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?”
