Lucy groaned and faced him. “I came to find you,” she said. “I was going to tell you I was sorry for the whole, you know…”
“Calling a man who grew up with a single mum in a moldy council flat a ‘spoiled brat’？”
“Yes, yes, that,” she said sheepishly. “Exactly that. Got a little worked up last night.”
“I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t. I just…This game is my one chance to get ahead a little.”
“Understood. Completely. Say no more.”
“Thanks.” She nodded, then looked around. It seemed she wanted to say something else but decided against it. He would have paid eight figures if he’d had it to know what she’d been about to say. “Well, I better get back to the house.”
“Let me walk you,” he said. “You need a bodyguard in case anyone else tries to force you to join a multimillion-dollar conspiracy.”
“It’s not as fun as it looks in the movies. Disappointing.”
He led her along the shore toward the house. Sunlight broke apart the morning clouds and danced across the water. The ocean breeze was warm and gentle. Hugo felt a foreign sensation. Happiness? No. Hope? Not that, but something like it.
“I have to say,” Hugo said, “I’m impressed that you would turn down a chance at ten million or more dollars.”
She shook her head. “If he hadn’t been such an asshole, I might have been tempted.”
“Are kindergarten teacher’s aides allowed to say ‘asshole’？”
“I’m off duty. If I were on duty, he’d be a butthole.”
“How’s about a queen mum?”
“Queen mum?”
“Cockney rhyming slang,” he explained. “Rhymes with bum.”
“I’ll remember that. The kids will love it.”
“Just don’t ask me what a Jack and Danny is.” He gave her a wink.
“Now you have to tell me.” She elbowed him gently, which he rather liked.
“I’ll draw you a picture instead.”
“Please do. Then I’ll sell it for millions and buy some new shoes.”
“You’re vastly overestimating my popularity on the secondary market.”
“I’ll sell it for hundreds and buy some new shoes?”
“Now you’re getting closer,” he said and smiled at her. Smiling? Him? Oh, God, he was flirting.
Damn. So much for his vow to stay away from Lucy Hart.
* * *
—
Years ago, one of the Clock Island books had come with a poster folded up in the back. Carefully, Lucy had torn it out and unfolded it, pinned it over her bed. She stared for hours at that poster, the delicately painted girl sitting in the window of a strange stone tower overlooking Clock Island, a raven soaring toward her carrying a note clutched in its talons. The Princess of Clock Island, Book Thirty, cover artwork and illustrations by Hugo Reese.
Lucy loved that book, loved that poster, wanted to be that girl, the princess of Clock Island. She didn’t tell Hugo that from age fourteen to sixteen, she’d slept under his artwork hanging over her bed. Now here she was, strolling on the beach of Clock Island with him like they were old friends. She liked the thought of being friends with Hugo Reese. If things were different—very different…except they weren’t different. Christopher needed her. That was all that mattered.
“Thanks again for rescuing me,” she said, trying to break the suddenly awkward silence.
“You two were arguing outside my studio, and I was attempting to paint. My motives were entirely selfish.”
“Do you live in the cottage, or is that just your studio?”
“Live there. Work there. Hide from work there. Why?”
“Guess I assumed you lived in the house with—”
“No, no, no, no, no.” He raised his hand. “I’ve heard all the rumors, heard all the stupid jokes. Yes, Jack is gay. No, I’m not. Even if I were, the man’s like a father to me, nothing else.”
She laughed. “I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything about that. It’s just, you know, a very big house.”
“The Big House is a synonym for a prison.”
“It can’t be that bad. It’s beautiful.” They left the beach walkway and took the gravel path that led to the house.
Lucy hesitated before speaking again, not wanting to be rude, but curiosity overcame her.
“Can I ask…I mean, I assume it’s not typical for a book illustrator to live with the author of the books he illustrates? I could be wrong.”
He didn’t seem offended. “Not typical, no, but nothing about Jack is typical. I told you how I won the contest my brother made me enter? Two years later, he died. When I was younger, I partied with the lads a bit harder than I should’ve, but after Davey was gone, I went off the rails. Booze, drugs, the works. Coke to get the work done. Whiskey to forget enough to sleep. Bad mix.”
“Oh, Hugo…”
He wouldn’t meet her eyes, though she sought them out. “I was flirting with death back then. Jack saw the signs, staged an intervention. Right up there in that room.” He pointed to the house, to the window Lucy remembered that Jack called his writing factory.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said.
“Losing my brother was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but Jack was the best. He sat me down and told me people with my kind of talent weren’t allowed to squander it. He said I was like a man burning money in front of a poorhouse, that not only was that cruel, but it stank. That got to me. My father walked after Davey was born, and Mum had to work night and day. The image of a man burning cash in front of our flat when we needed every penny…”
“Yeah, been there.”
He stared at his feet as he shuffled along the path, kicking sand. “They wanted to fire me. Jack’s editor, I mean. Here he was writing wholesome children’s books, and his illustrator was in rehab? Not very good press.”
“Wholesome? Those books are all about kids running away, trespassing, breaking the rules, hanging out with witches and fighting pirates, running away from home, stealing treasure, and then getting rewarded for it.”
“See? You understand the books better than the critics.” He lightly elbowed her. She tried not to enjoy that too much. “Jack refused to let them sack me. He said he’d quit writing Clock Island books if they tried it. Still can’t believe the most famous writer alive stuck his neck out for me like that. It was humbling. He got me sorted, and I’ve stayed that way ever since.”
“That must have been hard. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I couldn’t disappoint him, not after what he’d done for me. When I started working with Jack, I lived in the guest cottage for a few months while we worked on the new book covers.”
“That’s when I met you,” she said.
“When Jack’s rough patch started six years ago, I came back. Been here ever since. Couldn’t bear the thought of him being here all alone. Now he swears up and down he’s better, which I hope he is. Anyway, it’s past time for me to go.”
“You’re moving?” Lucy couldn’t believe it. Who would want to leave Clock Island? “Why?”