Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(26)

“Crazy,” Holly agrees. Her voice is so steady no one could tell she’s covered in goose bumps.

“That’s what I thought.” Tala shifts uncomfortably again. “That’s why I didn’t want to say anything.”

Holly’s struggling with what to say, how to sound calm when her insides are quaking, when through the window behind Tala she catches sight of a car bumping over the road. It pauses at the top of the hill, then starts the descent that leads to Grace House. Holly frowns, distracted. She isn’t expecting anyone, but perhaps one of the nurses has ordered something from the village.

The car glides to a stop in the circular driveway. There are no logos on the outside of the vehicle. Tourists, maybe. Lost and looking for the village or the beach. But there’s something familiar about the person in the passenger seat, despite the glare that makes it hard to see. And then Holly’s heart lurches before she even knows why, before her brain has had time to process the way he opens the door, swings his legs gracefully to the ground.

It’s Jack.

Shit.

For a moment she’s frozen, her stomach doing flips. But she doesn’t have the luxury of more than a few seconds of indecision. She races outside and stands in front of him.

“Jack?” she manages. He’s looking at the house, studying it, as if he’s trying to recall if he’s seen it before. For a minute she thinks he’s going to ignore her. But then he looks her right in the eyes.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

She can’t breathe. To buy time, she turns to the driver of the car, who is standing with the door open, leaning across it. It’s a woman, tall and thin, with a shock of flaming-red hair. At first Holly doesn’t recognize her, but then the woman smiles, and Holly flinches.

“Mallory?” she says in disbelief. All her ghosts are coming back to haunt her, it seems.

But there’s no mistake. It’s the girl who babysat the day of Eden’s fall. This woman has the same distinctive red hair, the same quick way of moving.

“Dr. Darling? I wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Of course. How very nice to see you again,” Holly says. She brushes past Jack and extends her hand, and all the while her mind is frantically racing. Mallory was gone by the time Jack woke up all those years ago, so she hadn’t witnessed those miraculous steps. But if she’d told Jack why she was there that day, how she knows him . . .

“I’m so sorry,” Mallory says. “I had no idea he didn’t know about Grace House. When he came into the shop, he seemed so familiar, and then, when we started talking, I figured out who he was, and . . .” She shrugs apologetically.

“No, it’s fine,” Holly lies. “I’d planned on telling him this trip, it’s just . . . it’s a hard conversation. So many memories here. Not all of them good.” She stares hard at Mallory, gives the subtlest shake of her head, wills her not to speak Eden’s name. To her relief, the other woman nods.

“You’ve raised a lovely son,” she says. “I simply told him how much the village enjoyed having you here, all those years ago.”

“Thank you,” Holly says. She forces herself to put warmth in her tone, even if her gaze is cool. There’s a beat, where under normal circumstances she’d offer Mallory tea. Invite her in.

She doesn’t.

“Well, I really should be getting back,” Mallory says awkwardly. “It’s just me, so when I ran Jack down, I had to close the shop. I’d love to have you stop by sometime, when you have a moment,” she says. She fishes out a card case from her pocket, extracts one, and hands it to Holly.

“It’s the little bakery on the corner,” she says. “Right next to the pub. We provide the breakfast hampers for the inn where you’re staying.”

“How charming,” Holly says. She doesn’t ask about the bakery or inquire after Mallory’s uncle. So after a short pause, Mallory makes her goodbyes and drives away, leaving Holly to deal with Jack.

“So,” Holly says. So much for leaving him tucked up safely at the hotel. Round one to Jack. She can hear those wind chimes again, like musical laughter, and underneath them the rustle of the long grass in the meadow near the graveyard, as clear and distinct as a voice. She waits for him to say something, so she can gauge where to start, but he doesn’t speak, so she presses on.

“This is Grace House. We bought it as a summer home before you were born, and we came for weekends and whatever other time we could. Until the crash.”

She pauses, but there’s still no response, so she continues. “And then after, while you were recuperating, we moved here. Remember, the other day I told you we lived in Cornwall? I thought it would be a better place than the city for you. But it was a mistake. So we moved back to London, and then my little chemistry project took off and we went to America, for a fresh start.

“I’m sorry I never told you,” Holly says. Her words cover so many omissions, and even as she phrases her response to shield him from the past, she aches for all he doesn’t remember. The house. The glorious summers here. His sister. Forgetting is best for him, she knows it, and yet her apology is true. “I thought it would stir up memories of the car crash, and before. I didn’t want to make you sad.”

He looks at her, considering. “If we own this house, why aren’t we staying here, instead of at the hotel? And if you didn’t want to live here, why didn’t you sell it?” he asks finally. There’s no anger in his voice, only curiosity, and relief courses through her so hard her knees wobble. It’s proof he doesn’t remember, doesn’t know. Because if he did, he’d be furious.