“He’s not the fastest, but he recovers the ball more than almost anybody,” Nan says proudly.
“He certainly got the height gene in your family,” Holly observes. Nan’s lucky if she comes up to Ed’s shoulders.
Nan laughs. “Different fathers. Ed takes after his dad, height-wise. Got his good looks too. And his charm.” She doesn’t sound as pleased with that last bit. “Even before our mum died, I practically raised him. She was always working and Ed’s dad . . . he’s a bit of a tosser. Comes around when it suits him. He’s got a short attention span, that one, and he’s not the greatest influence in the world, you know? When he’s here, he puts a spell on Ed. But Mum always did have crap taste in men.” She picks at a corner of the blanket. “I used to worry Ed would take after him, but Mum used to say Ed was born sweet, he grew sweet, and he’d die sweet, and nothing would change that. I think that’s true.” She looks out on the field toward her brother. “So far, anyways.”
“Well, it’s clear you’ve taken excellent care of him.” The boy radiates good health. Even from here, Holly can see how his skin glows.
“Thanks.” Nan shrugs. “Somebody had to make sure Ed got fed and got his homework done. Turned out to be me.”
“Impressive,” Holly says, and it is. Nan’s raised a healthy teenager who acknowledges her in public. That puts her ahead of most parents—including Holly. The image of Eden returns, only this time her face is closed off, and she’s stalking ten paces ahead as they walk. Holly closes her eyes.
* * *
When the scrimmage is over, there’s fist-bumping and a little friendly shoving between the two sides. Jack and Ed bang shoulders, grinning. They sling their sticks over their shoulders, grab their helmets, and head toward Nan. But when Jack sees Holly, his smile disappears.
“Jack,” she says, but he walks past her without a word. Ed, brown eyes wide, gives an apologetic shrug to Nan.
“Hey, Dr. Darling,” he says, then grabs an orange and hurries after Jack.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Nan says. She bends to pick up the blanket. “Maybe give him some space.”
Holly bites back a reply. She should be grateful, but she isn’t. Still, she swallows her pride, smiles, and thanks her.
“I’ll try and get him home by dinnertime,” Nan tells her.
“Perfect,” Holly says, as if they are talking about a recalcitrant toddler who won’t go down for a nap. She walks with Nan to the car. Jack is sitting in the back seat, staring straight ahead. He won’t look at her. She wants to check his breathing, make sure he’s recovering from the game, but she doesn’t. She gets into her own car and drives away.
She winds up cruising some of the seedier side streets of London, driving for hours on the pretext of looking for Peter. She doesn’t want to go home, where she’ll only pace and wait for Jack to return. She’s too antsy to focus on work right now, on mailing campaigns and brochures. She misses her lab, the peace she finds looking through a microscope, the way she can lose herself in the tiny worlds pinned to a specimen slide.
Right now, she’s chasing fireflies through the dark, telling herself she has a chance at snaring the sun.
If Christopher Cooke can’t find Peter, what chance does Holly honestly have? She tries to picture what he’d look like now. How quickly did he age? In her memory, Peter is older than when her grandmother Wendy first described seeing him over a century ago, but not by much. Does time work differently for him somehow? Holly thinks back to what he’d said about Neverland when he’d spoken of how it could heal her. It’s in the air, maybe. Or the water. Maybe his visits there—wherever or whatever there is—are how he’s managed to stay young. And perhaps that’s why Eden ages so rapidly, because she’s never been.
But she’s guessing again. Peter could be any age at all. He could be hiding in plain sight, but Holly doesn’t see anyone who looks remotely like him.
Still, if he’s in London, he’d need a way to support himself. With his sharp, clever mind and charisma, he could work in almost any field. She lets her imagination run wild. A businessman. A lawyer. A salesman or CEO.
Yet instinctively she knows Peter wouldn’t have been drawn to any profession quite so clean. There’s an edge to him, a seam of dirtiness. She thinks of a boy pulling wings off a fly and shivers. No. If Peter is still in London, he’s not helping anyone.
Finally she turns the car toward home, the knots in her shoulders no looser. On a whim she picks up an Indian takeaway, buys extra naan because she knows Jack likes it. There’s no car parked in front of the house when she arrives, but when she opens the front door, she hears her mother talking and Jack’s low voice in answer. She sags with relief against the wall, then straightens her spine and walks into the kitchen.