Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 01 - Wendy and the Lost Boys

by Barbara Silkstone

  As I stood up, Peter made a grab for me. “Please don’t go! If you stay with me, Wendy. You’ll never grow old… older. It’s magical.”

  “How old are you Peter?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “You’re forty-two,” I said.

  Peter was visibly shaken by the number, almost as if I had broken some sort of trance. He became arrogant. “You always thought you were so smart – hot shit,” he said. “As long as I stay here in Nevisland I will remain seventeen.” He looked confused, like a toddler whose balloon was losing air. “I never wanted to grow up. You resented me for that. It was always all about you. I was just one of your memories.”

  “Not anymore,” I said as I stepped out of the cabana.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes until the last ferry. Time flies when you’re kneeing old friends. I dashed along the slippery sand. Every other step sent a stabbing pain up my left leg, but I distracted myself by imagining the look on Treanna’s sweet face when I handed her Tinkerbelle. It would be love at first sight.

  For Roger and me, not so much at first sight. We had some fine-tuning to do.

  The ferry waited for the screaming, waving blond woman… me. I made a klutzy, crashing leap from the shores of Nevis Island to the boat. I knew Roger would be frantic and probably waiting on the dock at Saint Kitts.

  The narrows between the islands turned mean, teasing, delaying me. I worked my way to the bow of the rickety ferry. A small crowd stood on the Saint Kitts’ side – greeters for the last load of tourists, honeymooners, and shell seekers.

  Crackling recorded music was playing from a loudspeaker on the dock. Someone was singing about seeing his smiling face, I smiled at the thought… I spotted Roger jumping up and down and waving. He looked like a happy puppy.

  I ran down the gangplank and almost into his arms. At the last minute, he pulled away.

  “They’re holding the plane,” he said.

  I peeked at those yummy long lashes and smiled. How often does life hand you an archeologist with Johnny Depp eyes?

  “Let’s go find that thirteenth boy!”

  The Gulfstream soared through the clouds, its nose aimed at Miami.

  Sometimes the promise you keep is not the one you made.

  The End

  ~

  About the Author

  Barbara Silkstone is the best-selling author of The Fractured Fairy Tales series that currently includes: The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters; Wendy and the Lost Boys; and London Broil.

  For further giggles and a touch of true fiction try: The Adventures of a Love Investigator, 527 Naked Men and One Woman.

  Silkstone’s writing has been described as “perfectly paced and pitched – shades of Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen – without seeming remotely derivative. Fast moving action that shoots from the hip with bullet-proof characterization.”

  Wendy and the Lost Boys topped the charts in comedy, climbing over Tina Fey, Sophie Kinsella, and Ellen DeGeneres. The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters has been a consistent best seller in comedy. Both Wendy and Alice have been in the top 20 Amazon comedies at the same time. Silkstone has been fortunate enough to take part in writing workshops with Stephen King, Robert B. Parker, and James Michener.

  Barbara Silkstone loves to hear from her readers.

  You can write to her at: barbara_silkstone@yahoo.com

  Or visit her at:

  Barb’s Wire eBooks & More

  http://barbswire-ebooksandmore.blogspot.com/

  ~

  Fractured Fairy Tales by Silkstone

  Criminally Funny Fables

  The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters

  This author has a unique narrative voice, and reading the story is like taking a smooth slide into Alice’s surreal world. The premise is outstanding – a classic we all love, with a contemporary, intelligent twist.

  ~ Elizabeth Lindberg, author Upper West Side Stories

  Purchase for your Kindle at: Amazon

  Wendy and the Lost Boys

  Be aware, this is not the Peter Pan story you want your kids reading. It is clearly intended for adult readers. Yet it appeals to the childlike part of us that loved the classic original stories. Combine that childlike love with modern politics and technology, and you get this smart, snarky, hilarious mystery. The story is richly developed and leaves you guessing until the very end. I am liking this grown-up version of Peter Pan even more than the original.

  ~ Tiffany Harkleroad for Tiffany’s Bookshelf

  Purchase for your Kindle at: Amazon

  London Broil — the sequel to Wendy and the Lost Boys

  The snarky Python sequel to Wendy and the Lost Boys. A murderous rollercoaster ride through London during a killer heat wave.

  ~ Ravan Reviews

  Purchase for your Kindle at: Amazon

  Zo White – coming 2012

  Bonus excerpt from

  London Broil

  the sequel to Wendy and the Lost Boys

  Chapter 1

  Sunlight ricocheted off the waters of Biscayne Bay piercing my tears like painful daggers of light.

  Officer Burger put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s pretty much a lost cause.”

  My stupid, stupid, pointless lunch meeting with Pierre Delmonico cost me dearly. While I was trying to convince him to make an offer on a garish old beachside mansion, some low-life scum bag took off… My cell phone rang.

  “Wendy?”

  “Goldie’s gone,” I sobbed to Roger Jolley, my private version of Indiana Jones.

  “Oh, my god. Are you okay?” The concern in his voice was comforting. “Wait…who’s Goldie?”

  I sniffled. “My Jag.”

  “You’re crying over a car! Were you in an accident? Did you hurt your head?”

  “No I didn’t hurt my head,” I hissed. “I was in the Au Poivre Hotel meeting a buyer… a potential buyer, and a guy stole her. I handed him the keys and he drove away.”

  “Why did you hand over your car keys?” Roger asked in a snarky tone.

  “He was dressed like a valet and gave me a receipt. After my meeting, I looked at the ticket. It was for a dry cleaner.”

  I could hear the smirk in his voice as he blathered on, completely unsympathetic, “You still want to be part of the recovery of the thirteenth Lost Boy?”

  It had been almost two months since Roger and I rescued the Lost Boys from Charlie Hook. “I’ll make it worth your while when I get the reward for the complete set.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be paid for the twelve boys we found? I mean… you found?”

  “The deal was for the all the Boys. My client’s withholding payment until all thirteen are safely resting in the British Museum.”

  Roger’s lack of sympathy for my loss was irritating. I didn’t carry replacement value insurance on my gorgeous champagne-colored Jaguar. I hadn’t made a sale in almost a year. Money was going out, and none was coming in. The market for Miami Beach mansions was on its knees, and the few real estate agents who remained with me were praying for a sale.

  And as much as I hated to admit it, Roger’s Johnny Depp eyes were on my mind and fanning some dormant embers of lust.“Okay…deal.”

  I was back on the trail of the Egyptian antiquities known as the Lost Boys, the Shadows, or death icons of the infant sons of the sixth dynasty pharaoh, Kjoser. Roger and I had rescued twelve of the Lost Boys; the thirteenth was in the hands of the thief Hook hired to steal the collection for him. She kept one Lost Boy as her going away present.

  “Get yourself over to London on the early morning flight out of Miami and meet with my client Benny Hannah. I’m stuck in Cairo for a few days. Benny has a hot lead on where the missing Lost Boy might be. His chauffeur will meet you at Gatwick.”

  Geeze, he was so annoying. “Just what am I supposed to do?”

  “Insert yourself into Hannah’s life until I get there. If someone else
finds that last Lost Boy, the museum directors could force Benny to pay the reward money to a stranger. We could lose the entire finder’s fee.”

  “So it was all or nothing? Why didn’t you tell me that before I risked my life on Hook’s yacht? And how, Mr. Indiana Jones, do I ‘insert’ myself?”

  “Benny’s got a weakness for blondes. He’ll love you. Let him feel we’re on the trail. Just check into the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park Hotel on Knightsbridge. I’ll find you there. We can stay at my flat after that.”

  “Whoa… you have a flat in London? You never mentioned that.”

  “We didn’t have a lot of time to chat when we were captives on Hook’s yacht. There’s gobs you don’t know about me.”

  I hesitated, “I can’t disappear on Treanna again. I have to spend some time with her. I can be in London the day after tomorrow… Sunday.”

  “Guess that’ll have to do. I’ll email you further details. In code.”

  “What code? How will I know what I’m reading?”

  “Circle every third word.”

  “You maroon. Is that what they teach you in archaeology school? Draw a ring around every third word? Kindergarten stuff. Just send it. I’m so dead in the real estate market, nobody looks at my e-mails anymore. I wish someone would snoop … at least I’d feel noticed.”

  “Get the flight. I’ll cover it.”

  “Business class?”

  I heard him exhale. “Yeah sure. Keep the receipts.”

  “What’s my title?”

  “You don’t need a title. You’re undercover. You’re Roger Jolley’s Assistant, how about that?”

  “That sucks. How about Assistant Tomb Raider?”

  He laughed. “Please get it through your head. We’re the opposite of Tomb Raiders. We put back, not take out. See you in London.” He clicked off.

  Dumping my phone into my purse, I walked back into the hotel, and plopped into a chair in the lobby with my legs shaking from adrenalin and humiliation. The contemporary neutral palate of tan, white, and black eased my fried nerves. I stared out a three-story wall of glass that faced the marina. Yachts were moored bow to stern like parade elephants.

  A herd of sappy memories flooded my brain. Peculiar how cars can become an extension of our beings. I hoped Goldie’s transmission fell out on the thief’s feet. Officer Burger said she’d probably be chopped up for parts. My poor baby. I’d never be able to smell new leather again without tears. But now it was time to call for a rental car and get on with my life. I gathered my things and headed out to the valet’s desk. They’d know the numbers for a good rent-a-car shop.

  I noticed an elegant sign standing on the marble floor near the reception desk. Lured by the Feng Shui photo with the words Harmony Spa in scrolling silver letters, I moved closer. High-energy sound waves liberate skin congestion while delicately pushing super-antioxidants deep into the dermal matrix. This therapy superbly combines the latest technological modalities achieving visible age-defying results.

  It would be nice to be glowing when I saw that annoying Roger again. We’d exchanged sweaty goodbye hugs and a pretty sexy kiss in a private hanger at Miami International the last time we were together. Then he was off to return the twelve Lost Boys to the British Museum, while I brought the orphaned poodle Tinkerbelle to Treanna.

  The dimly lit lounge next to the spa sign beckoned. How best to spend my mad money? A glassful of the best scotch the Au Poivre could offer or stimulate my pores in preparation for my rendezvous with Roger? My dermal matrix could use some attention, but so could my nerves.

  When in doubt, opt for both. I got a double Glenfiddich Special Reserve Scotch at the bar and took it with me. I pressed the elevator button and rode to the spa on the 20th floor.

  ***

  Roger’s email arrived that night. I circled every third word. Benny Hannah lived in the South Bank area within sight of the London Eye. He’d been the director of antiquities for Idi Amin’s private collection and had escaped from Uganda one step ahead of a machete. Benny was Roger Jolley’s special client, and I was about to enter his world. I felt a rush of monkey-energy. Wendy Darlin, Assistant Tomb Raider, was about to leap into action…after I played Big Sister.

  Chapter 2

  Treanna and I shared garlic bread as we waited for our spaghetti and meatballs at her favorite, The Spaghetti Factory. We’d been coming here since our first get-acquainted lunch almost a year ago. We’d recently celebrated her sixth birthday here. I couldn’t imagine not spending Saturdays with her. She brought me such joy and put my problems in perspective as only a child can do.

  Grandma Matty had done up Treanna’s black hair in tiny tight braids ending in two purple barrettes at the back of her head. She was wearing a lavender and purple party dress with full crinolines and lace edging. She looked like a little doll.

  I approached breaking my travel news to her with trepidation. My last jaunt was supposed to have taken only a few days. Being kidnapped had not been on my radar. I was gone for weeks. Treanna was sure I’d abandoned her.

  “Tinkerbelle looks like she loves living with you. You’re a good mama to her.” It must have been the tone of my voice, because Tre flashed me a darkened glare.

  She looked from under her long black lashes. “People who go away from me don’t get to read me a story. They might not even get to read me two stories. I have to think about it.”

  I jerked back. “Are you a mind reader? I have to go help a friend.”

  We finished our lunch in kid-grumpy silence. Treanna rolled her last meatball around the edge of her plate, ignoring me. She pulled out her oversized sunglasses and slipped them on, her signal that she was shutting down.

  I had to go. She had to learn to trust me. Treanna had been unable to get close to anyone. Her short life had been one of abandonment and solitude. Grandma Matty did her best, but she lacked the energy to spend time with the child. They spent their days watching old movies on the Turner Classic Movies; it was the only world she knew. Tre fancied herself Audrey Hepburn.

  Even though I’d picked out a purple rental car in the hopes Treanna would enjoy riding in her favorite color, she didn’t speak until I drove onto her block. Then she reached over and patted my hand. “I want to give you a going away present. Something that will make you come back to me.”

  “Sweetheart, I’ll come back. I promise.”

  “Pull around the back in the alley. I can run in and get it.”

  “Are you sure? Grandma Matty is probably sleeping. We don’t want to startle her.”

  Matty suffered from narcolepsy and frequently dozed off in the middle of conversations. The ritual had been for me to park at the curb and ring the front doorbell to pick up Treanna. I’d never been invited inside. The house was located in a rough area of Miami… not as bad as some, but not a place where I’d feel safe at night. Wrought iron bars on the windows and doors made my skin crawl. I’d never gone to the back door before.

  I drove down the alley behind a row of small Florida-style bungalows, thinking this was not the best idea. My tires crunched over the coquina shell road. Matty’s house stood out mid-block in a line of old beige and gray houses. It was a pretty shade of light green with hibiscus and bougainvillea creating a riot of red, pink, and yellow around the back door.

  Pulling behind the house, I said to Treanna, “I’ll wait in the car, sweetie,”

  “No!” She yanked off her sunglasses. Her lower lip shot out and tears gathered in her big black eyes. “Please, please… I want you to see my room. Visit my toys. China and Polyester and Hasbro and All-Natural Fibers.”

  I had to smile. It was one of her cutest quirks. The child was positive all the stuffed animals I’d given her came with their names already on their tags. “Okay…”

  Treanna skipped out of the car, ran to my side, and pulled me to the house. She pushed open the back door, and we entered a retro-kitchen complete with avocado-colored appliances and a Betty-Boop cookie jar, except it wasn’t hip-retro, it was
just old.

  “Follow me!” She tugged on my arm.

  We walked through the living room, immaculate in a Saran Wrap way with the furniture preserved in plastic slipcovers. Religious pictures with heavy gold-colored frames covered the walls. A cluster of cupids held an urn filled with silk flowers.

  I followed Treanna into the dining room. The scene at the table made the blood pound in my head. Matty and two men were counting a huge pile of paper money. Three surprised sets of dark eyes flashed at me. My heart tap-danced as my feet kicked into reverse. I was sure it wasn’t a friendly game of gin rummy, especially when the guys grabbed for the cash. Drug money?

  Treanna was oblivious. She tugged on my arm. “Come to my room.”

  “No, honey, I’ll wait in the car.”

  I turned so fast she couldn’t grab me, dashed out the back door to my car, locked the doors, and hoped Matty could convince her friends I was harmless.

  Five minutes later, the bungalow door slowly opened. I held my breath. Treanna was dragging her feet, tears soaked her cheeks dropping onto the collar of her lovely purple dress.

  Rolling down the car window I reached out to her.

  By the time she got to me, her nose was running. “I… wanted…you …to… have this picture of me.” She pushed it through the open window. I took it and held her precious hand. She said, “Please don’t forget me.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

  She turned and went back in the house, her tiny shoulders slumped.

  Guilt and I drove home, making frequent last minute turns in case I was being followed. I checked the rearview mirror, but nothing… no one.