by Selena Kitt
Hans swore under his breath, fumbling for his knife.
“Hey, hey, keep it in your pocket, hero. She’s not kidding about poking a hole in the boat. We’re dead in the water if that happens.” Drew stopped rowing too, the raft floating on the waves. “The truth is, I’m actually a spy for a green nonprofit company. We’ve been following this research for years. They want your organism—and they’d like to give you a job.”
“What do you mean?” Hans asked, pulling a cautious hand out of his pocket and putting it back on the oar.
“Just what I said,” Drew replied, taking his own oar back, both men beginning to row once more, aligning them with the luminescent blue glow of the sea sparkle in the water. “We knew your grandmother’s company was very close to finding a solution—but we also knew they intended to patent the organism and make it proprietary, so no one else could duplicate it. And then she intended to hold it as long as they could, until fossil fuel shortages maximized their profit. Our company wants to make it available now, to everyone, everywhere. It will drive the cost down and make it an affordable energy source for the whole world.”
“So you lied to me.” Gretel glared at him.
Drew sighed, continuing to row. “That’s sort of a prerequisite of being a spy, sweetheart.”
She leaned her cheek against his arm. “But you’re one of the good guys?”
“I am. At least, I hope I am.” He kissed the top of her wet head. “I try to do the right thing.”
“Well I know one right thing we can do.” Hans pulled hard on the oar. “We can get my sister home. The rest we’ll sort out from there.”
Drew smiled in the moonlight, looking fondly down at her. “Agreed.”
With that, Gretel settled herself between her brother and her lover as they followed the gleaming blue streaks of light, stretching for miles across the Pacific Ocean, toward home.
Epilogue
“Are you okay?” Drew yelled. Gretel just gave him a thumbs up.
Part of her couldn’t believe she was doing this—and another part of her couldn’t wait. It beats finishing school. Grinning, she looked out the window at the patchwork of land below, wondering if she could see their house from here. A house that, in the past three months, had finally become a home again.
She smiled, thinking about her father, working again in a lab for the first time in ten years, this time alongside her brother. He had been so apologetic when they arrived home, certain that they would hate him for listening to their stepmother, but they’d both been shocked to hear that he had already kicked her out of the house and started divorce proceedings.
“An anonymous tip,” her father told them tearfully. “I had the Coast Guard out looking for you both.”
Gretel had looked pointedly at Drew, but he just rocked back on his heels and grinned and didn’t say a word. But she’d been so thankful that she didn’t have to see Vivian anymore. They could breathe in the house again. They could laugh and shout and joke around. No one knew what might happen to Vivian if the trial ever went forward. She’d been released on bond and no one had seen her since.
And no one would ever see their grandmother again, Gretel thought, sliding her hand into Drew’s and feeling him squeeze it. The Coast Guard had caught up with the yacht, but by then the old woman had already collapsed. Heart attack most likely. She was seventy-nine, a good age to reach if you could get there, and although she’d clearly not done it happily, she’d died a very rich woman.
The will, which had curiously never been changed to reflect their grandmother’s animosity toward her only daughter, was still in probate. Both she and Hans had agreed that, if the estate and company were ultimately turned over to them, they would use the money to further BioGen’s mission. It was a good one, and they all had hopes it might work out in the end.
Hans was working and happy. Her father was working and happy. And Gretel… well, she was most decidedly not going to finishing school.
“Time to hook up!” Drew stepped in front of her and she put her arms around him as she’d been instructed. He fumbled with the belts and loops and buckles, hooking them where he told her to. He checked and double checked them as the co-pilot came back from up front. He triple-checked them before waving them out the open side of the plane toward Gretel’s first skydive.
“Are you ready for an adventure?” Drew called back.
She squeezed him tight—her answer for yes, saying the words but not really expecting him to hear them over the noise. “Every day with you is an adventure.”
But somehow he did hear, and he grinned back at her, that sweet dimple flashing in his cheek. “For the rest of our lives!”
Together, they jumped.
WENDY
“What in the world are you looking for?” Wendy bent to see under the shelf where the boy’s lower half was still visible, his Keds kicking wildly as he groped underneath. She usually found this a quiet place to come and think, especially back by the “used book” shelves filled with old encyclopedias and out-of-print editions long ago forgotten.
“Mytingyrshaw,” came the muffled response, followed by three quick sneezes in succession and a string of words that made Wendy’s face burn.
“Your what?” she inquired again, squatting down this time to see. The space under the shelf was narrow, certainly too small for a man, perhaps even any full-grown adult, but just enough room for a lanky, determined teenaged boy.
“Let me look.” A rough voice interrupted her and Wendy glanced up, shocked to see a tall blond in four-inch heels and a bright green mini-dress more appropriate for a street corner than a library on a Wednesday morning standing there with her arms crossed. The woman—and Wendy wasn’t sure it was a woman—had more makeup on than Tammy Faye Baker at the breakfast table and in her heels, stood at least six-foot-four.
“I got it, Tink!” came the reply, followed by another string of sneezes and a hearty cough. With that, the boy appeared, his sandy curls tousled and full of dust, his face smeared with dirt. He waved a book with a black cover .”Meeting Your Shadow. Just where you put it!”
“I told you I did.” Tink huffed, tucking her hair, cut short with dark roots showing underneath the blond, behind her ear. “I said I’d find it and save it for you.”
“Good job, Tink!” The boy looked at Wendy for the first time, and when his gaze met hers, she felt her knees wobble a little. “Hey, who’re you?”
“I’m Wendy.” She introduced herself, holding out her hand, which the boy spontaneously used to pull himself up, nearly toppling them both in the process. “Wendy Dahling.”
“Pete,” he announced. “Peter Pann.”
Wendy glanced up at the tall blond and Peter did, too—she towered over them both by at least a foot—making introductions. “And this is Tink. Say ‘hi.’ Tink.”
The blond glared, but mumbled a sufficient, “Hi.”
“What’s so special about this book?” Wendy looked curiously at the cover. She didn’t recognize the title or the author. It looked boring, probably non-fiction—certainly not light beach reading, which was her own usual fare.
“It’s out of print.” Pete slipped it behind his back, away from her prying eyes. “Very rare.”
“Is it valuable?”
Pete shrugged. “It is to me.”
“Wait… what are you doing?” Wendy went up on her tiptoes, trying to see behind Peter.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He scoffed, pulling his shirt out of his pants and tugging it over the book he’d shoved down the back of his jeans.
“They’re not free, you know.” She pointed to the sign: Used Books $1.00
“What if I don’t have a dollar?”
Wendy opened her little purse, finding a crumpled one-dollar bill at the bottom, stuck to a very dusty still-wrapped piece of Trident bubble gum. “Here.”
Peter took it between his thumb and finger as if it might be diseased, but he smiled at her. “That’s very nice of you.”
&
nbsp; “You’re welcome.” She snapped her little purse closed, already lamenting her generosity. “I can’t really afford it either, but I’d rather give you my last dollar than watch you steal something.”
The tall blond snorted a laugh. “How noble of you.”
“Don’t mind Tink—she’s just the jealous type.” Peter rolled his eyes.
“What’s there to be jealous of?” Wendy looked between the two of them, thoroughly confused.
Peter linked his arm with her as if they were old school chums, leading her toward the front of the library, away from Tink. “So you’re broke, huh?”
“You could say that.” Wendy didn’t meet his gaze, hoping the fall of her hair against her cheeks as they walked hid her flush.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” the boy inquired as they threaded their way through tables, a few patrons sitting and quietly reading.
“Shouldn’t you?” she countered.
“I don’t go to school.” He sounded proud of this.
“How old are you?”
“Just turned eighteen,” he replied. “How about you?”
Wendy glanced over her shoulder, seeing Tink following them. “I’ll be eighteen on Friday.”
“Friday! What a lucky break!”
She blinked at him. “Huh?”
“A birthday is good, but a Friday birthday is spectacular!” The boy’s grin was infectious. She couldn’t help smiling back. “What are you doing for your birthday?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? No cake, no ice cream, no presents?” Peter looked truly aghast. “No parties, no fun, no wild overindulgences?”
“No.” Wendy shook her head as they neared the library checkout counter.
“You’re a boring girl.” Peter dug the book out of the back of his jeans, slapping it on the counter along with the dirty dollar bill. The librarian took the offering, tucking it away in a drawer, and bagged the book.
“I am not!” Wendy protested.
“She is, she’s boring, isn’t she, Tink?” Peter looked over his shoulder for confirmation.
Tink obliged, quite happily. “Exceedingly. Let’s go.”
“I have to take care of my little brothers,” Wendy protested as she followed the boy toward the door. The heat outside was oppressive—another reason the library served as a welcome respite. “I don’t have time for parties or… or fun.”
“No time for fun?” Peter turned to her, wide-eyed. “Now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and wounded me. That offends my basic sensibilities. Everyone has time for fun!”
Wendy swallowed, blinking back tears. “Not me.”
“Even you.” He leaned in to look into her eyes, and she knew they were brimming and she struggled to hold back. The boy named Peter smiled, his mouth curling mischievously at the corners as he touched his finger to the tip of her nose. “Boring girl.”
“Peter, I have to be back…” Tink interrupted, wobbling a little on her dangerously high heels.
“Here, take the book.” Peter didn’t look away from Wendy, tossing the book behind him to the tall blond. She fumbled but managed to catch it.
“You want me to take it?” Tink looked from the book to Peter.
“You found it, didn’t you?” Peter waved her away, his gaze still on Wendy. They were standing close, far too close for Wendy’s comfort. She blamed the heat in her cheeks on the hot Florida sun. “Take it home and I’ll meet you there.”
“You trust me with it?” the tall blond inquired.
“Of course, Tink.” Peter sighed, finally looking back at her. He smiled, that sweet, charming smile that made Wendy tingle all over, and she saw Tink brighten at his words. “You’re my best girl. Now go!”
The blond hesitated a moment and Wendy noticed a necklace at her throat, a small silver bauble, but it was what appeared above it that mattered—the bob of a man’s Adam’s apple. Her suspicion had been correct—Tink wasn’t really a girl after all. The blond gave one more glowering look at Wendy and Peter before following the boy’s instruction, turning around to go home. Wendy watched her fly down the sidewalk, amazingly light on her feet in those heels.
Peter turned his attention back to Wendy. “So why don’t you have any time for fun?”
“It’s a very long story.” That was an understatement. She didn’t know if she wanted to share her life history with this strange boy.
But Peter grabbed her hand, swinging it as they walked. “I love stories!”
“Even terrible stories?”
His eyes widened. “Does it have lots of blood and violence and sex?”
“Actually… yes.” She nodded sagely after considering his question for a moment.
“Then I’m sure I’ll love it! You have to tell it to me,” he insisted.
“You’re a strange boy, Peter Pann.” She couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm.
“And you’re a boring girl.” He grinned back. “But you might tell an interesting story, and then maybe you won’t be so boring. So tell!”
And she did. She didn’t know why she told him—except that he was charming and persistent, pulling her to a seat under a shady tree on the library lawn—but tell him she did. For almost an hour they sat there while Wendy painted word pictures and Peter listened, laughing at all the funny parts (there weren’t many) and sighing at all the sad parts (they were numerous), giving her all of his whole, undivided attention, something that she grew secretly to like as the story grew longer and longer.
Wendy told him a tale of three children without a mother (“I know what that’s like,” Peter briefly interrupted with a sad nod of his head) whose only support in the world was a very wicked man. Their mother hadn’t meant to leave them with this man, Wendy assured him. She had died, quite suddenly, a car accident as swift and final as her last breath. With no mother to protect them, the wicked man had free reign to do whatever he liked, whenever he liked. And the wicked man liked, to no one’s surprise, least of all Wendy herself, to do very wicked things.
Many of the things were so wicked Wendy couldn’t even tell Peter that part of the story. His already wide-eyes would have bulged out of his head even more. So she skipped the really terrible, the most heinous, egregious offenses. But the little ones were awful enough.
“So I finally took the boys and we ran away,” Wendy told him, pulling on a blade of grass poking up from under her bare feet. She’d taken off her shoes. “Now me and John and Michael live in a home for foster kids. Of course, I won’t be able to live there once I turn eighteen. This Friday I will be effectively homeless.”
Peter gazed at her thoughtfully, his chin resting in his hand. “That was a terrible story, Wendy.”
“I know.” She smiled wanly, wiggling her toes in the grass. “I told you it was.”
He perked up, grabbing her hand and squeezing. “I have an idea.”
“What?” She looked at him, startled, the press of his hand like a gift in hers.
“Come with me to Neverland.”
She blinked at him, confused. “Where?”
“Come on, you’ll see.” He stood, pulling her with him so quickly she barely had time to grab her shoes.
“I can’t,” she protested, stumbling after him. “My brothers.”
Peter stopped, frowning, and then brightened. “Bring them with you.”
“Really?” Wendy perked up, turning the idea over in her mind. “I don’t know if they’ll let them go. We’ll have to sneak out.”
“We can do that,” Peter assured, pulling her along again. “I’m good at sneaking.”
“And stealing,” she reminded him.
“And all sorts of things,” he agreed with a wicked grin. “You bet. Come on, Wendy Dahling. Let’s fly.”
“Where is this place?” Wendy gasped, the stitch in her side growing as they hurried down the sidewalk.
Peter pointed somewhere into the blue sky above. “Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning!”
* * * *
John and Michael were asleep. Wendy had checked on them three times to be sure, but they were back to back in the little twin bed in a room more closet than anything else, with just enough room for a box spring and mattress on the floor and a small night table beside it. The boys didn’t seem to care though. They’d jumped on the bed like monkeys and had torn through the place like it was a funhouse, running up stairs and opening strange-shaped cupboard doors, looking for the “secret passages” that Peter assured them did, indeed, exist.
Just ten and eight, the boys had suffered from their lack of parenting far more than Wendy had, and being the oldest, she’d assumed a great deal of motherly responsibility with them. If she didn’t do it, who else would? Not their stepfather, to be sure. But she was questioning her choices now as she sat on her own bed in the room next to the boys’, looking out the window into the darkness.
Outside, Neverland was still, except for the sound of crickets and bullfrogs and the occasion grunt of a ’gator to compete with the rustle of a breeze through the trees. It seemed like paradise compared to the shelter, this big old rambling house surrounded by fields and woodland and swamp. The boys loved it already. Peter had generously offered to let them stay indefinitely, but how could she possibly repay him for that kind of hospitality?
She had hoped something would come along before her eighteenth birthday, when she would be no longer welcome in the shelter, having reached the “age of adulthood.” Whatever that meant. How could she take care of the boys then? She didn’t even have a high school diploma, let alone a job. She’d gone to the library to look for resources, maybe find a job in the paper, to pray for a miracle… and then Peter had come along.
“Too much sad in your story, Wendy-girl,” he’d said. “It’s time to make some happy endings.”
Maybe he was right.
“Wendy?” Peter poked his head in without knocking, seeing her sitting on the window seat. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” she agreed. There was something about him that made her smile.
