She glanced up at the painting of the flying shark over the fireplace mantel, the one he called Fly-Fishing. At least that was something she had to show for her week here, an actual Hugo Reese painting. Her favorite painter. Christopher’s too.
“That’s a big gift, Hugo. I know your stuff sells for a lot of money.”
“I’m not exactly Banksy, you know, but if you were to take that to a gallery and sell it, you—”
“Don’t. Don’t even think about it,” she said. “I’m not about to sell the painting you gave to Christopher. That painting will pay for his college someday if that’s what he wants to do with it, or he’ll keep it and pass it on to his kids or grandkids, but I’m not going to pawn it. Ever.”
“Lucy—”
She dropped the T-shirt she’d been folding, turned, and faced him.
“Come here,” he said.
“No,” she replied, but she went to him anyway, went to his arms and let him hold her. She cried again, big, hard sobs. The sort of sobs that come out of a heart broken cleanly in two. Hugo just held her, rubbed her back while she cried and said nothing.
Always be quiet when a heart is breaking.
Finally, her sobs settled, and she took a deep breath, followed by another.
“I’m going to be okay,” she said softly.
“I know you will be.”
“I’ll do what every other single mom in the world does—work my ass off and take care of my kid. I’ve decided I’m going to get a second job, even if it means not seeing Christopher as much. But he can talk on the phone now, so we can Facetime or call each other even when I can’t see him in person. When I take him home with me, it’ll be worth it.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t let me lend you—”
“No, I wouldn’t. If only because what happens in six months when I need more? When the car breaks down in two years? When my rent goes up, or I lose my job?” She took another deep steadying breath and dragged herself away from Hugo’s arms. “I need to be able to take care of him myself. But thanks for the shoes.”
“I only wish—” He looked at her.
“Yeah. Me too.”
He stood up, looked at her. It seemed he wanted to say more but wouldn’t or couldn’t let himself.
“Can I ask a favor?” she said.
“Anything in the world.” The way he said it, she thought he might mean it.
“Maybe you could draw a little shark sketch or something for Christopher that I could take to him tomorrow while we wait for the painting? Maybe something with his name on it? I’ll let you keep the red scarf.”
“Absolutely. I’ll go and fetch my sketchbook. Besides, I was going to keep the red scarf anyway.”
He started for the door, then stopped, turned around. “That kid loves the hell out of you, Lucy. He answered the phone because it was you calling him. Because it was his mum calling him.”
She smiled. “As terrible as this day went…I’m still happy. Even after he moves into his new foster home, at least now we can talk to each other on the phone until I buy a car and visit him in person. It’s so funny. He says the Mastermind helped him answer the phone? I guess reading books about kids being brave got to him?”
“He was incredibly brave,” Hugo said.
She shrugged. “Too bad he didn’t get his wish.”
“He’s got you in his life,” Hugo said. “He’s a lucky kid.” She felt her face growing hot. Hugo smiled back. “Don’t go anywhere. Back in a tick.”
Lucy breathed deeply through her hands when he was gone. Okay, so she’d lost the game. It hurt. It sucked. She wanted to cry again, wanted to scream…but here she was—still standing, still breathing, and tomorrow she would see Christopher. That’s all that mattered.
She got out her phone to check for messages. Nothing important. They hadn’t released the news to the press yet about the contest. Jack had warned them that tomorrow they would be inundated. Lucy considered calling Angie. Jack had given her Angie’s phone number. Even after all these years, all the neglect and loneliness and cruelty, she still wished she had one person in her family she could call when her heart was breaking.
She put her phone away. She just wasn’t ready to get hurt again, not when she was already hurting so much.
“Knock, knock?”
Lucy composed her face. Jack stood in the open doorway to her bedroom. He was still wearing his usual uniform of rumpled trousers, a light blue button-down shirt with a coffee stain on it, and a baggy cardigan starting to unravel at the seams. He had a paperback stuffed in one of the cardigan pockets, and she wondered if that was why he wore such huge sweaters—book-sized pockets.
“Jack,” she said. “You’re not in bed?”
“No, no, finishing up some paperwork in my office. May I?”
“Sure, come in.”
He shuffled into the room. “I hope you’re not too upset about not winning.”
“Hanging in there. I’m glad the book is going to be published. I’m kind of glad I got to see Angie. I’m very glad I got to see you again.”
“And Hugo?”
She blushed bright red. “And Hugo. But not for the reasons you think. He’s my favorite artist.”
“I don’t blush when I talk about Paul Klee.”
“You should,” she said. “I’m sure he was very handsome.”
Jack laughed. It was good to see him laughing. He looked just like he did the day she met him when she was thirteen. The years melted away along with the pain.
“Where is our Hugo anyway? Wasn’t he just here?”
“He’s getting his sketchbook to draw something for Christopher.”
“Ah, well, before he gets back, I wanted to give you a little something.” He pulled the book from his cardigan pocket. “I’d like you to have The House on Clock Island.”
She looked down. It was a well-worn copy of Book One in the Clock Island series.
“Ah, thank you,” she said. “Is it signed, I hope? Can you make sure it’s signed to Christopher?”
“The book isn’t your gift. Or Christopher’s.”
She furrowed her brow. “What?”
“The book isn’t your gift. I don’t want you to have The House on Clock Island,” he said. “I want you to have the house…on Clock Island.”
He opened the book. A key was lying in the center of it. A house key.
A house key.
A key to a house.
A key to the house on Clock Island.
“Jack…” she breathed. “What—”
“You don’t get the book, but you do get your wish. Lucy Hart—do you still want to be my sidekick?”
Chapter Thirty-One
She sat down hard on the bed. Her feet had failed her. Her vision was blurry. Then everything cleared. The fog lifted. Her heart lifted.
“You’re giving me…”
“The house,” Jack said. “If you’ll have it—and me, because I don’t plan on leaving until I’m carted off in a box. And if you can talk that Christopher of yours into moving to Maine, I’d love to have him here too.”