Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(18)

“Study,” she says, whisking her clothes into the closet. “As I said, this isn’t a vacation.”

She heads into the bathroom, takes a fast shower to wash off the travel grime and wake up. When she comes out, Jack is stretched out on the sofa in the living area, eyes closed.

“Hey,” she says, shaking his arm. “Don’t go to sleep.”

He drowsily shakes her off. “One minute,” he mumbles. “So tired.”

“Jack.” She nudges him again. Reflexively checks his forehead. He’s cool. “You’ll be up all night. Come on.”

He opens one eye sleepily, notices that she’s changed into slacks and a blazer, and sits up. “You’re going out? Already?”

“I told you, this is work for me. I have to meet with the seaweed farmers. I won’t be gone too long. A couple of hours at most.” She crosses her fingers to cover the lies.

“If you get hungry, order something from room service or go down to the restaurant, but wait to have dinner with me, okay?” Holly’s read that dinner with parents is one of the biggest factors in raising well-adjusted teenagers. No matter what crisis she’s facing, she always tries to make it home to eat with him, even if it means going back into the office later. “Do some studying, hit the pool, but don’t leave the hotel. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No,” she responds, too quickly. “Not today, at least. I have too much to do.” She leans over and kisses his forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”

She leaves him glaring on the couch, but at least he’s awake. He can’t get into too much trouble at the isolated, half-empty hotel—as long as he stays there. Holly’s only option at this point is to hope that he does.

The hotel is on the outskirts of the village, new in the years since she’s left. But the village looks remarkably the same. There’s a pub, a chemist’s shop, a fishmonger, and a butcher, all with brightly painted wooden fronts. A small grocery store at the far end, followed by a handful of houses. Overlaid over it all, the sharp tang of the sea. And then she’s through the village and into open country, driving toward the house. No more than fifteen minutes later and she’s topping the grassy knoll that frames the view of Grace House. She pulls the car over to the side of the road.

As always, her heart catches in her throat, the way it has since the very first day she saw it. Somehow that makes it worse—with all that’s happened, the house can still evoke a visceral response from her; it isn’t simply a pile of stones. The house stands there unchanged—and she does not.

She’d been six months pregnant with the twins when she first saw this house.

“We need a break, before you melt,” Robert had said, and bundled her into his wildly impractical red sports car and out of the hot city. It was unlike him—he’d just gotten started at the brokerage firm and was eager for everyone there to take him seriously. He had enough family money to live comfortably, if not well, but he wasn’t ever the type to sit back—that was one of the things she’d loved about him ever since the night she’d gazed down from her mother’s staircase and seen his blue eyes looking up at her.

“Where are we going?” she’d asked, her belly barely fitting into the car’s passenger side.

“Never you mind,” he’d said, revving the engine. They left London late Friday afternoon, and by the time they’d arrived, it was too dark to see the outside. She’d gotten a sense of age and mass, but was so exhausted she fell asleep as soon as she’d climbed into the bed. In the morning, she’d woken to boring white walls and heavy drapes, no art or color anywhere.

She’d poked Robert until he’d opened his eyes.

“Not your usual style,” she’d said. Robert loved his flash. And he’d smiled and lumbered out of bed and drawn the curtain back and she’d caught her breath. The view was spectacular. Dark blue ocean contrasted with sloping green hills. Brightly colored boats bobbed and rocked in the water, all beneath a brilliant sky. With no other distractions on the walls, the window dominated the room.

“Like it?”

She couldn’t speak, just nodded.

“If you like it, it’s ours,” he’d told her, then laughed, a bit ruefully. “It’s ours even if you don’t like it, actually. I put a payment down last week.” He climbed back into bed and kissed her belly through her T-shirt. “It will be a great place to raise them in the summer. There’s nothing around. They can get away from everything.” Away from the Darling name, he’d meant. From the paparazzi and the tourists who drove by the London house to gawk, from the fans and the stalkers. His kisses trailed up, to her collarbone, her neck, her lips. “So can we.”

She turns her thoughts away, won’t let herself remember what they’d done next. They’d had two summers with the twins, a few stolen weekends during the rest of the year. One Christmas holiday, their last as a family. So cold in the morning she could see her breath, and even Robert, normally a furnace of warmth, had yelped when she’d pulled back the covers. She’d worried the twins would catch cold, so she’d warmed their beds with the ancient hot-water bottles she’d found in a cabinet and made them wear sweaters to bed.

What else had she worried about in those days? Simple things, probably. Whether the twins would ever sleep through the night. Croup—Isaac had it several times. Making sure Jack, who was always so hard to catch, so fast moving, didn’t get too close to the water on cold afternoons, or plunge in over his head in the summer. Normal things, although they seemed like the end of the world at the time.