Shades of Neverland (11 page)

The confusion and hurt had been clear in his would-be benefactor’s eyes. “My dear boy, it is folly to leave the stage. Moving pictures will never amount to anything. Mark my words.”

Of course the Bishop hadn’t understood his refusal—Peter scarcely understood it himself. How could he admit that he was compelled to keep moving, always trying to stay one step ahead of his wasted heart? He tried his best never to think of Wendy, but even then she would not let go of him. Valiantly he threw himself into his work but when he stopped for any length of time, it was just as if she were inside him, knocking.

It would have been a wise stroke of self-preservation to ask Griffin to cease his news of Wendy—there seemed to be very little for his brother to report of late—however, the sparseness of information was the very reason he could not sever the tie. Each tidbit was precious, soothing the nagging questions in Peter’s brain. Was she well? Was she happy? Was she cared for? Was she loved?

How he both desired and feared those answers!

Hastily he slipped his brother’s latest correspondence from his pocket. It had arrived only this morning and yet he had already read
 
it a half a dozen times. Scanning the line that inflicted the most acute agony, Peter shut his eyes and returned the odious letter to its sheath. So Wendy had returned to the theatre… and with her young banker.

For months Wendy had been absent from London society. His constant pestering had obliged Griffin to inquire after the lady directly through bribes to one of the Darling family servants. Peter had been relieved to learn she was at home and in good health. Information beyond that was a mystery. Dutifully, Griffin had confirmed Wendy’s status each week, her health and withdrawal not changing. It gnawed at Peter, not knowing what circumstances kept his vivacious angel from the theatre. More than once he had been tempted to return to England to try and discover the truth of it himself.

On those occasions, when tempted to give in, he had to remind himself that to Wendy Darling he mattered little, if at all. It would be folly to travel across the ocean for someone who did not care for him in the slightest. If only things had been different, nothing could have stopped him from hurrying to her side. But real life was not like a theatrical, only on the stage could a hero and heroine worlds apart come together as lovers and defy the odds for a happy ending.

“Peter!”

A demanding and distinctly feminine voice cut into his reverie. Quickly, Peter put Griffin’s letter away before it could attract notice. Then he carefully fixed his expression and slowly turned around to greet the bearer of the voice. She was one of the many acquaintances he had made since coming west to Hollywood, an actress of exceptional skill.

Lily Cahill was a tigress. The actress’s uncommon beauty coupled with her steely predatory nature, earned her the nickname on the lot of “Tiger Lily”, a fusion of both flower and beast. Her reputation was that of a man-eater and currently it was Peter she wanted to devour.

From their initial introduction on the set, Peter could not help but sense there was something the Tiger Lily wanted to be to him. Cold and amorous by turns, she was accustomed to getting whatever she set her sites on. Unfortunately for Peter, once she fixed her sites on him, his polite attempts at distance did little to hinder her purpose.

Already leading lady onscreen to Peter’s leading man, for reasons he could not begin to fathom she was equally determined to assume the role in real life. Since they were working together, and he could not hope to avoid her, Peter decided to make the best of the situation and befriend the wayward beauty.

Patiently he waited while Lily tottered after him. “Peter, darling,” she growled, catching up and securing herself to him by entangling her arm through his. “D.W. has invited us to dinner this Saturday. Lionel and Doris will be there, as will Harry, Elmer, Mary, and of course, Dorothy and Lillian.” She nearly purred with excitement. “You’ve never seen D.W.’s house on Prospect Avenue, have you?”

Peter shook his head, knowing that was all that was required to keep up his end of the conversation. She continued, her violet eyes blazing with triumph, “It’s a grand house. Someday we’ll have a house as fine—finer—the finest house on Prospect Avenue and it will be a great honor to dine with
us
.”

Peter crooked an eyebrow but Lily was too far into her schemes to notice. She’d been doing that more and more—using “us” and “we” as if their relationship was inevitable and mutual. If she persisted, he was going to have to think seriously about returning to the New York stage. Idly, he wondered if the Bishop would renew his offer of patronage.

Accustomed to tuning Lily out and pursuing his own train of thought, Peter registered her current topic with some delay, as if from a great distance…

She had been babbling on about an engagement party and her surprise at their being D.W.’s guests of honor. Suddenly, he wasn’t following. It was as if he was missing a critical piece of information. Then he had a sinking feeling in his stomach of the most acute variety.

“Wait,” he sputtered. “This dinner at D.W.’s is to be an engagement party?”

“Yes,” Lily purred, her French-manicured fingertips smoothing an errant, dark curl from her eyes. “Isn’t that fabulous of him? I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m going to wear.”

The world slowed to a dead stop, and Peter with it.
 
“I haven’t heard of any recent engagement.” The final word caught in his throat and he tried to clear the thick dread that had settled there with it.

“Haven’t you?” Lily asked nonchalantly, unable to meet his glare. “It was on the front page of today’s society column.” She laughed nervously, “That must be how D.W. found out.”

Peter felt numb. “Found out about whom?”

Hedging, Lily ran her fingers lightly up and down his forearm, chiding, “You really ought to read the society column, you know.”

“Who?” The question was flat but not emotionless.

Lily raised her hand to her throat as if offended. “Why
us
, silly.”

The world, already stopped, tinted red and Peter understood for the first time what it was to be in a murderous rage.
 
His hands fisted reflexively as ice-cold anger flowed through his veins. He took a deep breath, dragging air through his clenched teeth in an attempt to calm himself. He couldn’t look at her. “Why would they think that?”

Her eyes widened in shock as Peter disentangled himself. “You don’t believe
I
had anything to do with this, do you? I thought that you were behind it.” She looked confused, then vulnerable. Her violet eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she admitted haltingly, “I thought you wanted to surprise me—that you had—finally—that you—felt—the same way—I do.”

 
Peter knew she was just talented enough not to be believed. Still remote, he said in a low voice. “I want it retracted.”

Changing tactics, the tigress grabbed at his arm. “Just think about this for a moment. It’s great publicity for the picture. ‘Lily Cahill and Peter Neverland—sweethearts on and off the silver screen’. We
will
be America’s sweethearts.”

Clinging to his control, to keep the growing impulse to do violence at bay, he managed one word. “No!”

She stepped in front of him, turning to face him with her hands flat against his chest. “Don’t be hasty, Peter. In addition to the publicity, there are other benefits to being engaged. Benefits that even you cannot object to.” She drew her palms slowly down the length of his chest, toying playfully with the waistband of his trousers and Peter’s traitorous body responded in spite of his resolve. Triumphant, she set her jaw, daring him to negate her.

His anger melted away as he considered her proposal with revulsion. Maybe his broken heart did not mean he could not partake in convenient companionship… but he had to be honest with Lily. Although young, he would never be the sort of man to confuse lust with love. “I will never love you,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Lily raised her eyebrows and let out a harsh laugh that sounded more like a bray. “Silly boy, since when do engagements have anything to do with love?”

The woman in front of him suddenly seemed worldly, experienced and tarnished from use. Peter felt as if a veil had been lifted and he was seeing her for the first time. What he saw scared him. He had sorely underestimated the Tiger Lily and for that mistake, she had devoured him whole.

 
Avast
belay,
yo
ho…

Of late Peter’s dreams had been heavier—not the chaotic whirling scenes he was accustomed to—but something nefariously darker and cumbersome. Blackness, thick and still, then the faintest taste of malice in the air, a whisper of violence in the wind… Something was blowing his way, wicked and unstoppable. In the distance he could hear Indians on the warpath, and tight on their heels, a steady ticking. But what was troubling him was closer. There on the breeze, the faintest hint of a diabolical song-

Avast
belay,
yo
ho, A-pirating we go…

It was the sound of evil, carousing and hungry. The sound of pirates on the prowl.

CHAPTER 12

The Return Home

“Engaged?” Wendy felt the color drain from her face, her teacup suspended in mid-air, forgotten.

“I am afraid so, dearest.” Maimie bit her bottom lip in concern, watching her friend for signs of a relapse into melancholia. “I didn’t want you to hear it in the street. Was I right to tell you?” Wendy remained frozen for so long that Maimie opened her mouth to repeat the question.

“Yes,” Wendy said hastily, managing a wan smile before taking a long sip from her cup. “It helps me greatly to know he has moved on…as have I.”

Maimie narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. “Hmm.”

“Truly,” Wendy managed with more animation. To underscore the point, she helped herself to a biscuit.

She returned from her uneventful tea, to find James pacing in the garden. There was a nervous purpose in his movements, as the young banker silently presented her with a hand picked bouquet of flowers. Ignoring the questioning look on her face, he clasped her hand and led her to a nearby bench.

As soon as she sat, Wendy leapt back up. Unable to remain still, she took over pacing, her force and momentum driving her forward. She felt reckless—like a woman with nothing left to lose and quickly shut the thought down.
Actually,
she lied to herself,
it would be a relief to consign myself to fate.

James watched her without speaking. She had no idea what was going on in his taciturn mind and doubted she ever would. They had no particular connection in that way. After all, he was not Peter. No. James was dull and boring, and patient and loyal. Peter, for all his passion, had been nothing but the source of unmitigated heartbreak. Peter had abandoned her for another county, another girl. In truth, he had never actually claimed Wendy for his own, but he had undoubtedly felt that same earth shattering connection as she. Hadn’t he?

Everything deflated in that moment, as Wendy acknowledged that Peter most likely existed in blissful ignorance of her affections toward him. She was nothing to him, save the import she had created in her own mind. Suddenly she felt chilled. Pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders, she slowly crossed the garden to sit next to James. “Perhaps,” she began dully, “we should stop hedging around the future and reach an agreement.”

Quietly James nodded. Then he dropped to his knee to ask
the
question that was a death sentence to her spirit.

The boy came to her again that night. From the open window, he beckoned her. “Wendy, Wendy,” he called, “When you are sleeping in your bed you might be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars.” She liked the sound of that, flying with the boy, leaving her nightmares and troubles behind.

With growing excitement Wendy approached the window and the boy’s outstretched hand. But as she reached for him, the boy saw something on her face that caused him to gasp. Hastily he pulled his hand away as if too close to an open flame.

“Wendy,” he accused, “You’ve given my place to another! Soon someone will share your bed and I shan’t be able to see you anymore.”

“No,” she contradicted, “I haven’t replaced you. You may always return.”

But the boy clamped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut and bemoaned, “Nay, what have you done Wendy? What have you done?”

 
Lily certainly had her finer points, Peter reflected as he watched her work D.W. Griffith’s parlor. In addition to her consummate publicity skills, she was stunning to look at and good company, when she wasn’t playing at being coquettish.

He supposed there were worse things than being engaged to such a desirable woman. She might even make a decent wife—for someone—just not him. Not that he hadn’t tried to find some measure of feeling for her. He had dug deep within himself, but the most he could coax from the shriveled up organ that had once been his heart was sisterly affection.

Despite his lack of attachment, it was his tenuous honor that kept him from acting on Lily’s suggestion that they become more than friends toward one another. From his end, their engagement was a practical business arrangement, and despite her blatant offers to make it more, Peter could not take advantage.

Usually that was the end of that line of thought, but tonight, watching the ravishing Tiger Lily weave her magic spell on those around her, he was tempted to put his honor aside. Surely he had enough flaws in his character to accomplish what every other man in the room was clearly fantasizing about? She was, after all, his fiancée.

But where his honor might have failed him, the matter of her honor kept him steadfast. It was not right to treat a woman such—even if the woman asked for it.

With a reluctant sigh, Peter helped himself to another glass of D.W.’s finest scotch and retreated to the quiet sanctuary of his host’s well-stocked library. Without conscious thought, he selected a slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Absently fingering the exquisite binding, he seated himself opposite the roaring fire, deep in thought.

“Thinking on matters of the heart, lad?”

The deep resonate voice startled him, for he thought himself alone in his reverie. It did not surprise him that his host had sought out solitude as well. D.W. often stole away when in the grips of artistic contemplation.

Peter noted with irony the book he had selected at random. “Am I that transparent?”

“To most no, but to me…” D.W. smiled enigmatically, nodding at the book Peter held in his hands. His host raised his amber-filled tumbler in salute and took a hearty drink.

Peter respected the opinion of the director and head of
Biograph
films. He was an authoritative man, like a shrewd general, but also a forward-thinking visionary. Peter found himself curious of the good man’s opinion. “And just what is amiss, do you think?”

“Passion,” he replied without hesitation. “Not that you lack passion, my lad—you have it in spades for the camera. But in your real life, you and Lily do not mesh—no matter how hard she tries to force it.”

“Aye,” Peter agreed draining his own Scotch. “She does try.” He half expected the older man’s candidness to unnerve him, but instead found it refreshing. He realized he enjoyed being exposed and the rare honesty it afforded him. “I keep thinking if I try hard enough, I can learn to love her.”

D.W. let out a surprised grunt. Decanting a nearly empty bottle of booze, he refilled his glass before passing the bottle to Peter. “You can teach the mind to do many things, my lad, but the heart… Well the heart is another matter entirely.”

“And what if you have no heart?”

The director scrutinized him for few moments before answering. “You most certainly have a heart, lad. So tell me, where have you left it?”

Considering with whom he conversed, the question shouldn’t have surprised him, but it unsettled him nonetheless. He swallowed half his drink before acquiescing with a sigh. “Across the ocean—a long time ago.”

“Perhaps you should go in search of it.”

Peter sighed, embracing the veracity of the moment. “As much as I dream to the contrary, the lady cares nothing for me.”

D.W. nodded sagely. “I wondered if your most recent letter from abroad contained bad tidings. I somehow sensed it might.”

Peter started. “Which letter?”

“The one that arrived last Wednesday,” Peter’s uncomprehending expression caused the other man to continue carefully. “It arrived after our last shoot…You had gone for the day… I gave it to Lily to give to you… When I asked her the next day, she confirmed that she had…” The look on Peter’s face caused the director to falter. “She kept if from you then?”

Shaking his head back and forth, Peter said in a low voice. “I haven’t received a letter from home in nearly three months.” With a hard set to his jaw, Peter rose. “Excuse me please. I believe I need to have a word with my
fiancée
.”

Leaping to his feet, D.W. caught Peter’s arm. “Allow me, my lad. Perhaps it would be more prudent if I sent your fiancée to you.” Peter could only nod dumbly at the suggestion. He appreciated the discretion, but lacked the ability to voice the words.

After D.W.’s departure, Peter emptied the bottle into his glass but rather than finish the contents he crossed stiffly to the mantle, deliberately placing his back to the door. The fire seemed to mirror the rage churning inside of him. Why would Lily keep correspondence from him? Didn’t she understand he was a man dying of thirst and it was only those letters that kept him alive? He could go for months on the sustenance that one sentence about
her
provided. Knowing
she
lived, despite the pain caused by the details, made it possible to go on. How could Lily rob him of his only nourishment – indeed of his very life?

Two distinct pairs of footsteps echoed behind him and he grasped for control, knowing he teetered on the edge of a precipice.

Lily crossed to him and hugged him from behind. “There you are, my darling. I daresay that everyone has been looking for your charming self.”

Peter felt cold to his core. He dared not move, lest his wrath get the better of him. With calm he did not feel, he stated, “I believe you have something of mine.”

“I can’t think what, darling.” Lily placed a kiss against his neck, causing him to stiffen ever so slightly.

From the doorway D.W. clear his throat. “Perhaps I should be seeing to my guests.” He asked Peter pointedly, “Shall I go, lad?”

“No.” Peter wrenched himself out of Lily’s arms and took a deep, calming breath, before turning around. “I mean, please stay D.W., since this concerns you.” His fierce scowl turned on Lily who pretended to smile bravely in the face of it. “Tell me Lily, did D.W. recently give you anything to give to me? A letter maybe?”

She looked from one man to the other and found nothing encouraging in either countenance. Pretending to think hard on it, she remembered slowly. “Now that you mention it, I did have a letter to give to you.” She let out a brief musical laugh. “It must have slipped my mind, until this very moment. Sorry.”

“Damn your sorry,” Peter growled. “I want that letter. Now!”

“Of course, Peter.” Lily was a composition of innocence. “I would have given it to you sooner, if I hadn’t truly forgotten.”

She rummaged about in her handbag and pulled out a familiar cream envelope. Peter snatched it from her hand, anxiously noting the London post mark before turning it over. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. “It’s been opened,” he stated flatly.

“It came like
tha
-”

“Get out!” Peter rarely got angry, so to hear him bellow, see him quaking with rage, was a fearsome sight indeed. Blanching, Lily wisely closed her mouth and let D.W. lead her from the room.
 
Peter had no presence of mind to take note of their leaving. He was singularly focused on the letter and wild thoughts about the tidings it contained. Chilled to the bone, he reseated himself in front of the fire and drained his scotch in one greedy gulp. Then with trembling hands he opened his most recent letter from his brother.

Inside was the expected single page of matching stationary filled with Griffin’s sturdy script. Unexpected were the two newspaper clippings that fluttered quietly onto Peter’s lap.

Which to read first?

Peter sat for a long time unable to read anything. At length he made up his mind to start with the letter, lest the clippings contained notices that might be taken out of context. Wishing he had another tumbler of Scotch to fortify himself, he eased the letter open and willed himself to read the first words.

Dearest Brothe
r, Griffin’s greeting was usually a balm to his soul, but not today.
First I want to offer my congratulations! Though I am quite put out that I had to learn of your good tidings from London’s society column rather than your own hand. Please let me know when the blessed event will occur, so that I can make the proper travel arrangements. It is of no use to dissuade me, for there is no distance I would not traverse to partake in your happiness. It does my heart glad to think you have finally found respite from your agony!