“Yeah, when he was nine or ten, I took him to the Titanic exhibit in London. It was either that or show him the movie, and no chance I’d let him see that movie until he was at least thirty.”
“I’m sorry he’s—”
“Yeah, me too.” Hugo shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Anyway,” he said, all business again. “Hungry at all?”
“A little.”
“I’ll have dinner sent up to you.”
“Thank you,” she said. He started to leave. “Hey, Hugo? Can I take a picture of that painting for Christopher?”
He gave a look, slightly confused, but then waved his hand. “Be my guest.”
After he left, Lucy walked around the room. She couldn’t believe it was hers for the entire week. A thick plush comforter covered the bed. The sheets were nautical, white with blue stripes. And when she went to the window, she could see the dark outline of the ocean racing up the sandy beach before quietly retreating, only to race up again, inching closer.
She could have stared at that view all night, but she knew she ought to unpack and settle in. She set her suitcase on the luggage rack and started unpacking. She took out a photograph of her and Christopher that Theresa took of them on the playground and framed for her. Lucy set it on the fireplace mantel.
Now it felt like home.
“Dinner is served.”
Hugo stood in her doorway with a covered tray.
“You know you’re a really famous artist, right?” Lucy asked him.
“The most famous artist is still less famous than the least famous reality TV star. Where do you want it?”
“Um…” She looked around, saw a little vanity with a chair. “There?”
He set the tray on the table. Lucy was starving, so she went straight over and lifted the lid.
“Oh…is that lobster bisque?”
“They said you’re a Mainer.”
“Ayuh,” she said.
“Yes, a Mainer, God help us.”
Lucy sat down and started in on her lobster bisque. Either she’d been gone from Maine for too long, or this was the best lobster bisque she’d ever eaten in her life. A moan of pure delight escaped her throat, so loud she blushed.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was a little pornographic.”
“Pleased you like it that much.” He wanted to laugh at her, she could tell.
The next bite, she managed to taste without moaning. Hugo, for some reason, was still standing in her doorway.
Another roar came from downstairs, another very impressive display of expletives.
Hugo glanced over his shoulder toward the sound.
“Someone’s got their knickers in a twist,” he said. “Suppose I ought to go down and make sure no one is about to bludgeon Jack with the fire poker.”
“Good luck.”
He took a melodramatically deep breath and started to turn.
“Hugo?”
He looked back at her.
“Why did you give me a hint?”
He furrowed his brow. “I didn’t.”
“You asked me if I remembered the name of the man who drove me here.”
“I asked. I didn’t tell you the answer.” He shrugged. “Just curious if you were a contender or not. Turns out you are.” Someone suddenly yelled out, “Shit!” from downstairs. Hugo glanced over his shoulder. “Right. That’s my cue to save Jack’s life. Night, Lucy.”
“Hey, just a sec.”
She got up and opened her bag. From it, she pulled out a scarlet red scarf she’d finished knitting on the airplane. “Here,” she said, offering it to him.
He took it and looked at it. “Pretty. But—”
“I make and sell scarves on Etsy. You lent me your coat. You can keep the scarf as collateral until I leave.”
“Thank you.” He wrapped it around his neck and suddenly looked very sexy wearing something she’d made. Lucy felt a blush beginning and sat down to eat again before he noticed.
“Anyway, good luck down there,” she said. “Please don’t let them kill Jack.”
“No promises.” He paused in the doorway. “Keep your door locked tonight. As of now, you’re in the lead. Don’t let them put you in cement shoes.”
“I’ll sleep with the harpoon just in case.”
An actual, if small, antique harpoon hung on the wall over the door.
“Good thinking.”
With that, Hugo left. Lucy got up and shut the door, locking it as ordered.
Then she finished her lobster bisque, took a long shower in the en suite bathroom, put on her pajamas, and crawled blissfully into bed. The sheets were luxurious, soft, and scented with lavender.
Ten o’clock in Maine was only seven p.m. in Redwood. She didn’t know if Mrs. Bailey would pass on the message, but she couldn’t help herself—she sent a text message.
Can you please tell Christopher this message? I’m winning so far.
Lucy waited. She’d almost given up when her phone vibrated in her hand.
He’s screaming.
So was Lucy, on the inside. Lucy wrote back, When you gotta scream, you gotta scream.
There was no reply after that. Now seven-thirty. Christopher would probably be getting his bath and into bed soon. But that was fine. Lucy needed to sleep anyway. And she would sleep well tonight. She’d not only won the first game, she’d won it easily. The others were still downstairs racking their brains.
A lawyer.
A doctor.
A successful businesswoman.
And Lucy Hart, kindergarten teacher’s aide, ten grand in credit-card debt, three roommates, no car…she had wiped the floor with them.
What if she could actually pull it off? As long as she didn’t screw up, didn’t make stupid mistakes, didn’t let anything distract her or throw her off track, then maybe, just maybe, she could win this thing. And she could do it all on her own. She didn’t need a plan B, didn’t need to give up the two precious hours she spent every day with Christopher, wouldn’t need to go begging to her parents or sister, guilt-tripping them for help or money. Mrs. Costa said it took a village to raise a child. Maybe for some people, but maybe Lucy didn’t need a village. Maybe she could do it on her own.
Lucy decided to try success on for size. She imagined the moment she would call and tell Christopher the news. Sure, he was scared to talk on phones right now, but this was a dream, so why not dream big?
She imagined calling him, the sound of the phone ringing, and hearing his tentative “Hello?” at the end of the line.
She wouldn’t say “Hello” back. She wouldn’t say, “Hi, how are you?” Lucy already knew what she would say to him.
“Christopher…I win.”
Chapter Fifteen
In the sitting room, Hugo waited for the game to end. As he sketched ideas for the new book cover, he eavesdropped. He could hear everything through the closed doors of the library—the wild guesses, the groans of frustration, loads of begging for more and more and more hints.
It was nearly one in the morning when Jack asked Andre, Melanie, and Dustin if they were ready to give up. If they all agreed to forfeit the single point for coming in second, Jack would tell them the answer.
They jumped at the chance to give up. When Jack told them the secret of the green glass door, the house echoed with screams. Hugo chuckled. Oh, he hated riddles when he was on the receiving end, but he didn’t mind them so much when Jack inflicted them on unwanted houseguests.