Her quiet is broken by the thud of feet in the hallway outside. Even the apartment’s sound-dampening acoustics are no match for the energy of a teenage boy. She hears his key in the lock moments before the front door opens and tries to compose herself.
“Jack?” she calls from the kitchen, in the cheeriest voice she can muster. “I’m in here.”
He slouches in, all long limbs and effortless grace. Seeing him, Holly has to fight the instinct to wrap him in her arms. It would annoy him or, worse, freak him out. Instead she conjures up a bright smile, pushing her panic down as hard as she can.
“Hi, honey. Did you . . .” She catches sight of a long, ugly scrape along his chin. Instantly her smile disappears. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s a scratch,” he says. “I took an elbow to the face going after the ball.”
“Let me see.” She crosses over to him, grabs his chin in her hand, angles it toward the light. “How much did you bleed? Did it get on anyone else?”
“No!” he says, twisting out of her grip. “Jeez, you germ-freak. I know the rules by heart. Some kid whacked me. I covered the cut with my sleeve until I stopped bleeding—not even a drop hit the floor. End of story. Relax.”
“Fine,” she says, feeling anything but. “Make sure you wash it really well, and put some antibacterial cream on it.”
She’d keep him from all sports if she could, rues the day she allowed him to talk her into letting him go out for lacrosse. He’d caught her at a weak moment, a day when he’d been playing at the park and she’d marveled at how quick he was, how far he’d come from the days he could barely drag himself from bed to wheelchair. Jack thinks she freaks out when he gets hurt because she’s worried about him, and she is. But that’s not all she worries about.
He has no idea how precious each drop of his blood is. Or of the high cost that has been paid for it.
He sniffs the air, pulls open the oven. Takes the serving fork off the stove and tries to stab a potato.
“Jack!”
“What? I’m hungry.”
“They’re not done yet. You’ll . . .”
“Get salmonella,” he choruses in unison with her, his voice a perfect mimicry. He successfully captures a potato, slides it into his mouth, and grins at her. The same grin that gets him out of late assignments at school, overdue library books, and trouble Holly doesn’t want to know about. She can’t help but smile back.
“Aside from the elbow to the face, was it a good session?”
“Yeah. We wound up scrimmaging a team from New Jersey that’s renting practice space for the weekend. We totally decimated them.” He ransacks the cabinets, searching for more to eat.
“Chicken,” she reminds him. “It’s almost dinnertime. Go shower.”
“?’Kay.” He grabs a fistful of pretzels before she can stop him and heads toward his room.
As soon as she hears water running, she carries her tote bag into her own bedroom and locks the door. Reaches into her closet and pulls out the box that contains her needles and vials. She selects a syringe, then uses it to draw the blood from the tube. When the syringe is full, she caps the needle, puts the syringe into the cooler bag, and puts everything else away.
She brings the syringe with her to the kitchen.
Jack’s still in the bathroom, so after she pulls dinner together and pours herself a glass of wine, she checks her phone. Plenty of emails and texts, but nothing from Cornwall. She’s about to ring the cottage again when Jack walks in. Swiftly she puts her phone down.
“How was school? Anything good happen?”
“It was okay.” He’s pulling the platter of chicken toward himself, more intent on filling his plate than on conversation.
“The meeting went well today—it’s a done deal,” she says. “This time next year Darling Skin Care will be in every premiere makeup counter and store in the nation.”
“Great,” Jack says around a mouthful of food. He gives her a thumbs-up.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you,” she says. She gets up and goes to the bench in the hall, where she’s left a package. She brings it back and hands it to Jack. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
She smiles as he tears open the box. It’s the latest model of his favorite brand of sneakers. She’d sent her assistant out this afternoon to scour the city for them, a gift to soften her leaving.
But when he opens the box, his expression falls.
“What’s the matter? Are they the wrong style?”
“No,” he says, pulling a shoe out and holding it up. “Thanks.”
“But?”
“It’s just . . . none of the guys wear this brand anymore. They’re kind of last year. But they’re great,” he says quickly. “Thanks for getting them.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, deflated. She takes a sip of wine and a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you—I need to go away for a few days. To England.” She keeps her tone light. “Nothing major. A little trouble with one of our suppliers. Sorry to spring it on you last-minute, but it came to a head today.”
“When are you leaving?”
“First thing tomorrow morning. I’ll drop you at school on my way to the airport.”
He doesn’t answer, keeps shoveling in his food. She takes another sip, watches Jack eat. When he looks up at her, his blue eyes are so like Eden’s that she stops mid-swallow.
“I may have to go to Cornwall,” she says abruptly. “Do you remember Cornwall? We lived there, for a little while.”
That catches his attention.
“We did? When?”
“Oh, it was our summer place, before.” She doesn’t need to say before what. Jack’s grown up with the shorthand, his life neatly divided into before and after the car crash. “And then for a little time while you were recovering.”
Already Holly’s regretting her slip into sentimentality. She makes it a point not to talk about the past. Her personal mantra has become something along the lines of “Face firmly forward.” Any evidence of their previous life has been exorcised with surgical precision, neatly boxed, taped shut, and left stacked in the cavernous reaches of the Darling House attic, along with the previous generations’ secrets. “There’s no reason for you to remember.”
“What was it like?”
It’s her turn to shrug. “Typical England. Rainy, cold, damp. Windy too, because it’s on the ocean. But beautiful,” she can’t help adding.
He shakes his head. “I remember London, a little bit. At least I think I do—it’s all kind of blurred together with the trips we’ve taken to see Grandma. Was it just the two of us in Cornwall?”
She freezes. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I dunno. I thought maybe Grandma would have been with us. I remember living in her house, a little bit. Mostly the nursery upstairs.”
“No,” she says firmly. “Cornwall was just us.”
“Huh.” He frowns for a second, as if he’s struggling to recall something. Cursing herself, Holly changes the subject.
“I’ve arranged for you to stay with Barry and his family while I’m gone. I’ll have a car pick you up tomorrow after practice and bring you to his building.”
“Why can’t I stay here? Manuela will be here,” he says. “Please?”
“No, she won’t,” she says, glad that she’s already texted the housekeeper. “I’ve given her the week off. Besides, Barry and Minerva are so excited to have you. They love you, and you’ve spent hardly any time at all with them lately. Every time they ask, you’re always busy.”
He stabs at his chicken. “I’m not a little kid, okay? I don’t need a babysitter. When Brett Pike’s parents went away last month, they left him home for a whole week with the housekeeper and a driver. It was awesome.”
“I can imagine.” She drains her glass. “Do you want dessert? I think there’s some ice cream. Black raspberry chip—your favorite.”
“No,” he says moodily. “I’m going to my room. Homework.” He stands up.
“Before you disappear, there’s one thing.” She stands and clears their plates to the sink, so that her back is to him. “I need to give you an injection.”
“I had one a few weeks ago!” he says. But it’s a half-hearted protest, uttered only because he’s already angry.