“I can’t stay here forever, can I?”
“Why not?”
He ignored the question. “I admit I’m worried that my art will suffer if I leave. I’ve done my best work on the island. Probably because I’ve been absolutely miserable here.”
“How can you be miserable on Clock Island?”
“I can be miserable anywhere. It comes with the job.”
She elbowed him in the side. “I don’t believe that for one second.”
“Name me one happy artist. I dare you.”
Lucy scrunched up her face, thinking deeply, trying to remember everything she’d ever learned about every artist she’d ever heard of. She held up one finger.
“Degas?” she said. “Didn’t he do those gorgeous ballet dancer paintings?”
“He did. He also loathed ballet dancers and women in general. Notorious misogynist. Notorious misanthrope, really. Try again.”
“Um…well, I know Van Gogh was miserable. What about Monet?”
“Two dead wives. Dead son. Lifelong financial struggles. Went blind. One more guess.”
Lucy gave it more thought. Finally, she snapped her fingers.
“Got one—Bob Ross.”
He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give you that one.”
“I win. This game anyway.”
“No points, sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’ll just bask in the glory,” she said as the sun rose higher in the sky, sending its warm rays to kiss every hour, every minute, and every second of Clock Island.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“So are you.”
“Am I?”
“You’re a very talented painter, but you’re not as good at being miserable as you think you are.”
“Take that back.”
“Methinks the artist protests too much,” Lucy said.
“Well…even I have to admit things are starting to look up.”
“Because Jack’s writing again?”
He gave her that smile again, the smile that made the sun shine a little brighter.
“Right. That,” he said, but a part of Lucy wished he wasn’t just talking about Jack.
“Want to get some tea in the dining room?” Lucy asked as they entered the house.
“Raincheck. Gotta talk to Jack.”
“Talk to me about what?”
They both turned to see Jack coming down the hall toward the dining room.
“Hello, Lucy,” Jack said.
“We have a situation,” Hugo said before Lucy could speak.
“I hate situations,” he said. “Couldn’t we go one day without a situation?”
“Hugo—” Lucy said. “It wasn’t—”
“We need to call the ferry in,” Hugo said, ignoring her protest. “The good Dr. Dustin disqualified himself.”
“Jack, I—” Lucy began.
“Don’t try to protect him,” Hugo said. “He wouldn’t do the same for you, and you know it. Jack, Dustin tried to get Lucy to cheat with him, and he wasn’t very polite when she told him no.”
Jack took a moment to absorb the information. Lucy could imagine his heart was a little broken by the news. She had the feeling that when he looked at them—Melanie, Andre, Dustin, and her—he saw them still as kids, as his kids.
“Call in the ferry,” Jack said with a sigh. Hugo pulled his phone from his pocket and walked out the front door.
“Sorry,” Lucy said.
“Don’t be sorry, my dear. It’s not your fault Dustin forgot the second rule of Clock Island. Always trust the Mastermind. He’s on your side, even when it seems he isn’t.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lucy took a long hot shower, trying to wash away the stress of last night and this morning. When she got out, she found a note under her door.
Scared it was some kind of cruel parting shot from Dustin, Lucy didn’t open it at first. But the paper was sky blue, the color of Jack’s stationery. She finally opened it. Someone had written, Gift outside the door. Don’t freak out. It doesn’t bite.
The note was signed H.R. （Not Human Resources）。
Lucy opened her door and found a cardboard box. She picked it up and took it to the bed, closing the door behind her. What had Hugo given her? She opened the box.
Shoes. That was all. Just a pair of women’s hiking boots, dark brown leather, L.L.Bean, of course, because this was Maine. Slightly worn but otherwise in excellent condition.
Lucy knew she should have felt grateful for the gift, but she didn’t. She felt like crap.
She sat on the bed and stared down at the shoes. Stupidly, she’d almost convinced herself he’d been flirting with her today—rescuing her from Dustin’s creepy scheming, offering to play bodyguard—and yes, she would absolutely let him guard her body. But the free shoes? That didn’t feel like attraction. More like pity. More like charity. Those were the last things she wanted from him. He was a nice guy. That was all. He was nice to her because he was nice, not because he liked her. And even if he did like her, she had no business liking him back. The last thing she needed was a hopeless crush on a famous artist.
And, she reminded herself, he’d been flat broke before. He knew how it was—no money, single mother. Okay, so maybe giving her the shoes wasn’t charity. Maybe it was solidarity. Still, it stung. But she was going to be a grown-up about it. Only an ingrate or fool wouldn’t accept a pair of high-quality hiking boots that looked almost new, especially when her shoes were falling apart.
Lucy fished her phone out of her jeans pocket and sent Theresa a quick text.
Tell me to stop being an idiot.
She doubted she’d get a reply, but one came in fast. Lucy checked the time. Only 6:46 a.m. in Redwood. Theresa had probably just gotten out of bed fifteen minutes earlier.
We don’t let the kids call people “idiots,” so you can’t either.
Lucy wrote back, Just tell me “eyes on the prize” or something so I can stop thinking about this guy on the island.
Theresa immediately called. Lucy laughed, answered her phone. Before she could even say hello, Theresa said, “Who’s the guy?”
“Good morning,” Lucy said.
“Forget morning. Who’s the guy? Another player?”
“His name’s Hugo Reese, and he illustrated the Clock Island books. And he is beautiful.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” There was a pause. Theresa was probably googling Hugo on her phone. A few seconds passed. Then, “He’ll do. He’ll do twice. He looks like a sexy college professor.”
“He does now,” Lucy said. “I met him when I was here the first time. Back then, he looked like a guitar player in a nineties punk band. Full-sleeve tattoos.”
“I gotta see this.” Theresa paused, and Lucy waited for her to find some older pictures of Hugo. “Oh my…” She must have found a good picture.
“English too.”
“Like Prince William?”
Lucy thought about it. “More like a guy who would punch Prince William outside a pub.”
“Even better.”
Lucy laughed. She knew Theresa could cheer her up.