The Understory (21 page)

While she waited for Hans to show up, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at her dining room table, observing her consistent, daily companion—the ten-foot tall crossword puzzle. Thirty-Nine Across.
Hughes’s dream.
Eight letters. With money on the brain, she contemplated Howard Hughes’s possible dreams. Eight letters.
AIRPLANE.
No.
MILLIONS.
Neither fit with the “R” she already had.

After another glass of wine and another hour of trying to figure out the puzzle, a knock broke her concentration. When she opened the door for the door-maker himself, Hans Turner stood in front of her in the crisp, black tuxedo he wore for magic performances. It looked like a normal tux, in that it fit him well and seemed to be made out of decent fabric, but unlike the run-of-the-mill suits she’d seen, his had something unexpected—the pocket was stuffed with some sort of scarf, much more exciting than Ivy’s fake pocket-cloth. What she could see—the purple end peeking out of the pocket—was just the beginning. Purple would become red, then green, then yellow, and then continue in a rainbow of options, all from the magic hands that opened doors of possibility.

It was love at first sight.
It troubled Story that this line, a joke meant to highlight the absurdity of the very notion of love at first sight, was occupying her brain and polluting a decent moment.

“You shaved, too,” Story said. She felt wobbly.

“You . . .” he said. Taking in all of her, from her long, smooth legs to her shiny, kissable lips, he forgot to finish his sentence. “Beautiful.” And then he pulled a quirky bouquet of plastic flowers out of nowhere and presented them to her in one fluid, charming movement.

“Mmmm,” she said, smiling as she took a whiff. “Waxy.”

Confident in his answer and in his choice, he said, “They’ll last forever.”

W
hen they arrived downtown, Story and Hans walked across Park Street, and up the two flights of cement steps that led to the Gurston Library and Museum. The front of the building—hundreds of windows nestled in a wall of brick—seemed unusually dark for such a big event. “My mother’s probably showing footage of her twenty years of success,” Story said with a laugh. “And knowing how much my mother likes to witness success, the lights may never come back on.”

They walked down a long corridor toward the main reading room. The journey down the brick-lined hallway reminded her of the walkway leading to the Royal Table in Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World. She’d seen it on television when she was little, and though she’d resisted it, she remembered secretly wondering what it would be like to live as a princess.

Hans moved to open the door, but Story felt the need to do it herself. She turned the doorknob and prepared for a long evening of boredom, humiliation, and more phonics and building blocks than anyone ought to see in one location. She figured she had the wrong room, because when she opened the door, all she saw was black. But just as she turned to leave, she heard a roomful of people yell, “Surprise!”

When the lights came on, Story saw a cocktail party, not a Socra-Tots® convention. The beautiful octagonal room—the same one, full of rare art and special-edition books, used for special events with high-brow Phoenix officials—felt both regal and cozy. It was aglow with a warm light and abuzz with roving waiters carrying appetizers and green apple martinis, Story’s favorite. The vaulted ceiling went up two stories, and all eight sides of the room were connected by wall-to-wall bookshelves, extending all the way to the skylight at the top, interrupted here and there by framed artwork. Attached to the bookshelves were three polished mahogany ladders fastened by way of a metal track, which traveled the circumference of the room, and made available any unreachable book. To the left of the door was a four-string quartet playing a refined and lively instrumental version of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.”

As Story looked around the room, she spotted some familiar people, but most were only vaguely identifiable. After taking in the scene, Story’s gaze came full circle, and ended up focused on one person who, at that very moment, Story realized was her true center, the person who’d always acted as Story’s vantage point—even when her point was shrieking and unbearable. There stood Beverly Easton, center stage, in front of several rows of other standing guests.

Beverly Easton walked over to Story and Hans, who still stood at the threshold. “Happy thirtieth, honey,” Beverly said, with a hug that seemed strangely maternal. “I knew you’d forget—you always forget your birthday.”

Story braced herself for
Why do you suppose you’re so forgetful?
but it never came. Duped by her own mother, a dumbfounded Story faced her, shocked. “How did you . . . What about the gala . . . anniversary party?”

Her mother kissed her on the cheek and said, “It’s next week . . . I still want you to come, and after this, you can’t say no.” Beverly Easton took in the stunning venue, and then looked at Hans with raised eyebrows. “Maybe he can come, too.”

“Uh, Mom, this is Hans,” Story said, leading both of them out of the doorway and into the party. Hans shook Beverly’s hand, and the moment she said hello, she looked down to see a small and shiny hand-painted wooden egg in her hand. Story let out a nervous giggle when she said, “He does it all. Fixes doors, repairs . . . um . . . broken things . . .” With a flush traveling up her neck, she was careful not to say,
Seduces unsuspecting women with his hammer.
Smiling warmly, she finished, “Performs impromptu magic tricks.” When Story said it, she gave her mother a look that said,
Please keep your Magic-Is-Rubbish lecture to yourself.

“How nice. Let’s go mingle,” Beverly Easton said, taking Hans in one arm and Story in the other. After getting a good look at Hans, she said, “Good Lord, you’re gorgeous. You look just like—”

“I know,” Hans said, nodding. “That one guy.”

“You are a
dish
,” she said, taking him in. “Really. You’re a prince. Do you want marriage? Children?” Giving Hans a playful squeeze, she strolled toward the crowd.

“Mom!” Story shook her head, then mumbled an Austen-tacious line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

While Hans shook his head and declared he did not have a fortune, Beverly Easton fired back, “Oh, don’t be a brat, Story. Is it so wrong for a woman of my age to want grandchildren?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but instead began introductions in the form of a quiz. “Story, do you remember Fred Harrington?”

Story stared, trying to place him, but had no idea who he was.

The old man, hunched over and cranky, said in a raspy and scraggly voice, “Let me refresh your memory.” In a turn for the worse, he yelled, “Sit down in back! I know you’re writing on the seat again!”

“Oh, God,” Story mumbled, realizing it was her middle-school bus driver. In seventh grade, her mother decided it would be good for Story to attend a year of public school (to build character, she said), and in defiance, Story wrote inappropriate limericks on the bus seats.

Hans laughed, Beverly flashed a fake smile, and Story said, “How nice to see you again,” in a loud voice.

“I’m not deaf! Happy damn birthday,” he scoffed, scooting off toward the nonfiction stacks to hide until his “time” was up, he said. Story figured if he planned on dropping dead right there in the library, it was better to die surrounded by truth than perish in fiction.

Story barely had a chance to recover from the Fred Harrington encounter when her mother pulled her and Hans over to three bubbly, grinning girls Story recognized. “Hey, Story!” they said in unison.

“You remember the Turlington Triplets. You used to play together when you were little,” Beverly said, inspecting them. All three had flipped-up hair, the perfect shade of blonde, not too platinum and not too brassy, and their figures were perfect, too—athletic but feminine. They all wore knee-length red dresses, which were not exactly the same, but three variations on a theme. V-neck. Spaghetti straps. Strapless.

Her recollection of them came in bursts. The first thing she remembered was how they secretly wanted to be Story’s sisters so they could live with and learn from the incomparable Beverly Easton, mentor extraordinaire. So there they were, the evil stepsisters in the flesh. That is, if the evil stepsisters were supermodels instead of big-nosed monstrosities.

Story conducted three handshakes with the ladies in red as she recalled the
play
her mother had referred to, which was really endless hours of boot-camp role-play practice with the oh-so-cute triplets. They had been the official poster-children for Socra-Tots® for five full years, providing pig tails, effervescent smiles, and hope for parents suffering from high expectations for their own children. They adorned millions of brochures, and starred in hundreds of videos, all of which helped Socra-Tots® Inc. make millions. As Story observed their predictable smiles and shallow exchanges, she felt a twinge of joy come over her. They hadn’t turned out that great after all.

“God, what’s it been? Twenty-five years? What have you been up to?” Story asked.

“I work for the UN. UNICEF Division,” the first one said. And when she delivered a loud, “Save the children!” her eyes looked a little crazy, but the other two nodded in harmony with her melodic declaration.

The second of the trio said, “I’m the head developmental geneticist for the leading cancer research center,” and put her thumb and index finger together to show she was “
this
close to finding a cure!”

The third-let finished with, “I teach music.” Story breathed a sigh of relief. That didn’t seem so impressive. “To quadriplegics.”
Christ.
“From all over the world—my company just went global and we’re giving ten percent of the proceeds to charity! You know, your mother taught me that in life, ninety percent is what—”

“Oh, shut it, Samantha,” Story said, grabbing an envious green-apple martini off a roving waiter’s tray and gulping.

Samantha, unaffected, said, “And thanks to Socra-Tots®, I’ve been fluent in six languages since toddlerhood!”

Story turned her head to avoid her mother’s look—she was oozing with pride—and, averting her eyes, she thought about how hard it must be to teach someone without arms how to play the piccolo. She couldn’t even get a full-bodied eight-year-old boy to the jungle.

“Girls, this is Hans, Story’s friend,” Beverly said. She raised her eyebrows and whispered, “He makes magic doors—”

“The doors aren’t magic, Mother, he’s a mag—”

“Some of my doors turn out to be quite magical, actually,” Hans said.

But Beverly Easton ignored Hans and moved on to the next guest, shaking his reluctant hand and saying, “Story, say hello to Shawn.” Beverly pretended to fan her face with her hand when she announced, “Old flame,” then extinguished a fake ember on Shawn’s shoulder. Just as Story was thinking it was a nice gesture for him to come, she saw him hold up five fingers and mouth something to Story’s mother, who whispered back a scolding, “No, the deal was four hundred, not five.”

“Mother!” Story hollered, softening her voice when she said, “You paid him to come to my party?!” She took a moment for the horror to set in, as she watched Fred Harrington take two hors d’oeuvres for the road to help him celebrate his “time” being up. “Jesus, Mother. Are they all on paid, rotating shifts?” she said, looking over the many guests who were posing as friends.

Hans did the math. “Hey, I deserve
six
hundred, then. I drove her here.”

Beverly Easton brushed Story’s bangs out of her eyes with one nurturing sweep. “Darling, no offense, but you’ve never inspired a very loyal social circle—some of your acquaintances needed a little incentive to show up.”

With that, Story took a direct route to the first roving cocktail tray she could find, and after placing her empty glass down, grabbed two drinks and a crab cake, another of her favorites that she didn’t think her mother knew about. She handed Hans a drink. “This martini’s just the first installment of your date fee. I’ll send you money when I have it.” She sipped furiously, ate the green apple wedge hanging off the glass’s edge, and recalled her checking account balance. “On second thought, you better enjoy the martini.”

Hans took Story’s hand and led her through a roomful of people, all of whom seemed rather oblivious to her presence. “I think this would be a great opportunity,” Hans said, “for you to tell me about yourself, Story. Without lying this time.” They walked through French doors, out onto a small terrace overlooking the Phoenix nightscape. When Story looked unwilling to participate, Hans turned away from her. “I
could
just go ask your fifth-grade teacher,” he said, pointing to a woman in a denim jumper talking loudly and shaking her head in disapproval. “I overheard her saying something about you being a smartass with a bad attitude and bad penmanship. Or maybe I’ll have a chat with your gynecologist, yucking it up with the musicians over there. He’s sure to have some juicy tidbits about you—”