Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(76)

“Nan took the boys out for dinner,” Jane says. “They left about an hour ago.”

Holly stumbles down the stairs, unlocks and opens the front door. Christopher Cooke is sitting on the top step, dressed in his bike kit, leaning against the railing.

“Evening,” he says. He looks her up and down. “Or is that ‘Good morning’ for you?”

“Go away,” she says blearily. Her message delivered, she starts to shut the door. But before she can, he sticks his hand in it. She stops, then realizes he’s actually put his prosthetic out. She draws back, ready to slam the door shut.

“I wouldn’t,” he says. “It won’t hurt me, but it will leave a nasty dent in the wood.”

“Move.”

“It looks like you’ve had a rough evening already,” he continues, as if she hasn’t spoken. He glances at his watch. “And it’s only seven.”

“You need to leave.”

A Mercedes barrels out of the driveway. They both turn to watch it go. Jane has apparently decided to go out the back way. She comes within mere centimeters of knocking down Christopher’s bike, and the thought of that, as well as the way Christopher swears when he thinks that’s what’s going to happen, is the only thing in this miserable evening that has the power to make Holly smile. At the last second, Jane swerves and the bike remains standing.

Christopher shakes his head, returns his attention to Holly.

“I have some news,” he says. “And you’re not going to like it.”

“I don’t care.”

He studies her. She has no idea what he sees, but he looks so long, so deeply at her that it is as if he’s looking inside her. No, not exactly inside, but through, as if there’s something on the other side of her he’s seeking, as if she’s transparent.

“What?” she asks, more to stop him from staring than anything else.

“I need to talk with you.”

“You’re not coming in,” she informs him. “You’ve done enough damage.”

“All right.” He thinks for a moment. “Then come out with me.”

She gestures at the doorway, the steps on which she’s now standing.

“No, I mean really come out. With me. I promise it won’t take much time.”

Holly has the sense that if she refuses, he’s not going to go away anytime soon. She could try to wait him out. Or she could call the police, but that threat—at least from what Jane said—doesn’t seem to bother him. The path of least resistance is to do what he wants.

“Fine,” she says. She steps all the way outside, closes the door behind her. “Satisfied?”

“Not yet.” He walks down the steps to his bike, takes something off the back. Brings it up to her. It’s a helmet. “Put this on.”

“What? You’re crazy.” There’s no way she’s getting on the back of that bike. Not with him.

“Come on. You know you want to.” He smiles at her. It’s an entirely charming smile, the first real one she’s seen from him. She bets that smile gets him a lot. “And you know I’m not going away unless you do.”

“God, has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?”

His smile gets wider. “I’m Irish. It has been mentioned.”

She sighs and accepts the helmet. If she’s lucky, they’ll wreck and she’ll be put out of her misery.

She puts the helmet on but struggles with the snap under her chin. Christopher comes closer, so close they’re almost touching. Then he reaches over and deftly fastens it with one hand.

Holly doesn’t like being this near to him. It makes her aware of things other than how miserable she is, and she doesn’t want to be aware of anything else. But Christopher doesn’t seem to care. He shrugs off his jacket, slides it over her shoulders. The jacket is heavy and smells of leather, of gasoline. It hangs on her, but its weight and warmth are comforting.

She doesn’t want to be comforted.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks abruptly.

“Consider it a kidnapping. Go with it.” He swings a leg over the bike, puts on his own helmet, pats the seat behind him. “Don’t think. Just do it.”

So she does. It’s a relief, for once, to be told what to do, to shut her brain off and let someone else take the lead. She sits as straight as she can on the bike. But the evening is growing cool, and she’s so tired. At last she succumbs and rests her head against his back. He’s a very good driver. She watches the street through half-closed eyes as he weaves in and out of traffic. She wonders, briefly, what he did in the war, what it was like for him coming back. And then she realizes with a start that, for a moment, she’s forgotten to feel afraid or despondent. Oddly enough, she feels safe.

They wind up near the Thames. He stops the bike so they have a view of the river. They don’t talk, simply watch the boats go past. It’s one of those quintessential English summer nights that seem to go on and on. The sun is starting its descent, but the sky is still bright, the air heavy and liquid. She’s taken her helmet off, but her head is still on his shoulder. She doesn’t move. She’s surprised to find that she doesn’t want to.

For years after Robert died, she couldn’t bear to look at couples in love. A woman leaning her head against a man’s shoulder, a husband leaning in for a kiss, was enough to make her incandescent with rage. Why them and not her? Eventually the rage turned to sadness. Now she finds she can watch couples without envy. Leaning against Christopher, she can almost imagine being a part of one again.