Page 34 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow

He shrugs and stares at the hankie in his hand. “I thought Morgan would want to play with me now he’s back.”

“Morgan’s a grown man,” I tell him gently. “I’m afraid it won’t be the same as before, no matter how much you might want it to be.”

“I know that, but…”

“But?” I nudge him.

He shrugs again. “I just wanted someone to be my friend,” he whispers.

My heart clenches. “Oh, lad.”

“I’m always on my own,” Artie mutters. “You and the others are off havin’ your secret meetings and stuff, and I’m?—”

“Lonely,” I finish for him.

“Don’t matter,” he replies, his tone laced with a faint tinge of belligerence as his jaw tightens defensively. “Used to it, ain’t I?”

“Arthur, why didn’t you say something before?”

“Sorry, Bertie.” He quickly deflates, curling in on himself a bit.

“No, lad.” I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” He frowns. “Why you sorry? You ain’t done nuffin’.”

“Sometimes, I think we forget just how young you are and how hard it must be for you.”

“Ain’t nuffin’ gonna change that though, is it? Ain’t no kids round ’ere my age, and even if more people come to the hotel, that bloke with the clipboard says we ain’t allowed to show ourselves.”

“I wish I knew how to make it better for you,” I say in frustration. “But we’ll figure out a way. I promise.”

He gives another sulky shrug.

“You should talk to Morgan, you know,” I say softly. “He may be an adult now, but he still cares about you, and even if he’s no longer interested in playing trains or hide and seek, he’s still your friend.”

Artie huffs. “Is he?”

“Yes.” I pluck the now wrinkled hankie from his hand and, cupping his chin, wipe his face with it. “He is.”

“Sorry for being such a crybaby,” he mumbles.

“Lad, there’s nothing wrong with having a good cry every now and then,” I tell him pointedly as I hand back the handkerchief. “But you really do need to put the furniture back.”

He nods and lifts the cloth, then blows his nose very loudly. Then he jumps down from the packing crate and shoves the soiled material in his pocket.

Sighing mournfully, he says, “I’ll go put the rooms back the way they was.”

“After you’ve done that”—I hold out my hand to him and grin—“would you like to come help me cause some mischief with the fleshies?”

He slips his smaller hand in mine, looking up at me with a grin.

“Would I ever.”

9

John the Maid circulates around the cosy bar area, holding a silver tea tray containing steaming mugs of Dilys’ hot chocolate. I can just about make out a little mop of silver hair visible above the bar itself as she shuffles back and forth with more full cups for him to pick up. The scent of warm freshly baked cookies drifts around the room, and the low hum of chatter makes me smile.

This is just perfect.