, out of nowhere, and all of a sudden, he decided to throw a contest in his own house on the island?
The old man loved routine, loved his privacy, loved peace and quiet. Social butterflies did not live on private islands. No, Jack was whatever you called the opposite of a social butterfly—an introverted moth, maybe. Yet for a whole week, the house would be overrun with strangers. Why?
When Hugo tried asking him that, Jack simply said, “Why not?”
Maddening. Absolutely maddening. But that was Jack for you—a living, breathing riddle. Had Hugo ever met the real Jack? Maybe once. Maybe a long time ago.
After Hugo won the contest to be the new illustrator, Jack Masterson himself had rung him and invited him to spend a few months on Clock Island, staying in one of the many guest rooms or even taking over the guesthouse if he preferred. At twenty-one, Hugo had never even left the UK much less crossed the ocean. How could Hugo have said no? Davey would never have forgiven him.
The first time he flew in an airplane was the day he left London’s Heathrow for New York’s JFK. A black Caddy had picked him up at the airport, driven him to Lion House Books in Manhattan to meet Jack’s editor and the art team. One night at the Ritz—Jack’s treat—and the next day another plane to Portland’s Jetport. Another car service. Then a ferry. Then he was standing on the dock of Clock Island, a place until the week before he would have sworn existed only on the pages of the books he read to his brother every night.
He’d expected a servant, a butler in livery maybe, to greet him, but no. No servants. No entourage. Just Jack Masterson himself waiting for him all alone. If he’d imagined Jack as some sort of posh wanker, he was surprised to find a normal-looking bloke about fifty in a navy-blue cardigan, and a light blue button-down shirt with ink stains on it, as if he’d gone ten rounds with a fountain pen and lost.
“Nice to meet the man in person,” Jack said to him, acting as if Hugo were the famous one, not him. “Welcome to the Clock.”
Hugo didn’t even remember what he said in reply. Nice place? Or Thanks? A classic You all right? which seemed to massively confuse Americans when you said it to them. Maybe he didn’t say a thing, overwhelmed as he was, except for a surly Hey.
After that, he remembered Jack offering him something to eat and Hugo being too proud to admit he was famished. He told Jack they should probably get straight to work if they really wanted forty new covers in six months’ time.
Young idiot he was, pretending to be all business. Meanwhile, Jack walked him around the clock that was Clock Island. The Five O’Clock Beach, and the Southernmost Six, a great place for a cookout, Jack said. Hugo would be staying in the Seventh Heaven Guest Cottage, but he could work in the main house if he preferred. Plenty of empty rooms and cake in the kitchen.
Jack showed him the white Alpine strawberries he was growing in his greenhouse （“Try one, Hugo. They taste like pineapple!”）， the tide pools （“If you see a starfish, detain it. I have some questions I’d like to ask it.”）， the widow’s walk where you could stand and see a 360-degree view of the island （“You could sleep out here if you like to stargaze and don’t mind bats shitting on your face.”）。 Weren’t they supposed to be working on some massive project?
Finally, poor old Jack gave up on trying to get Hugo to lighten up. When Jack asked him if he wanted to get some rest before getting to work, Hugo waved him off.
“Rather get started now,” Hugo had said. Fourteen years later, he wanted to reach back in time and shake some sense into his younger self, tell him to stop pretending to be a serious artist—all black clothes and black looks and bad attitude. It had taken a few years until he’d figured it out—there was no such thing as a serious artist. It was an oxymoron, and it was Jack who’d tried to teach him that the day they met.
During the quick tour of Jack’s house, Hugo pretended he wasn’t gobsmacked by every room. The priceless first editions in the library. The dining table for twelve. The kitchen as massive as his mum’s whole flat. The paintings of dead people Jack wasn’t related to. The bat skeletons in shadow box frames. The secret panel that led to a secret hallway that led to a secret exit into the not-so-secret garden. And everywhere clocks and hourglasses and sundials. Even a pendulum. The whole place was like a mad Victorian scientist’s summer home. And Hugo loved it. Not that he told Jack that.
“Welcome to my writing factory,” Jack said as they entered the last room. More bookshelves. A desk as big as a boat, and—according to Jack—made from a boat.
“Writing factory?” Hugo said.
“Willy Wonka had his chocolate factory where he tortured and rewarded children. I have my writing factory where I torture and reward children. Only on paper, of course.”
He gestured toward a collection of typewriters—a half dozen or more manual and electric typewriters. A red Olivetti. A black Smith Corona. A pale blue Royal. A neon pink Olympia. All of them looked older than Hugo by at least a decade or two.
“Typewriters?” Hugo asked as Jack sat behind his desk, an orange typewriter in front of him with “Hermes Rocket” stamped on the top in metal. “Bit old school there, yeah? Don’t use a computer?”
“Too quiet,” Jack said. “I need something loud enough to cover the sound of my characters screaming for help.”
Hugo was starting to think Jack might be a little touched in the head.
“More fun too,” Jack said. “Even Thurl likes to help me write. Come here, Thurl.”