Wendy Swanson stood patiently outside of Franklin's Books, waiting for the store to open. Mr. Franklin was in there now - she could see him moving around inside - and he should be open in a few minutes. He always opened at precisely ten o'clock. "And not a second earlier," he told Wendy sternly when she was just a young girl. Even after all these years, he hadn't changed.
"How long, exactly, does it take to dust off a lot of books?" Jane Darling complained from next to Wendy. Wendy smiled at her sister. At thirteen, Jane could have their mother's reflection, except that her green eyes were sharply rebellious and her dark brown hair came down in ringlets. Wendy and Edward, her husband, had adopted Jane when she was two, taking her out of the hands of Wendy's ailing father. He'd gotten better after a few years, but had agreed to let Jane stay with her sister, admitting that Wendy would be much better suited to raising a child - something he never would have done if Mrs. Darling had been alive.
"He'll open in a few minutes," Wendy said calmly.
Jane glanced around. There were lots of others milling about, but none were waiting by the bookstore. "We have to be the first to get it. Why didn't you just let Mr. Barrie mail you a copy?"
Wendy shook her head. "That would have ruined the experience, Jane. Besides, this is right near where I used to live." She pointed out a street labeled Kensington Street. "Number fourteen Kensington Street. My home's the second one on the right."
"Oh, can we visit the people who live there afterwards?" Jane asked. "Oh, please?"
"I promised Edward I'd be back at eleven - he has an event at the school he needs to attend." Edward had taken a job as a math teacher at the junior school.
"Wendy! How will I ever be able to picture the story right if I can't see the Window?" Jane protested. The Window was a legend in the Swanson household, almost as much as Peter Pan himself. Wendy had told Jane and her four-year-old twins, Belle and George, the story of Peter Pan countless times, and one of Jane's favorite parts was when Peter entered through the Window. Wendy had tried to describe the Window and its magic to the children, but she never quite succeeded.
"Oh, all right, I suppose. But we'll be quick about it, and don't you dare pull any tricks, Jane - oh, here comes Mr. Franklin!"
Old, wrinkled Mr. Franklin slowly opened the door to the bookstore. He squinted at Jane and Wendy. "Why, I say, Mrs. Darling, you are looking quite young - almost childish."
"That's my sister, Mr. Franklin," Wendy explained. "Not my mother -"
"Do you have the book?" Jane interrupted eagerly, her eyes sparkling.
Mr. Franklin squinted harder at her. "What book?"
"Peter and Wendy! Mr. Barrie said it was to arrive today - oh, you must have it, Mr. Franklin, please!" Wendy put a gentle hand on Jane's delicate shoulder. Jane shook it off.
"Oh, yes!" Mr. Franklin explained. He always knew what he was talking about when it came to books. "It's in the back - I haven't got a chance to put it on the shelf yet." He led them into the bookstore.
Wendy took a deep breath, smelling the dust and pages. Nothing had changed in here. She could have been thirteen again, a young, bright-eyed child, with hopes and dreams wider than the sky.
Mr. Franklin ducked behind his desk, and, with a grunt, lifted a large box onto the counter. Slowly, he pulled the flaps of the box open. Wendy could see a collection of dark blue books, each with the words Peter and Wendy written in gold letters on the cover.
Wendy picked up a book delicately, almost afraid. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest like war and her hands were trembling ever so slightly. Carefully, she opened it up;
Certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably, blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep
"Peter, what is it?"
"I was just thinking," he said, a little scared. "It is only make-believe, isn't it, that I am their father?"
"Oh, yes," Wendy said primly.
"You see," he continued apologetically, "it would make me seem so old to be their real father."
"But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine."
"But not really, Wendy?" he asked anxiously.
"Not if you don't wish it," she replied; and she distinctly heard his sigh of relief. "Peter," she asked, trying to speak firmly, "what are your exact feelings for me?"
"Those of a devoted son, Wendy."
"I thought so," she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the room.
It wasn't exactly what happened, but it was enough. Mr. Barrie, when had come to ask Wendy about her side of the story several years ago after hearing it from Peter, warned her that he might change some things. He was going to write a play, he said, and he wanted it to sell well. She said she hadn't minded, but, on opening night of the play, she didn't go. It wasn't anything to do with Mr. Barrie - it was just the fact that, if she went to see it, there would be other people, strangers, saying her words, repeating her actions. There would be someone else as Peter. And she couldn't stand that.
"We'll take it," she told Mr. Franklin.
"Is it any good, Wendy?" Jane asked. "Is it like -?"
"Say, what a coincidence," Mr. Franklin noted suddenly. "The girl's name is Wendy, just like yours, Mrs. Wendy."
Wendy smiled serenely at him. "Yes, it is a coincidence." She winked at Jane, who giggled.
Twenty minutes later, the two stood in front of fourteen Kensington Street. Wendy smiled to herself. The house looked just like it had when she and her brothers had lived there.
"Which one is it, Wendy?" Jane asked, her eyes scanning the house.
"It's not in the front, Jane. It faced around to the back. We'll have to ask the owners." Wendy did not like this idea. To see someone else living in the house might be too much. But to see the Window -
Wendy squared her shoulders, marched up to the front door, and rang the bell. The door was answered by an annoyed-looking maid. "Yes?"
"I would like to speak to the owners of this home," she said firmly. Jane nodded, jutting out her chin defiantly despite the fact there was nothing to defy quite yet.
The maid raised her eyebrows. "The master's out," she said. "But the mistress is here. If you could just wait in the parlor, I'll go let her know."
The maid led Wendy and Jane in. Instantly, Wendy was overcome with memories. She stood still, taking it in. The furniture had changed, but it was undoubtedly the same room.
Jane was also quiet, but for different reasons, "So," she whispered. "This is where I might've lived, if you hadn't gone to Neverland, and Mother hadn't died."
Wendy faced Jane and smiled shakily. "Yes."
"May I help you?" Wendy turned around to see a short, slight woman with dark hair and confused brown eyes standing in the doorway, cradling a baby in her arms.
"Yes… I'm Wendy Swanson. I used to live here, when I was a child, and I would like to show my sister my old room," Wendy said, a little awkwardly. "
The woman, who had been watching them with thoughtful eyes, gave an almost inaudible gasp of surprise when she heard Wendy's name. She stared at Wendy, her mouth hanging slightly hanging open, before regaining her composure and nodding. "All right, I suppose."
Wendy smiled gratefully, a little unnerved by the woman's reaction. "This way, Jane." She led Jane up the stairs, the woman following. Into this door -
Wendy stood breathlessly in her nursery. "Oh," she said softly, smiling. The room was obviously being used as a nursery. There was one bed and a crib, and toys were scattered everywhere. Wendy could almost see her old bed, their swords and things, and the scattered articles of costumes she and her brothers had used during story-time.
Jane ran to the window, with the lacy curtains - they were still the same ones, as the Darlings had forgotten to bring them when they had moved - blowing back in the gentle breeze. "Oh, was this it, then?"
"That's the Window." Wendy nodded and walked towards it, touching the Window's frame.
The woman was standing in the doorway, and she was smiling knowingly at them. "You must have wonderful memories in here."
"Yes, I did -"
"Mama, I can't find Father anywhere, and I need help with the kite! " A boy, about Jane's age, said, stepping into the room, a multicolored kite in his fist.
Wendy gasped.
Suddenly, she was young again, and staring into the eyes of a boy who would soon bring her to the world where youth lived on, where she would fall in love, where she would save his life after he nearly died because of her.
The boy had dark brown tangled hair, and his face was devoid of a freckle or two, but he had the same cocky nose, the same mouth. And the same Neverland brand of eyes.
"He went to the train station to pick up Uncle James, William - say, are you all right?" This last part was directed at Wendy, who was staring at William wide-eyed.
William suddenly noticed Wendy and Jane. "Who's that?" He asked, almost rudely. Bold and charming. Like his father. Jane narrowed her eyes.
"William Timothy Pan, you be polite," the woman scolded. The baby suddenly opened its eyes, seemed to catch sight of its brother, and started wailing. Its mother smiled apologetically at Wendy. "I have to take care of the children - the nurse is sick, I'm afraid. Can you see yourselves out?"
"Of course," Jane answered for Wendy, who was still quite shocked.
"Thank you," the woman said, then to the baby, "It's all right, Gwenie, don't fret, shh…" The sounds faded away as the family proceeded downstairs.
"Wendy… his last name was Pan," whispered Jane. "Do you think – oh, could it really be him – you know, Peter?"
"Yes, I do suppose that," Wendy said slowly. She shook her head carefully. "Come, Jane, let's go home."
"But don't you want to stay and wait until Peter gets back?" Jane protested.
Wendy smiled, like a swiftly moving brook, and shook her head. "I suppose, when his wife tells him of this story, he'll know it was me. That's enough."
"But Wendy -"
"Jane, I really think it's best if we went," Wendy said firmly, though she was far from certain. If she could just see him -
No. The word came from deep inside of Wendy, and she understood. She wasn't the same thirteen year old girl who was enchanted by a flying, cocky boy. Nor was she the same eighteen year old young woman who cried herself to sleep after saying good-bye to an old friend - more than a friend. Her name had changed to prove it.
She had moved on, and she had grown up. And although Peter, no matter what, would live safely in her heart until the day she died, Wendy had other loves, other hopes, other dreams.
"Let's go home," she told Jane resolutely. So, the sisters left from the second house on the right, and went back to their home, where Jane would act out the story of Peter Pan once again. And, when Peter arrived back at the former house of his first love and his wife, Julie, informed him about the incident, he arrived at the same conclusion that Wendy had.
They had moved on, and they had grown up, but they had not forgotten.
Somewhere, above at all, a star ever so slightly brighter than the rest of them sparkled.