Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(5)

“Yes. But the ground outside is damp, and there are no footprints.”

The room, Holly notices with a detached kind of interest, is growing black, crowding around the edges of her vision. It’s a panic attack, a bad one, the kind she hasn’t had in years. She focuses on a poster that’s hanging on the wall. It is of a woman on a beach using Darling Skin Care sunscreen, and Holly tries to imagine the waves, to see herself there, but instead the thudding in her head becomes a thundering roar, overpowering her ability to speak.

“Ma’am? Should I call the police?” A pause. Then uncertainty. “Ma’am? Dr. Darling?”

If only that were an option. “No.” Holly works to get air into her lungs. “I’ll come as soon as I can. Until then, keep looking.” She hangs up.

Minutes or maybe hours later, she hears the conference room door down the hall open. Voices laughing, receding footsteps. She’s bent over and staring at the carpet, trying to breathe. The office door opens. Barry’s hand is on her back, he’s yelling, sending someone for ice, for a wet cloth, a paper bag. The scurry of feet. And then he’s picking her up as if she is weightless. He’s moving like the linebacker he was in college, carrying her farther down the hall to her own office. He’s kicking the door open with his foot, depositing her on her white silk couch. The fabric is so soft it’s as if she is floating.

But of course, she’s never been the one who could do that.

A shock of cold on her neck brings her back to herself, makes her sit up and open her eyes. She reaches up and finds the ice pack Barry has applied. He thrusts a paper bag at her.

“Here. Breathe into that.”

She tries to push it away, but his hand won’t move.

“Breathe.”

She breathes into the bag, five deep long breaths, five slow exhales.

“Again.”

At last he pulls out the bottle of Irish whiskey Holly keeps in the bottom drawer of her desk for celebrations and pours them each a finger, neat.

“You look like shit,” he observes. He hands her a glass and sinks onto the couch beside her.

“I feel like it,” she admits. Her hands are shaking. She takes a sip of the whiskey, holds it in her mouth and lets it burn, then swallows.

“I’m sorry, Holly. I wish there was something I could do. You want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head, her long blonde hair curtaining her face. Not even a little bit.

“Will there be a service? Do you need help planning it?”

“I . . . ,” she starts. She doesn’t mean to lie. But there’s no way to tell him the truth, nothing that he’d believe. “I kept Eden in Cornwall because I thought she’d be safe there,” she says, deflecting the question. “Even after the company took off, and I moved to the States, I kept her at the cottage there because . . .” She trails off. Because she loved the sea and the sky and the cold air so much, and she would hate it in the city. Because Robert and Isaac are buried there, and I wanted her with family. Because I could protect her better there. “I was wrong.”

Barry looks at her. “Is that a no? On the service?”

For years, Barry has fixed every problem she’s encountered. That’s his job, and he’s very, very good at it. She wants to unload, tell him everything, throw herself on his mercy and beg for help. But at best, he’d think she is crazy. At worst, he’d accuse her of child abuse. So she simply nods. “No service.”

“I suppose that’s smart—I can already imagine the headlines. ‘Secret Darling Family Daughter Dies Under Mysterious Circumstances,’ or some such. The London press would love it.”

Holly winces. This is one of the reasons she fled to New York after the accident. For over a decade she’s imagined the same sordid stories—or worse. Unlike Barry, her imagined headlines are based on past experience with the tabloids: “Awfully Sad Adventure: Darling Daughter Loses Spouse, Child in Car Crash,” “Darling Daughter, Twin, Hover in Neverland Between Life and Death.” And that’s just her own life. It doesn’t include the paparazzi that have dogged her family for years. She downs the rest of her drink.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says, running a hand over his shiny scalp. “I didn’t mean to sound flippant. What do you need?”

What she needs is to get back to England, fast, and find Eden. Wherever she is. She thinks of that open window, of the black sky and the crashing waves beyond it, and shudders.

“Holly?” Barry’s looking at her again, but this time, his gaze is more searching. He has what she calls his lawyer look on. It’s as if she’s a contract, and he’s found the line that’s not supposed to be there.

“Yes. Sorry.” She gives a bitter little laugh. “You were right. The phone call—hearing the news—was tougher than I thought.” She closes her eyes and leans back against the couch, more to keep her thoughts from him than because she’s exhausted. “I need a flight home, as soon as I can get one. And I need a safe place for Jack. Can he stay with you?”

“Jack’s always welcome with us, you know that. Minerva and the kids will be thrilled. But what do you mean, a safe place?” That lawyer tone again.

“I need someone to watch over him,” she says. She can’t think about all the ways it can go wrong for Jack right now. “I’m not planning on telling him about Eden, but in case something comes out, I want him with someone I trust. I could leave him at the apartment with the housekeeper, but I’d rather leave him with you.”