“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?”
“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.”