The Understory (14 page)

All Hans really heard was the last bit. “Yes, Cooper is a fine little fellow. He was telling me about the trip he won. The trip you seem to be giving away for free, for some reason.”

Story sighed. “Look, they’re probably getting suspicious. We’d better get out there—”

“Yes, we should. We should also tell Claire that you slept in her guest room last night—”

“What do you want?”

“It’s more like what I
need
.”

“Okay. What do you need?”

Hans Turner raised his eyebrows. “A vacation.”

“T
his is blackmail, you know,” Story said, shaking Hans’s hand. “I do know. And thanks for playing, by the way.”

Story rifled through the desk for anything that would make her look more legitimate to Claire. She saw dozens of pencils, pens, and paper clips, but left them all untouched. When she opened another drawer, she saw a stack of old
National Geographic
magazines and grabbed a few.

She opened one last drawer. “Perfect,” she said, as she took a small camcorder out from behind a bunch of hanging file folders and stuffed it in her bag.

“Hmmm, a thief, too,” Hans said. “You suddenly got more interesting.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I’m just borrowing it.”

Hans stood up tall, swept his hands through the air in elegant, fluid gestures, and said in a phony magic-show voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the nice family
once
had a camcorder, and
then, presto,
it disappeared!”

“Can you make yourself disappear?” Story sounded sincere, and a little snotty.

Hans softened, and gave her a look that made her almost feel bad. “You’ll regret saying that someday.”

“Really?” she snickered, surprised by her own crankiness. Hans was indeed fabulous—funny, wicked-handsome, and literate—but the timing was all wrong. Story was about to embark upon a journey that could produce her first taste of success, and a cute handyman-magician was only going to complicate things.

Mr. Complicated answered with confidence. “Really.”

Story grabbed his hand and led him toward the door, exhaling the whole way. “Let’s go tell them the good news.”

When everyone was back in the kitchen, Story explained that her boss, the project coordinator for the “It’s Your Rainforest, Too” sweepstakes, had called to let her know one of the crew members had fallen ill, and wouldn’t be joining them.

“We need to replace Shawn. He was in charge of carrying our gear. So Hans here has generously offered to come with us,” Story said.

“Just glad I could help—”

“Shhh,” Story said with a slight smile. “Sherpas don’t talk. They just carry.” She took the camcorder out of her bag. “I brought this with me, so we could start the filming ourselves, in case the crew was late. Which they are,” she said, pretending to be dissatisfied.

Claire stared at the camcorder. “Wow, that looks just like our camera.”

“Weird. We must have the same one,” Story said.

Hans focused on Story, who was fidgeting with buttons. “Pack mule, huh?” he said. “Okay, I guess. If that’s really what you—”

“Zip it, Sherpa Boy,” Story snapped, herding all three of them together to record the happy moment. “Okay, everyone,” Story instructed from behind the lens. “Give us your first reactions to your upcoming trip. What do you know about the rainforest?”

Exhausted, Claire Payne fake-smiled at the camera for a moment, and then, having had enough, took herself out of the shot. “Look, I’ve got an early day tomorrow, and this is all . . . too bizarre. I’m sure the trip would’ve been wonderful, but the timing isn’t right. We should wait,” she said, thinking briefly of scissors and a long-haired old woman.

“Mom?” Cooper said, looking at her with a desperation that was unprecedented even for him. What he said next didn’t come out as a complaint or a whine—in fact, he didn’t sound like a child at all, but rather like someone delivering a truth that only he knew. “It’s gonna happen. Just like Dad said it would.”

Overwhelmed, Claire Payne walked out of the kitchen. Dead silence fell over the room just as Story turned the camcorder off. “Is she gonna be okay?” Story asked Cooper.

He pulled a stool up to the counter to finish his milk. “Yeah. She just needs to talk to Sonny.”

“Let’s hope he’s in a good mood.” Story sighed, mumbling, “Fifty-fifty chance.”

“I need to tell your mom one thing before I go,” Hans said. When Cooper confirmed she was in the den, Hans went to tell Claire he was giving her a discount on the original estimate, because the door had been a lot easier to fix than he thought it would be. The door to the den was shut, so he cracked it open, and when he did, he saw a side-shot of Claire Payne with her suit jacket off, white button-down shirt wide open, exposing her shiny, ocean-turquoise bra and liberal cleavage to Sonny the bird.

Claire didn’t immediately see him, which gave Hans a chance to avert his eyes and gather his thoughts.
Damn the poor lighting. Damn my conscience for making me look away. And damn that lucky bird.
And then he caught himself wishing it had been Story standing there, exposed and vulnerable. Her oversized pajamas had left a lot to the imagination.

“Oh, God!” Claire gasped, closing her shirt when she saw Hans. One minute she was asking Sonny about the trip, and the next . . . the next, she was apologizing for not showing him her breasts more often, when he was alive.

Hans covered his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his hands. “Just wanted to let you know I gave you a discount on the door.”

Mortified, Claire kept her back to him. “Um, thanks. You did a good job. I’ll tell all my friends about you.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Just as he was about to walk away, he said, “You know that trick I did for Cooper?”

“Uh-huh,” Claire said, still buttoning, and still mortified.

“I never wanted to learn that trick. It ended up being my favorite, though. It’s the one that inspired me to perform for people.” By now, Claire had buttoned her shirt and put on her jacket. “Sometimes it’s the thing you think will never work that actually . . .” He abandoned his thoughts when he realized words were getting in the way, and he walked out the door.

“Were they okay?” said Story when he returned to the kitchen.

“They were both very nice,” said Hans.

“Cooper,” Story said, “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna help Hans carry his gear to his truck.” She grabbed his only “gear,” the small planer, which was so light Cooper could have carried it with two fingers, and left Hans empty-handed.

“I’ll need your cell phone number,” she said quietly, pulling a piece of scratch paper from her bag as he trailed behind her. As they both came to the door—the front door, the very door Hans had repaired earlier—Story opened it wide, exposing a black canvas sky splattered with millions of glimmering stars. With one foot on the tiled entryway and the other on the porch outside, Story gripped the door handle and thought,
What am I opening here?

Without speaking, she looked back at Hans, who looked happy to have a door opened for him for once. A stream of moonlight connected with him, and as naturally as breathing, Story recalled Martin Baxter’s words:
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.

Breaking her gaze at the moon, Story fixed her sights on Hans, whose hands reached out to her, even when they were by his side. And when Hans’s eyes met Story’s, she felt something crazy. Something totally inane. Something that made her feel as if she could, quite possibly, find success. And deserve it.

Though she had no idea how this journey would turn out, she was certain of one thing: Story Easton wanted the handsome stranger to come with her.

None of it made sense yet. And all of it was surprising.

But it felt comfortable.

It felt a lot like a great first line.

C
laire Payne, now a lot more dressed and a lot more grounded, walked into the kitchen to tell Cooper there would be no impromptu trip to the jungle.

“Babe,” she said as he drank his milk at the counter, “I know you think this trip will fix—”

“Can Story read it to me tonight?” Cooper interrupted. He knew what was coming, but when you’re eight, delaying the inevitable is still better than experiencing it.

By now, Story had returned, and when she heard the tail end of the request, she gave Cooper a thumbs-up. Claire delivered a reluctant okay. “But then it’s goodnight for you,” she said, “and goodbye for Story.”

Story froze. They both knew what she meant.
Goodbye, Amazon. Goodbye, hope.

When Cooper started to run toward his room, Claire called to him, “You can go get the book and the umbrella, but let’s read it in the living room tonight, sweetie.”

While Cooper ran upstairs, Claire took Story by the arm, looked her in the eyes, and held up a firm index finger. “One: Let him open the umbrella. I know it doesn’t make sense inside the house, but just let him. Two: He’ll probably want to arrange the couch pillows in some sort of special way. It’s okay. Three: Read
every
word on the page, and don’t diverge from the story or try to embellish. It makes him sad.”

She wanted to tell Story this would be the last time she’d be reading, or even talking, to Cooper, but she didn’t, and let Story go into the living room, where Cooper was now waiting.

When Story sat down next to him, he’d already fixed the couch pillows and was opening the green umbrella. “Here it is,” he said, handing her the book.

“Cool,” she said. “You like this one, huh?”

He just stared back, gave her a half-nod, and folded his hands.

“Okay,” Story said, getting comfortable. “
Once Upon A Moonflower: A Fairy Tale (or A Tale of a Fairy)
. Written by Martin Baxter.” She paused, then looked to Cooper for validation.

Cooper’s eyes widened, indicating she should open the book for something important.

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry.” She opened the book and read from the title page. “Due to its graphic (real) and cerebral (smart) nature, this story is not recommended for small children, unless they are really, really brave.” She then read the sentence below that. “Dedicated to my daughter Hope, the project I’m most proud of.”

Cooper smiled. “
Now
you can read the story,” he said, but Story, distracted, stared at a photo sticking out of the book’s pages. She recognized the picture because she’d seen it earlier in Cooper’s room. It was the one with Cooper and his father at a baseball game. As Story stared at the photo, she thought about her own father, and imagined him with David Payne, laughing, at some baseball game far, far away.

But Cooper didn’t, and wouldn’t, comment on the picture. It was there to remind him of the dad he once had. For him, it was proof that the man who could hit a baseball farther than anyone he knew—a man who could read every big word and who smelled like aftershave and green apple Jolly Ranchers—was, in fact, the man who loved him more than anything in the world.