She raised her eyebrow at him, but it didn’t last. She smiled and sighed.
“Truce?” She held out her hand, and he shook it. When he tried to take his hand back, she held on to it. “Not so fast. While I have you—”
“Ah, dammit.”
“I want paintings, and I want them now.”
Like a wolf caught in a trap, he pretended to gnaw his own hand off at the wrist.
“You said you owe your career renaissance to me,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “If you meant that, then the least you can do is bring me a Clock Island cover painting or two or fifty, please.”
“Cover paintings are not for sale. Jack’s publisher will send the fiction police after me.”
“For a show then only.” She squeezed harder.
“Release me, wench. I won’t be press-ganged.” This was not how artists usually did business with galleries. Usually there were managers and agents and emails, not arm wrestling.
She released his hand. “As you were.”
“Counteroffer,” he said. “I want a full solo show. I’ll bring five original Clock Island cover paintings and ten to twenty of my more recent pieces—which youcansell. Plus, an opening-night party with the good caterer this time.”
“Hmm…” She pretended to stroke a nonexistent beard. “This could work. A Hugo Reese retrospective. I like it. Deal.”
“Buy me a coffee, and we’ll pick a date,” he said. “I should have a few old cover paintings in my secret stash under the floorboards where I store the bodies.”
She crooked her finger at him—which had meant something very different when they were together—and led him to the gallery’s coffee bar.
A young woman in a red apron stood at the counter pouring steaming hot water over some sort of contraption balanced on top of a coffee cup.
“What’s she doing?” Hugo whispered. “Chemistry experiment?”
“It’s a pour-over, Hugo. It’s the best way to make coffee.”
“I’ll stick to my Mr. Coffee. Although I’ve always wondered…is there a Mrs. Coffee?”
“Ashley,” Piper said as they reached the counter. “Could I get a cup of coffee for my guest?”
“No, thank you,” Hugo said as he looked at the prices on the menu. “Thirteen dollars for one cup? Is it brewed with diamonds and the blood of endangered species?”
“The gallery is buying,” Piper said.
“Trust me,” Ashley, the barista, said. “It’s worth the thirteen bucks.” She pulled out a large white mug and another funnel contraption.
“Ashley, this is one of our artists, Hugo Reese. He used to illustrate Jack Masterson’s Clock Island books.”
“Oh my God.” Ashley slapped her hands onto the counter. Her eyes were huge and her voice reverent. “Are you serious?”
It never got old. There was a specific age range of people who reacted to the name Clock Island and Jack Masterson the way teenaged girls once reacted to the Beatles.
“Serious,” Hugo said. “Unfortunately.”
Piper whacked his arm.
“What’s he like?” Ashley whispered as if Jack were standing behind them.
“Oh, he’s Albus Dumbledore, Willy Wonka, and Jesus Christ all rolled into one.” If Dumbledore, Wonka, and Christ had depression and drank too much.
“That’s so awesome,” she said. Hugo was English, and he noticed Americans had trouble differentiating between his accent and his sarcasm.
