“I feel like absolute crap for telling Jack off earlier,” she said.
“Don’t. He needs to be reminded every now and then that people are not characters in his stories and he can’t do whatever he wants with them. And trust me, love, he’s taken much worse abuse from me.” Hugo lightly elbowed her. She hated how much she liked standing close to him. And she really hated how nice it sounded when he called her “love.” In his white T-shirt, the colorful tattoos on his arms were on full display. Every time one of his arm muscles moved, the colors fluttered and shifted. It was like standing next to a living, breathing painting.
“What other paintings did you decide on?”
Lucy showed him her stack. He flipped through them, nodding at her choices. “You picked The Keeper of Clock Island.”
“Is that bad? I love it.” Lucy picked up the canvas and set it on the easel. “The lighthouse and the guy standing on it looking at the night sky…” She gestured to the male figure on the walkway, illuminated by the full moon. “It’s so striking, you know. So mysterious.”
“Jack said it’s his favorite. No idea why.”
“I can guess.”
Hugo looked at her, eyebrow raised.
Lucy gently elbowed him. “Look around,” she said, waving her hand at the stacks of memorabilia in his studio. “All the Clock Island paintings, the sketches, the notes, the messages, the whole archives you have here…”
“And?”
“You are the keeper of Clock Island, Hugo,” she said. “If he loves that cover, it’s because he loves you.”
Hugo looked away. “He’ll need another keeper when I’m gone.”
“Can I apply?”
He glared at her but with a twinkle in his eyes. “Vulture. The body’s not even cold yet.”
“Well, hurry up and get cold,” she said. “I need a house.”
He pointed a finger in her face, then flicked the tip of her nose.
Lucy gasped in feigned shock.
“You deserved that,” he said.
“No regrets.”
“Out,” he said. “Or no more biscuits for you.”
Reluctantly, Lucy left his beautiful paint-spattered studio. She returned to the living room and stood at the fireplace. She was warming her hands when her phone buzzed in the back pocket of her jeans. She took it out. Another message from Theresa.
Please stay and finish the game. I promise I’ll watch over Christopher. He’ll never forgive himself if you give up now because of him.
“Everything all right?”
Lucy looked up. Hugo was standing in the doorway to the living room. His brow was furrowed in concern.
“My friend Theresa just texted to beg me to stay and finish the game. I don’t know. Jack said it’s a long shot any of us would win. If it’s that impossible—”
“It’s not impossible. Jack would do a lot of bonkers things, but he wouldn’t set you all up for failure. Look, I shouldn’t have won my contest. I should be working at a dingy tattoo shop in Hackney, trying not to get knifed on my way home every night. Instead, I’m here.” He waved his hand around. “This house, this place, my career…” He walked over to her, stood in front of her. “I can’t make you stay all week and finish the game. But I can make you this promise—if you leave without seeing it through to the end, you’ll wonder the rest of your life what could have been. And trust me, it could be something very beautiful.”
“I thought you were miserable,” she said.
“I thought I was too.” He raised his eyebrows and lifted his hands. “A wise woman recently told me I’m full of shit.”
Lucy sighed. “Maybe you are, but you’re also right. I don’t need any more regrets. I have enough for a lifetime.”
Hugo gave her a smile before disappearing back into his studio.
Lucy wrote back to Theresa that she was going to stay and play.
Theresa replied, And win!!
And to that Lucy could only write back, I wish.
Chapter Twenty-Three
After talking Lucy into staying, Hugo sneaked back into his studio and called Jack again. Although it was late, well after midnight now, Jack answered.
“Your evil plan to distract her worked. She’s decided to stay,” Hugo said. “She’s going to finish the game.”
Jack breathed a sigh of relief so loud it rattled Hugo’s ear. “Good job, son.”
“I’ll walk her back over to the house now.”
“It’s still—”
Suddenly there was a shift in the room, a weird dull silence, then darkness.
“Or not,” Hugo said. He heard Lucy let out a quick yelp of surprise as the lights went out.
“Batten down the hatches,” Jack instructed. “We’ll see you both in the morning. If we’re still here.”
“Do you think it’s safe to let Lucy stay here? I don’t want them accusing her of cheating because we’re, you know—”
“Making gooey eyes at each other?”
“Friends.”
“Hugo, my boy, you couldn’t help her win the next two challenges if you tried.” He hung up.
Hugo checked on Lucy. She agreed staying the night at his cottage was probably the safest bet in this storm. He left her safe in the living room by the fireplace while he gathered blankets and supplies. The softest pillow. The plushest blankets. Even a candle or two. How long had it been since he had a woman staying the night? Too long. He shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was. He chalked it up to novelty and loneliness. And it didn’t hurt that his toes curled in his shoes whenever Lucy smiled in his general direction.
When he returned to the living room, Lucy had built the fire high, hot, and bright. By the firelight, she sat on the floor pillow. He grabbed another pillow and sat by her to get warm.
“Pillows and blankets galore,” he said. “You won’t freeze to death tonight, at least.”
Lucy was peering at him as if he had something on his face.
“What?” he demanded.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Lucy said, “but you look so bizarre without your glasses.”
He’d forgotten he’d taken them off in the bathroom when he’d brushed his teeth by flashlight. “Sorry. I’ll go and fetch them. I’m fully aware that my face looks best when covered.”
She pursed her lips and glared at him. “I meant you look good bizarre. Like really young.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “I knew I should have gone for the contact lenses instead.”
She picked up the sketchbook he’d left on the floor by the fireplace.
“Were you working tonight when I interrupted you with my, you know, crazy?”
“You weren’t crazy, you were upset. And no, just noodling,” he said.
“Noodling?”
“That’s a Davey word. Noodling instead of doodling. And my drawings were noodles. He was a funny kid.” It felt good to talk about Davey, just talk about him with someone who didn’t flinch or shy away when he mentioned him like so many other people did, as if grief were catching.
“He sounds like an amazing kid. Can I see your noodles?” she asked, grinning innocently.