The Understory (12 page)

Martin kissed his daughter on the forehead and whispered, “I love you.”

She smiled and said, “This much?” holding her arms out as far as they would stretch.

Normally, this was when Martin would stretch his own arms out, but that night, he said seven little words that came to him like a dream. “I love you more than the moonflower.”

“Really?” Hope said.

He nodded, and then he said, “I have an idea. I’ll write a story. It’ll be educational—it’ll teach about the rainforest—but it’ll be an adventure, too. I’ll write it, but I’ll write it like I’m you.”
One moon, one story in her sneakers.
“Stories are important. It’ll be about you, and the moonflower—”

“And a magic treasure box!”

“Yes! And you’ll live in the Amazon rainforest—”

“Where exactly in the forest?” she said.

A confident answer rolled off his tongue as if it had always been there, right on the tip. “Where hope lives.”

Martin still touched the glass of the empty frame, and the folded-up picture of the sun that Hope had drawn with a jumbo yellow crayon, but then he changed the subject, or seemed to. “Did you know that even though the moon is the brightest object in the night sky, it gives off no light of its own? It actually reflects light from the sun.” A smile fought to form on Martin’s face. “That’s what Hope used to remind me when my moon did battle with her sun.”

When Martin finally released his hand from Hope’s sun, Story said, “No offense, but what makes you think you can find one of these elusive moonflowers in bloom, when so few others have?”

“Mother came close several times,” he said. “She kept a detailed diary for each trip—locations, water levels, temperatures, lunar positions—and I’ve been studying every entry. All the data points to four days from now as my best chance at seeing one in bloom.”

“I see,” Story said.

When Martin Baxter set his drink on the table, Story could tell the bad news was coming. She felt a hint of a shadow descend over them both as a big cloud enveloped the sky. This was the beginning of what would be a short-lived October afternoon storm, and as the tension surged, so did the power. The lights flickered once, and when they flickered a second time, it seemed to fuel Martin’s impatience. “Look, you seem like a real stand-up person,” he said, “and I wish you the best in your endeavor to help your friend, but this journey is a solo one for me—always has been.” He stood up and walked Story to the door.

Story said, “Good luck,” in a quiet voice, right before the door shut behind her. For the second time, she walked away from Martin Baxter’s house, but this time, she did so in daylight. She looked up into the one part of the darkening sky where sunshine still lingered. There, amongst the encroaching clouds, she witnessed the grand Phoenix sun, the one thing that united them all, and she said a secret prayer for those counting on their one chance.

W
hen Story returned to work, she found Ivy creeping around her cubicle, preparing her customary stranglehold. “Have a nice lunch?” she said, looking at her watch. The workday was almost over.

It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.

Story’s beautiful, full lips spouted off an incongruous, ugly reply. “Yeah, Boss. It was a working lunch. Had soup and salad with a bunch of realists wanting to buy cards, and several sad people who hate flowers—”

“Have you been drinking?”

Story scoffed. “It’s four in the afternoon. What do you think I am, a drunk?” Story got away with snide comments to her boss for two reasons. One: Since Story had been at Special Occasions, she’d designed more top-selling cards than any other writer. Though she repeatedly missed deadlines and, in general, was untrustworthy, her end product always resonated with people. Two: For every five unpleasant comments Story hurled Ivy’s way, she always threw in one decent and superficially sincere one, just when Ivy didn’t expect it, thus making it hard for Ivy to hate her for extended periods of time.

Ivy folded her long, lanky arms. “How’s
Grief and Loss
coming along?” she asked, but all Story could think about was whether or not Martin Baxter would classify Ivy as a weed. “Lindsey’s almost got
Wedding Bells
finished, you know.”

Definitely a weed,
she thought. “How’s Lindsey’s divorce coming along, Boss? That’s sure to inspire a hell of a romantic greeting card,” Story said.

She figured that would send Ivy on her way, but like any successful weed, Ivy sprouted right back up. “Story, you know that splendid feeling you get when you’ve won?”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“It’s glorious.” Ivy beamed. “That feeling . . . that’s what we want for people when they read one of our cards.”

Story thought about it for a moment. “What if they haven’t really won?”

Ivy Powers swatted Story’s desk with her happy-face-on-a-stick, as if she was murdering an invisible fly. “Then you make them
feel
like they’ve won.”

And so came divine inspiration, without warning, from an unlikely source.
That’s it
, Story thought. That was how she’d buy some time with Claire and Cooper. Story hugged her slave driver boss and said, “Boss, you’re not a weed, you’re a genius.” Ivy Powers repelled the embrace, and Story dashed out of her cubicle. But after several paces, Story turned back to Ivy and winked.

“You’re not a genius, Ms. Powers,” Story said with sincerity. Then she told her what she needed to hear: “You’re a winner!”

C
ooper stared at his dinner plate, pushing his meatballs around with disdain. “I hate meatballs,” he mumbled, resting his chin on the table, looking at a giant pile of spaghetti. “Dad was the one who liked—”

“Please, Coop, just . . .” she started, but the doorbell saved them both from another unhappy meal in the house of Payne. “Are you expecting anyone?” Claire asked her son.

Cooper was never expecting anyone, and he gave her a look that said as much. He jumped up from the table and ran to the door. When he opened it, Story Easton greeted him with a wave and a smile. “Hey,” she whispered, as if the two of them shared a secret.

“Hey,” Cooper said, defying the don’t-talk-to-strangers rule. He stared at Story for a moment, and said, “Tell me you have a pizza.”

Story laughed. “Nope, no pizza. Something better.” She smiled, raising her eyebrows. “Way better.”

Story still didn’t have the details of her plan worked out, so when she heard Claire Payne’s footsteps approaching the door, she looked around the entryway, for something—anything—to help her formulate a believable story. She spotted an umbrella stand acting as a stand-up vase for a giant bouquet of wood-handled umbrellas, unusual for an Arizona residence, and next to it, on a small table, sat a big stack of junk mail and some magazines. On the top was the same
National Geographic
magazine she’d seen at Martin Baxter’s house, except this one was crisp and unopened.

“Hello? Can I help you?” Claire was still in her work clothes, a gray suit jacket and skirt, and Story found her more intimidating than when she’d seen her last. “We’re in the middle of—”

Cooper looked at his mother and widened his brown eyes. “She has something, Mom.”

Tired and distracted, Claire looked at her watch. “Is it a package or something? I didn’t realize the mail came this late.”

Cooper gave Story a knowing look. Story had never liked children much, even when she was a child, but Cooper didn’t irritate her as other kids did. He was smart. He had a future in sarcasm, she felt. And he was the kind of kid who might buy one of her cards when he grew up, or at least make fun of one of Ivy’s. Not to mention, he seemed to be on her team at the moment.

But Claire was going to be more difficult. All moms have built-in bullshit detectors as a result of always being short on time, and from living with men for so long. Story had to act fast, so she mustered every ounce of enthusiasm she could, threw up her arms, and hollered, “You won!”

Cooper’s face lit up. He didn’t care whether they’d won a free car wash, a lifetime supply of popsicles, or the Arizona state lottery.

Claire Payne blurted, “Um, I’m sorry, but we don’t want any—”

“No, no, I’m not selling anything,” Story said, placing a gentle hand on Claire’s arm. “This is real.” Story searched deep for truth, and when she couldn’t find it anywhere, she settled on something better than truth—necessity. “I’m a representative from
National Geographic
. . . here to deliver your prize.”

Out of patience, Claire said, “Look, I don’t even read it—it was my husband’s.” Claire had spent the last year answering phone calls and accepting packages for a dead man, and it never got any easier. “If he signed up for something, I don’t know—”

“It’s a random sweepstakes,” Story blurted. “Your name was drawn from thousands of subscribers. You’re Claire, right?”

“And I’m Cooper!” Cooper said, squirming his way toward her.

Story smiled and crouched down to shake Cooper’s hand.
Call me Ishmael.
“Story.”

“Like the Once-Upon-A-Time kind of story?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said with a wink. “But not nearly as interesting.”

Turning his smile into more of a smirk, Cooper looked up at Story, pointed at her, and spoke in a commanding, life-or-death tone. “You . . . should have some meatballs.” After a stern glare from his mother, Cooper smiled again.

“Oh, I’d hate to impose,” Story said while performing an invisible victory dance.

Cooper took Story by the hand. “Come on, Mom always tells me we should share with those less . . . What’s the word, Mom?” he asked, looking in the driveway at Story’s very humble-looking Volvo.

“Fortunate,” Claire said, giving him a
you’re-in-big-trouble
look.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Story said as Cooper Payne led her into his house.

As Cooper watched Story inhale an entire plate of spaghetti, Claire, uncomfortable with the weirdness of it all, said, “So, you couldn’t have just called?”

“Mom!” Cooper said.