“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.”
“Talk to me about what?”
They both turned to see Jack coming down the hall toward the dining room.
“Hello, Lucy,” Jack said.
“We have a situation,” Hugo said before Lucy could speak.
