“You’re Hugo Reese, right?”
He stopped abruptly and looked at her with thinly concealed annoyance. “Unfortunately. Come on. Jack’s waiting.”
Same Hugo she remembered, even if he didn’t look quite so punk anymore. Midthirties, strong jaw, intelligent and intense blue eyes behind a pair of black-framed glasses. He wore a navy-blue peacoat, the collar open to show his very nice-looking neck. She’d thought he was gorgeous when she was thirteen. Now she’d say he was handsome, very handsome, despite the ferocious scowl. Almost distinguished. More professor than rock star these days. She decided she liked the upgrade.
She followed him, wondering how much he remembered from her last visit here. Probably nothing. He was a young man but certainly an adult back then while she’d been thirteen, the most impressionable of ages. She remembered every single word he spoke to her.
She’d been standing in the entryway to the house, the social worker’s hand on her shoulder as she told Mr. Masterson goodbye. Jack Masterson gently told her that she would have to go back home, that he hated to make her go, but it was against the law for him to keep the kids who showed up on his doorstep. He wished he could, truly and with all his heart. She could be Thurl Ravenscroft’s butler. Maybe when she was older, he said.
Hugo had been sitting on the stairs behind him. As the social worker escorted her out of the house, she heard him say to Jack, “Stop making promises you can’t keep. You’re going to get somebody killed one of these days, old man.”
That made her furious back then. Now that she was twenty-six, she had to admit Hugo had a point. Lucy could have gotten herself killed running away from home because a world-famous author made an offhand joke in a letter about needing a sidekick.
But she never forgot what Jack Masterson said in reply. “Hugo, always be quiet when a heart is breaking.”
Hugo had scoffed. “Yours or hers?” he’d asked.
That was the last time she’d seen Hugo Reese.
“Something wrong?” Hugo asked her. Had she been staring at him? Oops. Lucy was glad the cold crisp air had already turned her face red.
“We met before,” she said. “I was just wondering if you remembered.”
“I remember.” He didn’t sound happy about it. Okay, so not a good memory but still better than being forgotten.
“You look different.”
“It’s called aging. Thank you for pointing it out.” Then he turned away from her and said, “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”
They reached the cobblestone walkway and followed it to the front door, the same cobblestone walkway Lucy had taken years ago.
She stopped in her tracks and looked up at the house. Every light in every window glowed like Christmas. A metal clock hung over the grand arched double doors, just like she remembered. Already Lucy felt welcome, warm, like this was where she belonged, though she knew she didn’t.
“Coming?” Hugo asked.
“Yes, sorry.” They headed forward. “I am sorry, you know.”
His brow furrowed in that fierce scowl she remembered so well. “For what?”
“I don’t know if you remember, but you yelled at me for putting myself in danger by running away. Back then, it never occurred to me how much trouble I could have gotten Jack Masterson into by showing up on his doorstep. It was stupid and dangerous and could have hurt his career if it had gotten out that he was, I don’t know, luring girls to his house.”
“He’s the one who should be apologizing to you.” He glared at the house as if his worst enemy lived inside. “Bloody fool, thinking he can play God to a messed-up kid and get away with it scot-free.”
“I wasn’t that messed up,” she said, trying to make him smile. Didn’t work.
“I wasn’t talking about you. Let’s go.”
Without another word, Lucy followed Hugo to the house on Clock Island.
Chapter Eleven
Finally, the last of the contestants had arrived. Now this bloody game could begin. Hugo was already counting the minutes until it was over and the house was quiet again. Then he could sit down with Jack and let him know it was time for Hugo to get on with his life. With everyone safely here, he relaxed a little. They weren’t the obnoxious invaders he’d been dreading. Andre was cordial and curious. Melanie, the Canadian, was endlessly polite. Dustin, the doctor, seemed a live wire of nervous energy. And Lucy Hart? As young and slight as she looked, he might have written her off, but she was the only one of the four who’d had the decency to apologize for putting Jack’s entire career at risk by running away to his house. He didn’t realize people still apologized. God knew Hugo certainly tried to avoid it whenever possible.
“This way,” he said, carrying her bag up the cobblestone walkway to the front double doors. He opened the door for her and let her inside.
She shrugged off the coat he’d given her and held it out to him. “Is this yours?”
“Keep it. I have loads of coats. Unless you have a parka in your suitcase, you might need it. Give it back to me later.”
She held it to her chest. “Thanks again.” She looked up, then around, turned a circle under the old stained-glass chandelier that hung in the entryway, and smiled. He looked at her, trying to see the scrawny thirteen-year-old he vaguely recalled. What he remembered most about that bizarre afternoon was his absolute fury at Jack for being so stupid as to encourage a troubled kid to think she had a real connection with him just because she read his books. Didn’t he realize that every kid on the planet thought they were special, that they’d be princes or queens or wizards if the universe hadn’t betrayed them by dropping them into the wrong family, into the wrong house in the wrong city in the wrong world? The last thing those kids needed was to think that some rich and famous writer could and would magically change their lives if they just wished for it hard enough. Poor Lucy Hart had bought into that dream. He hoped she’d woken from it.
Hugo had wanted to be an artist as a kid. He’d sketched and painted ten hours a day, every day, for his entire life before he finally made one single half-decent painting. Wishing hadn’t delivered his dream to him; he’d had to work to make it come true.
“The others are in the library,” he told Lucy. “We’ll get started soon.”
She started to pick up her suitcase, but he held out his hand. “I’ll take it up. This way.”
Lucy followed him into the sitting room. God, she’d really grown up since he’d seen her all those years ago. Pretty girl, he begrudgingly admitted to himself. Brown hair fell to her shoulders in soft waves, slightly damp from the ocean air. Bright brown eyes. Big smile, soft pink lips, and pink cheeks from the cold night air. Jack said she was a kindergarten teacher or something. Did he ever have primary school teachers this young and pretty? Not likely. He would have remembered.
The oak doors to the library were closed. When they reached them, Lucy stopped.
“What is it?” Hugo asked her.