Shades of Neverland (10 page)

Her friend was not so accepting. “More like someone found him. For Heaven’s sake, she’s married! It’s nothing more than a tawdry affair.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Wendy folded up the papers.

“Of course it does! You could still go after him. The Lusitania leaves tomorrow for—”

“No, Maimie!” Now it was Wendy’s turn to be firm. “It doesn’t matter because I have decided to face the facts and move on. Peter is not coming back. He has made a new life for himself and I have to do the same.”

Later that day James called upon her, flowers in hand, for his weekly visit. For the first time since Peter’s departure, Wendy did not refuse him.

 
That night, as Wendy slept, a boy dressed in leaves flew into her room. She awoke to find him seated at the foot of her bed. Although he was unknown to her, he was at the same time familiar.

“Boy, what do you want?” she asked.

“For you.” He held out his hand and she took his offering. It was an acorn button.

She took his gift and placed it on a small silver chain, which she fashioned around her neck. “Thank you.”

The boy grasped her hand and began to draw her toward the open window.

“Come away, Wendy.”

How she longed to go with him. Somehow, she knew he could take her to a place where all her adult heartbreak would melt away and vanish like spun sugar. The boy released his grip and glided out the window. Floating in the air, he turned in a graceful loop and looked at her expectantly, a dimpled smile lighting his face.

“Come away, Wendy.”

Perched on the windowsill, arms stretched outward, she murmured, “I can’t. I can’t fly.”

“I’ll teach you,” the boy said hovering in front of her.

His outstretched hand was just beyond her reach, so Wendy strained forward to grasp it. Struggling to maintain her balance, she wildly flailed her arms. The boy disappeared before her eyes and Wendy began to fall toward the darkened garden far below. With all her strength she hurled herself backwards. For a moment she was suspended mid-air as her feet flew out from under her, then she landed on her bedroom floor with a jarring thud.

Disoriented, Wendy sat in stunned silence trying to figure out if she was awake or dreaming. She settled the matter by giving herself a strong pinch on her forearm, which hurt rather a lot but left no doubt that she was awake.

She stood uncertainly and went to the open window. The cloudless night, illuminated by a harvest moon, revealed many twinkling stars but no flying boy. She did not know whether she was relieved or disappointed that he was just another figment of her dreams. And yet…

She turned and walked slowly to her dressing table. Opening its drawer she pulled out her neglected keepsake box. Inside were her thimbles, including the mysterious porcelain half. Gently pushing them aside she pulled out a tarnished silver chain. Attached to the end was a faded acorn button.

Although she had had the necklace since she was a child, she could not recall where it had come from. She pulled the acorn out of the box and examined it in the moonlight. It had a jagged hole in the center as if something had pierced it violently. Running her finger across it, she wondered what had made the hole and why it didn’t go all the way through.

Clasping the chain around her neck, the acorn fell against her breast. She placed her hand over it. Surely, it was a good luck charm—a talisman that would protect her from harm and keep her safe.
Maybe
, she thought,
it already has…

CHAPTER 11

The Wild West

Odd things happen to all of us on our way though life without our noticing for a time that they have happened. Now such an experience had come that morning to Wendy as she contemplated her next visit from the young banker.

In truth, she was surprised by how much she actually enjoyed James’s company. He was an attentive listener. A bit too reserved for her tastes, but nonetheless, his insights were remarkably thoughtful and mature. Although he lacked passion, he did love her in his quiet, faithful way. Above all Wendy felt so sure of him; he would never hurt her, nor abandon her. He would always put her above all else and with him her life would be safe.

So dread had evolved into anticipation and she received him—warmly.

But every so often when they were at tea or strolling in the park, James would get that familiar look in his eyes. The look that said,
I am ready to ask you
the
question, the most important thing a man can ask a woman. I am ready to be husband, father, and provider.

Then in answer to James’s eyes, Wendy would get a look of her own. Hers said,
Don’t dare ask it! I am not yet ready.

In those moments of unspoken communication, James and Wendy reached an understanding. Eventually she would marry him, so for now he would be patient and hold his tongue. Like the spring, their friendship progressed, with minor setbacks, but all in all developing slowly and steadily from a fragile shoot, cultivated in trust and dependability, growing until the day it would become a garden in full bloom.

It had been four months since she started seeing James and two since she had let him take her on outings. Saturday, they would join Lord and Lady
Withington
for the premier of George Bernard Shaw’s
Misalliance
at the Duke of York’s Theatre. This was the company’s first production since their triumphant return from America minus Peter. All of London society, despite mourning the loss of its favorite young actor, was coming out to welcome them back. It was a first for Wendy too. Her first venture back to the theatre…back to Peter’s world.

Despite the immense joy the theatre always afforded her, Wendy knew almost immediately that coming had been a mistake. However certain she was that Peter remained in America, she could not help but anxiously look for him in every direction she turned. Every person shadowed in the stage wings could have been him. Each scene change left her fretfully holding her breath in anticipation, waiting for his entrance. Might her intelligence be wrong? Perhaps Peter had changed his mind, returned to take his rightful place on the London stage and restore meaning to her precarious world. Hope was futile, yet it was not in Wendy’s nature to do less.

Wishing aside, the play itself was painful—seeming to expose the fragile truce between her disappointed hopes and safer, more realistic, expectations. The subject, marriage for the wrong reasons, was too raw to heed, lest she begin to scrutinize the folly of her life and return to her bed indefinitely.

Uncomfortably seated in the Viscount’s box rather than her accustomed seat in the dress circle, Wendy tried to think about other things until the final curtain descended. When the actors, Peter’s friends and colleagues, took their final bows, their eyes seemed to hold silent accusations, as if they knew she was betraying him, and her heart, with James’s company.

Please forgive me
, she mutely begged.

A ripple in the curtain stage right caught her attention. Offstage, a young man was doing his best to spy on the audience without being seen. Wendy’s heart slammed into her chest and her breath hitched in her throat. For an instant, she believed it to be Peter. Then her vision grew acclimated to the shadows and she realized the gentleman’s coloring was too dark, his form too stocky, to be her heart’s hope.

Before she could turn away in disappointment, the young man turned his penetrating chocolate eyes on her. Wendy froze under his scrutiny as he surveyed the boxes’ occupants with a disapproving frown. To her dismay, James chose that exact moment to perform his duties as her escort, helping her from her seat and placing her wrap about her shoulders.

Taking James’s arm, Wendy chanced a quick glace back toward the stage. The gentleman was still staring. His severe eyes fixed themselves on her, causing his countenance to darken even more. The hair on the back of her neck prickled unpleasantly, like when she had been caught in a lie as a child. Shivering, she ripped her eyes away and exited the theatre with her party.

In the lobby, she surreptitiously searched for the dark gentleman, both fearing and longing for an encounter. Somehow, albeit irrational, she felt certain that he was connected to Peter. After a moment, she saw him on the opposite side of the hall, making haste toward the exit and her heart sank as she realized he was nearly gone. But as luck would have it, fate intervened on her behalf.

A dowager and her two young companions stopped the gentleman in his tracks. Wendy watched him blanch, and then rearrange his features into a pleasant countenance. When not scowling in judgment, he was actually quite handsome to look at.

Wendy moved closer, so that she could respectably eavesdrop. However, the first word she overheard nearly caused her to give herself away. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a startled gasp. Whilst looking the other way, she inched closer, straining to hear what the older woman was asking about
Peter
.

“Aye,” answered the young man, “Peter is still in America.”

“And how does he care for it?” asked the more petulant of the two companions.

“A great deal, I believe. When he last wrote me from Chicago, he was headed west.”

“Prospecting for gold?” asked the other girl in a high squeaky voice Wendy instantly disliked.

“Nay. Truth be told, I think he’s trying to find himself.”

“Why do you not urge him to come home, where he is known and loved by all?” It was the dowager who spoke.

“Nay, not all, Ma’am.”

The gentleman’s reply was so cryptic that Wendy dared a glance in his direction, only to find him looking pointedly at her. His eyes seemed to hold some sort of accusation that she could not fathom.

“Well, please tell your brother that the London stage is simply not the same without him.” The dark-haired man nodded in reply as the grand lady and her charges moved on.

Peter’s brother?

Wendy realized that she was gaping at him open-mouthed like a carp and snapped her jaw shut. As soon as he was at liberty to do so, he returned his critical gaze to Wendy. She watched as the gentleman’s brow furrowed again into a scowl. To her horror, he began to move toward her in measured purposeful steps. Her cheeks warmed as her blood rushed to her face.

Like a mouse caught in the pull of a mighty cobra, Wendy was mesmerized. As much as she wanted to flee, she was helpless to look away. In a half dozen steps, he would reach her. She had no idea what he wanted of her, but there was so much she wanted to ask of Peter’s
brother
.

Then she heard James at her shoulder, his hand gently guiding her elbow. For the second time that night she managed to rip herself away from those magnetic eyes and the spell was again broken. “A moment, James,” was all she said. Feeling more herself, she turned back to confront Peter
Neverland’s
brother, but to her astonishment he was gone—vanished into thin air.

 
Not long ago. But how long ago?
It seemed to Wendy as if she had been flying for a long time. Surely she could not still be over the Atlantic. How long ago had she decided to fly to America to track Peter down? Sometimes it was dark and sometimes light. At times she was very warm, but now, terribly cold… and sleepy. That was the danger—if she fell asleep, she would fall. She couldn’t fly and sleep.

Again it seemed to her that she ought to have reached America by now. Then Wendy had the loveliest of thoughts. Maybe Peter would fly out and meet her. Distracted, she started to nod off. As her chin touched her chest and the sensation of plummeting ripped through her, she jerked herself awake again. But she was so sleepy and still no land was to be seen. Looking with horror at the cruel sea far below, Wendy asked herself futilely, “How long?”

Wendy awoke exhausted; her arms aching. She supposed she had been thrashing about in her sleep again. No, not thrashing, but flying…

She had been flying across the Atlantic to find Peter. The imagery was crystal clear as if it had been an actual memory rather than a dream. Most of all, she remembered the torrid ocean waiting to swallow her up. If only Peter had come to rescue her. He had been out there also, flying just out of sight—she was certain of it. So why had he not come to her, when she had needed him so?

Could it be that he was just as lost as she?

Peter folded the well-worn letter and placed it hastily into his coat. Opening it had been habit, for he knew the contents by heart. The letter, written in his recently deceased father’s hand, had caught up with him during his engagement in Chicago.

It read:

My Dear Son,

If you are reading this then I have crossed over to be with my beloved wife.

I probably would have left this world long ago if it had not been for you and your brother. Know that you boys have given my life joy and meaning. Please do not mourn for me; I am ready to go.

I sometimes got the feeling you thought I was disappointed in you for not following in my footsteps. The truth is I could not have been prouder. I always understood that your path was to be different. From the moment I saw you, you reminded me of someone I knew when I was a boy. Someone, who found me when I was lost. Someone, I loved very much.

You and your brother have excelled as men. I hope you will be as happy and successful in your lives as I have been in mine. I wish you love, family, and the gift of risk. Bravely follow your heart!

To your brother I leave our business. To you, Peter, I leave our home.

Your Ever Loving Father.

Death was not an end. Peter felt it with every fiber in his being. They would meet again, and when they did, Peter would have the chance to vocalize all that was in his heart.

As to the living, Peter had written to Griffin insisting their home should belong to the elder brother as well. He had also taken the opportunity to convey the pride of kinship he felt toward his selfless brother.

In Griffin’s penned reply, he simply said it would be his great honor to care for the house until the time Peter returned to claim it. And that he hoped, Peter might return soon.

But rather than drawing closer to home, the young actor kept moving further away.

Checking his pocket watch, Peter hurried down Sunset Boulevard toward the set where they were to begin shooting on the ‘morrow. The prospect of moving pictures was thrilling—so many new things to learn, to occupy his overactive mind—yet it had been hard to leave behind the company of players that had become his family. Harder still to know that they had resumed their rightful place on London’s stage—front and center in Wendy’s world.

Others had been difficult to leave as well; Edith
Matthison
, who had turned out to be a discreet and sympathetic ear, staying up the whole night in a purely sisterly way to talk when he had needed it the most; Charles and Dion who had treated him as equal despite their decades of theatrical experience; even David Belasco, the enigmatic Bishop of Broadway. The Bishop had come to see him one final time during their Chicago engagement, renewing his offer of patronage if Peter returned with him to New York.

When Peter graciously declined, the Bishop had asked, “Will you be going back to England then, son?”

“No, after I fulfill my Chicago contract, I am headed west. D.W. Griffith has offered me a role in his moving pictures venture.”