Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan
Liz Michalski
For mothers everywhere,
and for Bill, my second star to the right
Prologue
In a very tall tree sits a girl. The tree is perhaps fifty feet high, and the girl rests with her back nestled against its trunk. If a person passed beneath the tree and looked up, it is unlikely they would see her. The color of her dress blends perfectly with the leaves around her. Her face is pale, as if the sun has not touched it in days.
The girl swipes a hand across her nose. A bee is buzzing somewhere. She has been in this tree for a long time, much longer than anyone would believe possible. Her arms and legs are stiff, and there are bruises on them; she can tell by the way they hurt. A tear slips from her right eye and she catches at a fragment of memory. Once, she sat in a tree with someone whose eyes were the exact shade of the sky. She wore a blue dress, one that brought out the color in her own eyes. A blue silk ribbon tied back her hair. When the boy told her she could fly, she laughed.
“Of course you can, silly,” he had said. “How do you think we got up here in the first place?”
She remembers the crack of the branch when she stood, the way the cool air spun up through her dress, rushed across her skin. It had felt so good. She wants to feel that way again, not like the broken thing she is now. She remembers the boy’s instructions. He’d recited them from the storybook, the one she’d been reading to him. The one their mother didn’t like.
“Don’t look down,” he’d said. “And don’t doubt. The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.”
A second voice had echoed him, tiny and excited, like the tinkling of golden bells.
Now she hears those bells again. She stands up on the branch, edges away from the trunk while keeping one hand on it. Bounces gently on her toes, like a diver at the edge of the board. Now that it’s come to the moment, she’s afraid. But if she stays much longer, she’ll never get down from the tree. She won’t be able to. She may even become a part of it.
In a stone house in the English countryside far below, there is another girl, mirror image to the first. This one also wears green, but it is the green of a hospital gown. In her room, machines beep and chime, make quiet hissing sounds. A nurse sits in the kitchen, drinking tea and listening to classical music. A gardener mows the lawn, and the buzzing noise incorporates itself into the girl’s muzzy, drug-soaked dreaming. She is waiting for something deep inside of her, whether she is aware of it or not.
In the tree far above, the girl perches on her branch, takes a deep breath, lets the wind wash over her. She closes her eyes and jumps.
The girl in the house opens her eyes.
Chapter One
The Darlings age well. Everyone says so, and they say it especially about Holly Darling. They whisper it when they pass her in the halls at work; they murmur it when they see her at galas and fundraisers. Everyone wants to know her secret. Everyone wants to be photographed with her. But Holly’s almost never in the glossies if she can help it, and she turns down most of the invitations she receives. Those people didn’t know her before; they’d never understand who she really is now.
So when people ask, Holly simply tells them it’s in her genes. And it’s true. Her grandmother Wendy looked fabulous until the day she died, and Holly’s mother, Jane, could pass for someone decades younger. On her trips to London, Holly is always surprised to see how little her mother has changed. A few more lines around her eyes, maybe, another streak of silver in her hair, but overall, the same cool, beautiful Jane.
Of course, Holly’s also in the business of looking good. Thousands of women all over the world rely on Darling skin cream. At her shiny headquarters on Fifth Avenue, marketing routinely suggests that she model for the line. What better face for the brand than her own wrinkle-free one? With her sleek blonde hair and Pilates-honed frame, Holly embodies what most of her customers want to be. Plus, there’s her famous name, an added allure. But Holly always refuses. She doesn’t want the extra publicity.
Or the scrutiny that comes with it. It’s bad enough that she’s done what she swore she’d never do when she was a child—use the Darling name to get ahead. She hadn’t made the choice lightly, but the cosmetics industry is cutthroat, and Holly’s not stupid enough to waste such a big advantage. But she draws the line at putting herself out there.
This morning, as she’s walking down the hallway to the conference room, a handful of people poke their heads out of cubicles and offices to wish her good luck. Holly nods and smiles, but her focus is on the meeting ahead.
When she reaches the conference room, she takes a deep breath to gather herself, then pushes open the door. A half dozen faces turn to look at her.
“Are we set to go?” she asks, crossing the room to her seat at the head of the table. There’s the faintest hesitation to her steps, as if she’s dragging one leg. It’s the remnant of a car accident she suffered in her twenties, back when she was young and foolish and believed love was enough to protect those she cared about. A naivete that cost her one child and almost another, not to mention a husband. When she’s cold, or tired, or stressed like today, the limp is more pronounced.
“Marketing dropped off the mock-ups,” Barry says, taking her abruptness in stride. Barry’s been with Holly since the beginning. Today he’s wearing his lucky blue suit, a pink silk handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. On anyone else, it might have been overkill. On Barry, polished to such an extreme that even his bald head shines, it looks good.
The team talks strategy for a few moments. They’ve done one or two of these deals before, where the Darling name is loaned out for a special product launch—though never one of this magnitude. Today they’ll combine their brand with the country’s leading cosmetics company to create a highlighter called Pixie Dust. The conference phone rings, and Barry answers it.
“Send them up,” he says. Then, to Holly, “They’re here.”
A low buzz fills the room as the four staffers turn to one another, aligning marketing materials that are already perfectly straightened, doing a last-minute check on water glasses and chairs. Only Barry seems relaxed. His eyes roam the stark white conference room, the sole hint of color coming from the bouquets of pink peonies dusted with golden glitter that are arranged in the center of the table. He grins widely, teeth gleaming.
“We’re ready for this,” he says. “We’ve got this, people.”
A few minutes later Holly, Barry, and the rest of the team stand as Holly’s assistant ushers in a woman and two men. The woman reaches out to shake Barry’s hand, then leans in to hug Holly, who proffers her own hand instead.
“Lauren,” Holly says smoothly, covering any awkwardness. “So nice to see you again.”
“It’s wonderful to see you too, Holly. You look amazing, as always. How’s Jack?”
“He’s great, thanks. Still living for lacrosse. His sophomore year is flying by.”
“He must be itching to get his driver’s license,” Lauren Lander says. “I’m telling you, hold him off as long as you can. Once they start driving, you lose all control. Teenagers behind the wheel are an accident waiting to happen.”
“I can imagine,” Holly says with a tight smile. She can tell when realization hits Lauren; she glances involuntarily at Holly’s leg, a horrified expression crossing her face.
“And your two?” Barry says, stepping in to do damage control before Lauren can make it worse. “I heard your son made the golf team at Eckerd. You must be so proud.”