“Supposed to be a park for the patients at the children’s hospital in Portland. Jack wanted families to visit, to let the kids forget they were sick for a day or two.”
“Oh, I’m very very familiar with the children’s hospital.” Her voice sounded world-weary.
“Were you sick as a child?”
She shook her head. “My sister. She was a PIDD kid. That’s a catchall term for children with compromised immune systems. She was sick all the time. I couldn’t even…I wasn’t even allowed to live at home with her.”
His heart tightened. Davey had never been very healthy either, but he couldn’t imagine being separated from him. That would have been torture.
“That’s terrible. For you and her.”
Lucy shrugged as if it had been no big deal, but the look in her eyes gave away the pain.
“My sister’s probably the main reason I ran away. She made it pretty clear that she liked not having me around. I guess I thought that if I could get here and live with Jack…” She paused, exhaled. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Cry for attention, I guess.”
“You wanted to go home,” Hugo said. She looked at him as if he’d hit a tender spot. But then she smiled.
“That’s it exactly. I had it in my head that this was my real home. Kids do that. We all think we’re aliens, and we can’t believe our parents are really our actual parents. I’m sure I’m one of a million kids who wanted Jack to be their father.”
“One of a billion,” Hugo said. She smiled again.
“Well, that didn’t work out, but if I had to do it all over, I still would. Especially because I’m here now.”
He pointed to the tracks ahead. Lucy stepped lithely over them, and they continued down the path.
“What happened to the project?” she asked. “Why didn’t it get finished?”
“Same reason Jack quit writing.”
“Why did Jack quit writing?”
Hugo didn’t answer at first. He remembered Jack’s number one rule—Don’t break the spell.
“Let’s just say he went through a rough patch,” he finally said. “A rough patch that’s now been going on”—he checked his watch—“six and a half years.”
Lucy looked at him, eyebrow arched. “That’s more than a patch. That’s a rough cross-country highway.” He couldn’t argue with that. “Is he finally over the rough patch?”
“Damned if I know,” he said. “Hope so. Don’t know if he is or if he’s faking it.”
“He seemed happy tonight.”
“Happy? Jack’s forgotten the meaning of happy.” Hugo stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, kicked a stone off the path into the woods. “Beautiful private island, three-hundred-sixty-degree ocean view, house anyone would kill to live in…and for years he’s been the most miserable man on Earth. Jack is living proof that money does not buy happiness.”
“Maybe not for him, but it would for a lot of people,” Lucy said, her tone gently chiding. He didn’t buy it.
Hugo shook his head. “I’ve met those supposedly happy people with money. They’re miserable, just like everyone else. I speak from experience, having both money and misery.”
“Money would buy my happiness.”
He rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help himself. She was living in a dreamworld. “Are you already spending the money you’ll get when you sell Jack’s book to Markham or some other bottom-feeder?”
She turned and glared at him. “What? Like you’ve never imagined what you would do if you won the lottery?”
“The lottery isn’t the only copy of a children’s novel in existence. And yes, I have imagined it, but unlike you, I’ve been the guest at many castles in the air. Too draughty for my taste but keep wishing and hoping for one if you want. Maybe you’ll get one someday.”
She gave a cold, resentful little laugh, surprisingly bitter. “I’ve visited my fair share of castles, and I have no interest in buying one of my own. All I want is a house and a car for Christopher and me.”
She stopped at a gas lamppost and faced him. The warm light illuminated her cheeks, flushed pink from the cold. He found himself staring at her lips. Pale pink lips, soft, made for smiling, though she wasn’t smiling now.
“Christopher?”
“The boy I tutor.”
“You’re buying him a house? A bit above and beyond the call of duty,” he said.
“He’s not just a child I tutor, okay? He was in my class two years ago. Great little kid. Right away, though, I could tell he was struggling at home. His father was a construction worker before he was injured on the job. He got hooked on painkillers. His mother did too. It happens all the time. His parents loved him, but I could tell he was struggling at home. He was withdrawn some days, clingy other days, cried to go home half the time, didn’t want to go home the other half…but smart. God, so smart. Reading was his strong suit, so whenever he was having a bad day, I’d get a little group together, and we’d just read. But there’s only so much you can do for a kid in your class when you have twenty other kids to teach. Summer came, and then school was out. One day I got a call from a social worker. She told me Christopher Lamb’s parents had died from an overdose. A bad batch of something got around. Sixteen people in the city overdosed that day, and eleven died.”
“Damn,” Hugo said.
She didn’t look at him, just kept talking. “Christopher stayed with me for a week until they found a foster home for him. I would have sold a kidney to keep him. But I can’t even afford to foster him, much less adopt him. I have three roommates and no car, credit-card debt, and a job that pays minimum wage. Oh, and I have a hole in my favorite shoes.”
She held out her foot to display a small hole where the canvas of her trainer had come away from the rubber sole.
“So maybe I will sell the book to the highest bidder.” Her tone was sharp as a knife. Every word cut him. “You live on a private island. Easy for you to say money doesn’t buy happiness when you have money. It would buy a lot of happiness for Christopher and me. And forget happiness.” She waved her hand as if she were erasing him and every stupid thing he’d just said. “For once in my life, I would love to spend fifteen dollars on a toy for Christopher without getting sick to my stomach. Sorry you disapprove of me daydreaming about the money a little bit, but that’s all Christopher and I have right now—wishes and dreams. But it’s better than having nothing.”
“Lucy, I’m—”
“You know what teachers call kids like you when we’re all gossiping in the teachers’ lounge?” She slapped her hand against his chest. “Spoiled brats.”
He looked at her, his jaw clenching. “Now that’s unfair.”
“Wake me up when the world is fair. Good night, Hugo. I can find my way back alone.”
She walked off. Hugo just stood there. What could he do but watch her go?
A flutter of white caught his eye. Paper. He picked it up off the ground. She hadn’t slapped his chest in anger. She’d given him Markham’s business card.
Chapter Seventeen
At nine the following day, Lucy dragged herself into the dining room and found the other players already there. They all looked up from their plates as she shuffled through the oak double doors.