“Gorilla Glue?”
“Sandals,” he said. “I see he’s going through the shark-obsessed phase. Dinosaurs are next.”
“Dinosaurs were last year,” she said. “I’m guessing either outer space or ancient Egypt next.”
“Or theTitanic,” Hugo said. “My brother, Davey, was obsessed withtheTitanic.” He pulled out his own phone and showed her a photo of his brother in front of a poster for aTitanicmuseum exhibit.
“That’s Davey?” she asked, smiling at the picture of a boy about ten years old, grinning hugely. He had the slightly tilted eyes and the button nose of a child with Down syndrome.
“Yeah, when he was nine or ten, I took him to theTitanicexhibit in London. It was either that or show him the movie, and no chance I’d let him see that movie until he was at least thirty.”
“I’m sorry he’s—”
“Yeah, me too.” Hugo shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Anyway,” he said, all business again. “Hungry at all?”
“A little.”
“I’ll have dinner sent up to you.”
“Thank you,” she said. He started to leave. “Hey, Hugo? Can I take a picture of that painting for Christopher?”
He gave a look, slightly confused, but then waved his hand. “Be my guest.”
After he left, Lucy walked around the room. She couldn’t believe it was hers for the entire week. A thick plush comforter covered the bed. The sheets were nautical, white with blue stripes. And when she went to the window, she could see the dark outline of the ocean racing up the sandy beach before quietly retreating, only to race up again, inching closer.
She could have stared at that view all night, but she knew she ought to unpack and settle in. She set her suitcase on the luggage rack and started unpacking. She took out a photograph of her and Christopher that Theresa took of them on the playground and framed for her. Lucy set it on the fireplace mantel.
Now it felt like home.
“Dinner is served.”
Hugo stood in her doorway with a covered tray.
“You know you’re a really famous artist, right?” Lucy asked him.
“The most famous artist is still less famous than the least famous reality TV star. Where do you want it?”
“Um…” She looked around, saw a little vanity with a chair. “There?”
He set the tray on the table. Lucy was starving, so she went straight over and lifted the lid.
“Oh…is that lobster bisque?”
“They said you’re a Mainer.”
“Ayuh,” she said.
“Yes, a Mainer, God help us.”
Lucy sat down and started in on her lobster bisque. Either she’d been gone from Maine for too long, or this was the best lobster bisque she’d ever eaten in her life. A moan of pure delight escaped her throat, so loud she blushed.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was a little pornographic.”
“Pleased you like it that much.” He wanted to laugh at her, she could tell.
The next bite, she managed to taste without moaning. Hugo, for some reason, was still standing in her doorway.
Another roar came from downstairs, another very impressive display of expletives.
