Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(40)

“Sorry. That was a joke,” he says. “I never accept a client without knowing as much as I can about them. How long have you been in the business?”

“About ten years,” she says. “I was a scientist before that. I started in London, then moved to New York for the market.” What she doesn’t say is that New York’s other attraction was that Jack would be far, far away from Peter.

“Darling Skin Care didn’t start to go big until a few years ago,” she continues. “And now we’re poised to go even bigger with a new cosmetics partnership. If it goes well, we’re going to be a worldwide brand.”

“I’d imagine you’d be that already, just based on your name,” he says. “I mean, there’s the book, the movies, the merchandise, and, yes, that unfortunate song. There can’t be that many people left who haven’t heard of you.”

Holly takes a sip of her tea, lets it cool on her tongue before swallowing. “My name got me in the door,” she says evenly. “But it’s my effort—not the Darling name—that’s put us on the map. And it’s my product that will keep us there.”

“Right then,” he says, and the amusement in his voice makes her want to throttle him. Until she realizes he’s provoking her just to see what she’ll divulge.

After a pause, he seems to come to some sort of internal decision. “I’m happy to work with you to find your daughter and her father. Going forward, I’ll need to get a picture of both of them, and hear as much as you can tell me about your ex. That may mean talking to others around you, including your son.”

Holly shakes her head. “That’s not possible. I told you, I want to spare him this.” She also doesn’t mention that photos of Peter don’t exist.

“You told me you wanted to spare him the police,” he corrects.

“Same thing.”

“Not quite,” he says, and there’s something in those dark eyes that makes her shiver. She has a fleeting thought that hiring Christopher Cooke, no matter how highly he comes recommended, is a bad idea. But she needs him. She’s had no luck finding Eden on her own.

“There’s also the matter of my fee,” he says. He names a retainer that is ridiculously high, even by Holly’s standards.

“For that price, I expect results,” she says coolly.

“For that price, you’ll receive them. I hope they’ll be what you want.”

She looks sharply at him, but he’s smiling, a wide-open, friendly smile. She lets the remark go and scribbles her mobile number on her napkin. She pushes it across the table to him.

“That’s my private line. Text me your bank address, and I’ll send you your first installment. I trust that’s acceptable?”

He smiles again. “For now.”

And once again, there’s more meaning than she cares to parse behind those words. She prays she’s not making a mistake. Either way, it’s time to go. She stands, pushing in her chair. He starts to rise as well, but she gestures at him not to get up. “Please, don’t bother,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see the waitress hurrying across the room, bearing a tray of food. “Enjoy your meal,” Holly says, turning to go. At the last second, she remembers her umbrella. She steps back to retrieve it from its spot along the wall, then realizes the waitress will trap her in the corner if she isn’t quick. She reaches for it, but in her haste knocks it toward the floor. Cooke sweeps out an arm to pin it against the wall.

Only then does she see that where his hand should be, there’s a shining metal hook.

Her eyes widen. Her face, usually a cool mask, wears a look of shock. Perhaps horror. But she can’t help it.

“Jesus bloody Christ,” she mutters. But not for the reason he must think.

He holds it up, the umbrella neatly snagged in its curve. “Sorry. I didn’t mention it, did I?” he says. There’s a glee that borders on malice in his voice, although his expression is neutral. Unlike hers. “Roadside bomb. The fellow trying to defuse it ran out of time. Quite literally. Will it be a problem?”

“No,” she says stiffly. She snatches the umbrella from him and works to force her expression back to something resembling calm. “Not for me.”

“Good. For me, either. Luckily I’ve always been a lefty.” He’s flat-out grinning at her again. She tucks her purse more tightly against her side and slips past the waitress.

“I’ll be in touch!” Christopher Cooke calls after her. Holly can hear the waitress chortling long after she flees out the door.





Chapter Fifteen



Holly’s read the book a hundred times or more. First as a wide-eyed child, entranced by her mother’s whispers that all of it was real. Her grandmother Wendy had flown to Neverland on an adventure that the world would not—did not—believe. Less often as a teenager, when she’d grown sick of Jane’s obsession, when she’d decided the family stories were nothing more than wishful thinking, a fantastical escape. She’d almost forgotten it in college and graduate school. And then she’d fallen in love with Robert, the twins were born, and life itself seemed magical. For those few years, she’d seen the book as other people did. A harmless fairy tale. A breath of lightness.