That’s what this place reminded her of, that puzzle left behind, never finished. Lucy knew something bad had happened here. Jack Masterson hadn’t retired from writing because he was so rich he never had to work again. No, for some reason, he’d lost heart.
She wanted to leave, to go back to the house. But who had left that note? Lucy was about to give up when she spotted lights on in a quirky-looking cottage, painted white and gray with a circular front door like a hobbit house. The painted sign by the front door read, The Storm Seller.
Even though she knew it would be locked up like the other buildings, she turned the doorknob anyway. Surprisingly, the door opened. Ten thousand tiny fairy lights illuminated the shop like ten thousand winking stars.
Walking through the Storm Seller made her feel like she was stepping into the temple of her childhood dreams. She’d always wanted to come to this strange little store where a peculiar little man sold storms inside jars, bottles, and boxes. Just like in the books, here was a crystal triangle in a glass vial claiming to be The Tip of the Iceberg. A white ceramic jug on the shelf next to it held A Rain to Hide Your Tears.
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get the Storm Seller just right. It was like being in a medieval apothecary’s shop. Jars, bottles, and carved wooden boxes sat here, there, and everywhere on shelves and tables and racks. Handwritten paper labels revealed what was inside. Lucy picked up one jar and read, The Storm Seller at Clock Island—Snow Day in a Jar.
The blue glass jar was eerily cloudy as if there were a real snowstorm trapped inside, and if she were to open the lid, snow would cover the island, and no one would have to go to school tomorrow. She looked at the other jars on the shelves, so lovingly re-created from the stories.
The Wind in Your Sails.
Stolen Thunder.
A shimmery gray ribbon in a glass box proclaimed itself A Cloud’s Silver Lining.
A Wind in Which to Throw Your Caution.
A clear glass sculpture of a human head held a Brainstorm.
She was tempted to steal the Tempest in a Teapot since it came in an actual pale blue teapot. She held it in her hands for a long time before she put it back on the shelf.
“Take it, kid. Nobody’ll miss it.”
Lucy spun around. A man in a gray overcoat was standing at the back of the shop. He looked about fifty with steel-gray hair and steely eyes.
“Who’s winning?” the man asked.
“I am. Two points. Who are you?” Lucy asked.
“My card,” he said with an unctuous smile. He stepped out of the shadows and passed her a business card. Richard Markham, Attorney.
“You’re a lawyer?”
“I have a client,” he said, “who is very interested in buying Jack Masterson’s new book.”
“Do they want to publish it?”
“He’s a collector of rare books. The only copy of what may be the last book in the bestselling children’s series in history is about as rare as it gets, Lucy. He’s willing to go as high as eight figures. Eight figures. Not low six, which is what you’d get from Lion House. Cheapskates. Six figures will last you six months in California.”
“Does he just want the original manuscript? I mean, can we make a copy—”
“No copy. You walk off this fantasy island with the book, you hand it to me, I hand you the check. The end.”
That meant not even Christopher would get to read it.
“I can’t do that. Kids all over the world want to read that book.” She tried to give the card back to him. He held up his hand, leaned in close, so close she stepped back, hitting the shelves. The glass bottles rattled.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Markham said. Without waiting for her answer, he asked, “Why would a sweet girl like you date an asshole like Sean Parrish?”
“What about Sean?”
He shrugged. “Sean Parrish. Big-time author. Not as big as Jack Masterson, but who is, right? You met him in a writing class you took at school. Six months later, you start shacking up with the man. For the money, right? God knows it wasn’t love. But me? I don’t judge. I love gold diggers. Married one.” He laughed like he’d made the funniest joke in the world.
“How do you know all this?”
“I know a lot of stuff. About you, about Andre Watkins, Melanie Evans…I know your parents sent you to live with your grandparents. I know you have no relationship with your family anymore.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “I like that about you, Lucy. I’m a big believer in cutting my losses. Except now, here you are,” he continued, “twenty-six years old. The kids you went to school with are getting married and having babies. Meanwhile, you’re so poor you can’t pay attention.”
“You think because I’m broke I’m going to sell the book to a collector who will lock it up forever?”
“Why not, sweetheart? I would. Wouldn’t it be fun for your sister to show up on your doorstep one of these days begging for a second chance just because you’re rich as God? Success is the best revenge, Lucy. And eight figures can buy a whole lot of revenge.”
“I don’t want revenge,” she said.
“Sure you don’t. But you want something. We all want something, don’t we?” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. She expected him to pull out a handkerchief or another business card. Instead, she saw he had Christopher’s school photo tucked inside. He flashed it at her before tucking it back into his coat pocket. “Everybody wants something.”
“You should leave. Now.”
“Fine, but uh, hold on to that.” Gently he folded her hand over the card, then softly said, “Carpe per diem, Lucy. Seize the money.”
With those words, he left her alone among the storms.
Chapter Sixteen
Hugo departed Jack’s house through the back door, which took him through the garden and down a path to his cottage. He was dead on his feet when he spotted Lucy walking alone toward the abandoned Clock Island park.
Not a good idea in the middle of the night. There were railroad tracks to trip over, and the stupid buildings in the park were probably about to implode. He told himself she was allowed to walk around the island if she wanted to, and she did have her lantern. But halfway back to his cottage, he turned around and headed into the woods to find her and make sure she was all right.
He jogged past the library, the post office, and the hotel until he saw the lights were on in the Storm Seller. As he reached the door, it opened and Lucy stepped out. She searched the surrounding darkness with the light of her lantern, her eyes frantic.
“Lucy?”
“Hugo,” she said breathlessly, “did you see him?”
“Who?”
She turned in a circle, ran a few steps toward the woods.
“What’s wrong?” Hugo demanded.
“There was a man here,” she said. “Now he’s gone. He was just here.”
“What man? Lucy?” He took her gently by the arm.
She exhaled. In the cold night air, it looked like she was breathing clouds. She handed him a business card, then told him a wild story about someone knocking on her door, a card inviting her to the park, a man who claimed to be a lawyer but talked like a television Mafia hit man.