Then she would walk into The Purple Turtle with Christopher at her side, and when the shopgirl asked if she could help them, Lucy would say, “Yes. We’ll take everything. And gift wrap it, please.”
Chapter Nine
Lucy arrived at the Portland Jetport shortly after six that evening. She was tired, frazzled, hungry for real food, and excited out of her mind. She had enough mental capacity left after the cross-country flight to send Theresa a quick text message saying that she’d made it safely to her first destination. She wasn’t sure they’d have cell reception on Clock Island. Jack Masterson was notoriously private and reclusive these days, but then again, so were most Mainers. Still, she worried Jack’s people would confiscate their phones. Since she had cell service now, she also sent a text message to Mrs. Bailey, asking her to tell Christopher she loved him, and she was safe, in that order.
She’d been told a driver would meet her at the Jetport’s baggage claim and that she should look for a man holding a sign with her name on it. Her flight had landed a little early, so she wasn’t surprised when she didn’t see her driver in the arrivals area. Lucy found a quiet spot to watch the sliding doors. Part of her hoped she might look up and see her parents or sister coming through the doors or waiting by the baggage carousel for her. Stupid, useless hope. Her family had never gone out of their way for her in her entire life. Her grandparents had loved her dearly, but they’d never truly understood how much being discarded hurt her. To them it made sense that the sick child received the lion’s share of attention. Lucy was the lucky one, she was told over and over again. Would she rather have attention, they asked her, or would she rather have her health? If it meant her parents loving her, coming to get her, then she might have cut off an arm for five minutes of their time.
They weren’t waiting for her, obviously. Even if they had known what time her flight landed, they still wouldn’t have come. This was just an old fantasy of hers that refused to die.
Would she ever stop waiting for her family to show up and take her home?
All around her, she watched families reuniting. Parents hugged college kids who didn’t want to be hugged—or at least were pretending they didn’t want to be hugged. Husbands kissed wives. Grandkids swarmed grandparents. A little girl about five years old raced to greet her mother as she came down the escalator. At the bottom, the woman swept the girl off her feet. Lucy smiled as the woman held her daughter to her shoulder and patted her back. As they walked past Lucy, she heard the woman cooing in her daughter’s hair, “Mama loves you. Mama missed you so much.”
See, Mom, Lucy thought. That’s all you had to do. All I wanted was for you to come to my school and let me run into your arms and have you pick me up and carry me away and say, “Mama loves you. Mama missed you so much.”
“Lucy?” She turned and saw an incredibly tall, broad-shouldered man in a black chauffeur’s uniform holding a marker board that read, Lucy Hart.
She picked up her bags. “That’s me.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Lucy.” He took her suitcase from her. “The car’s waiting this way.”
He was in his midfifties with a Bronx accent and a big grin. He led her to the curb to wait for him. Five minutes later, he returned in the largest car she’d ever seen in her life.
“Yikes,” Lucy said as he got out of the car to open the door for her. “This is a monster truck.”
“Stretch Caddy Escalade. Mr. Jack wants the best for his guests. Says he owes it to you kids because you had to hitchhike on boats the last time.”
He opened the door for her, and Lucy peered inside. The back seat was cavernous. She’d been in cars like this before with Sean. They always made her carsick. Or maybe that had just been the company?
“Can I sit in front with you instead?” she asked.
The driver raised his eyebrow and said, “Be my guest.” He shut the back door and opened the front. Lucy got in, and he went around to the driver’s side.
Once he got in, Lucy said, “What’s your name? I forgot to ask.”
He gave her a look like he was trying not to smile. “Mike. Mikey, if you likey,” he said with a wink. Clearly, this was a joke he made a few thousand times a day.
“Thanks for the lift, Mikey.”
She pulled her sweater tight around her and stared out the window at the passing streetlights. A few things looked familiar, but most of it passed by in a blur. She took a shuddering breath. She was back. She swore she’d never come home, but here she was.
“You okay, kid? Don’t be scared. Jack’s a good guy.”
She didn’t want to unload onto her poor driver her love-hate relationship with her home state. She loved Maine. Everything else—her parents, her sister, her ex-boyfriend, all here in town—she could do without for all eternity.
“Just nervous about the game,” she said.
“Sit back. I got the heated seats turned on. And don’t you worry. I been sizing up your competition. You’ll be all right.”
It took about twenty minutes from the airport to the ferry terminal, where a boat would be waiting to take her out to Clock Island. Lucy nervously lobbed questions at Mikey for the entire drive. She learned that she was the last one to arrive, the one and only West Coaster playing the game.
“I’m not very good at games,” Lucy said.
“I don’t think Jack’s gonna make you kids play football or nothing like that. It’ll be fun. Don’t freak yourself out.”
“Too late. I’m freaking out.”
Mikey chuckled, then waved his hand. “Don’t freak out, kid. It’ll be fine. The other contestants are nice. Jack’s nice. Hugo’s even nice when you get past his, you know, personality.”
“Wait, you mean Hugo Reese? The illustrator?”
Hugo Reese wasn’t just the illustrator of the Clock Island books, he was her favorite living artist. And she’d met him before. He had been at the house when she’d run away.
“He lives on the island too,” Mikey said. “Somebody has to keep an eye on Jack. He’s a nice guy. A grouch, but don’t buy the act.”
“Oh, I remember. Except I bought the act.” She laughed.
“You know our Hugo?”
“Know him? No. But he, ah…kept me occupied while Mr. Masterson called the cops on me.”
She hadn’t told Christopher that part, but, of course, that’s what happened. You don’t get to show up at the front door of a world-famous author without getting the cops called on you. Yeah, Jack Masterson gave her tea and cookies and let her pet his raven, but he couldn’t keep her. Some wishes came true, and some wishes didn’t, and the I want to live on a magical island with my favorite author and be his sidekick was one of the wishes that never came true.
After showing her the flying writing desk, Jack had excused himself, promising her a nice surprise. He returned with a young man in tow.
Lucy still remembered what he looked like. Impossible to forget those electric blue eyes scowling, the messy rock star hair, and, of course, his tattoos.
He had a full sleeve of tattoos on each arm. Colorful swirls of red and black and green and gold and blue. Not rainbows. Not stripes. Just colors. Like his body was a palette. He was more paint than man.