The Understory (24 page)

A
squall of thoughts whipped around in Story’s mind.
I’ve lost my boyfriend. I’ve lost my sherpa. I’ve lost . . . my magic treasure box! Damn it.
She knew she could muster up some kind of Plan B for the box, but she suddenly felt a horrible sadness come over her when she imagined Hans not being there when Cooper found the box. In that moment, his strong hands would not be there to hold hers, and somehow she knew that where Hans was concerned, there could be no Plan B. He was definitely Plan A.

But the task at hand would not wait for a mopey Story to get over her Plan A Man, so she tried to focus. She sat at her dining room table, surrounded by an ocean of green designed to make her feel alive.
I’m dead,
she thought.
This mission is dead. Totally stalled out. Totally screwed up. Totally failed.

Resisting the urge to give up, she tried to start over.
Begin again,
she thought.
Think firsts.
She closed her eyes and tried to absorb any life force possibly coming from her green walls.
In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon. Okay. Think. Talk it out. First problem . . .
“If Martin won’t listen to me,” Story said aloud, “who might he listen to?” She imagined Cooper floating through the jungle like Curious George, hanging on to one giant red balloon. “Duh! Cooper.”

Okay, how can I get them in the same room?
she thought.
I’m going to have to lie again. I need to know when his flight leaves, and I need to get him to Cooper’s house.
She logged onto Arizona State’s website, retrieving the information she’d need for her plan, and dialed Martin Baxter’s number.

“Hello,” he said, and he already sounded like he was in a hurry.

Story cleared her throat, threw her voice, and said, “Dr. Baxter? This is Harriet Johnson, in for Pauline at Merriam’s office.” Story was well-versed in pretending to be other people, so she sounded quite authentic as substitute secretary to Merriam Kane, head of the biology department and Martin’s boss. “She wanted me to call you,” Story said.

“Regarding . . .” he said.

“She needs you to meet with someone.”

He sighed. “I’m leaving for an important expedition tomorrow, and I’ve still got so much to—”

“Yes, Ms. Kane knows, and she’s terribly sorry to put you in a crunch this close to your trip, but she said it would mean the world to the department. And to her.”

Martin sighed again. “Who is it? Who does she want me to meet with?”

Shit. I have no idea
, thought Story.

“Oh, is it that Ph.D. candidate she had me call a while back?” said Martin.

“Yes!” Story said in her real voice. “Yes,” she said, once again becoming Harriet, “that’s right. She’s having some trouble with her thesis.”

“You mean
he
,” Martin said with hesitation.

Story fumbled for more coffee. “Sorry,
he
is having some trouble with—”

“He’s having trouble,” said Martin, “because the dimwit can’t tell the difference between an epiphyte and a neophyte . . . I told him to focus his research on cell death, but oh no, he was hell-bent on cell division, mitosis-loving bastard that he is. I mean, really! Have we not heard enough about identical daughter nuclei?!”

“I certainly have, sir,” Story said via Harriet.

Martin’s diatribe continued. “Chromosomal
pairings
. . .
double
helix, chemical
bonds
,” he lamented. “No one wants to talk about the beauty of the
single
cell anymore, because they’re so busy basking in their happy fucking couplings! And don’t even get me started about overwrought photosynthesis. If I hear one more doctorate student defend chloroplasts, I swear to God . . .”

Letting out one more sigh, Martin said, more sadly, “It is a primal desire to see the perfect pairing—two things that truly belong together.” A hint of hardened resignation enveloped his last declaration. “And all of this takes places under the perfect, goddamned setting sun, the source of all our strength and sustenance.”

After a pause, alarming in its awkwardness, Story said, still in character, “Do you have a pen handy?”

“Sure,” Martin said.

“Here’s the
mitosis-loving bastard’s
address,” she said as equal parts Story and Harriet, giving him Claire Payne’s home address.

And then Martin let out something that sounded like a chuckle. “When am I supposed—”

“That depends. When is your plane leaving?”

“Tomorrow. Eight in the morning.”

“Well, you’ll need to see him today, then. Three o’clock. I’ll set it up. Thank you for doing this, Martin. Merriam thanks you.”

After letting Claire Payne know she’d be coming by at three, Story called Angela Hahn, a travel agent friend of her mother’s, to figure out which flight to take. “I’m confused,” Angela said. “You don’t know what city you want to fly into?”

Story snapped, “Just tell me which flight leaving the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport at 8 a.m. is headed toward South America.” And then she mumbled, “Anywhere south, really.”

“It’s not that easy, Story. There are many connecting flights going to different places before they reach their final destination, and—”

“Look harder, Angela. Please?”

After some furious keyboard clicking, Angela said, “Okay. There’s a Delta flight leaving at eight o’clock that picks up a connecting flight at LAX, switches to a TAM carrier in Lima, and arrives in Manaus, Amazonas, Brazil, at 8:12 p.m. their time—”

“That’s it! Thank you, thank you! Book four tickets, Angela. Money’s no problem—”

Angela laughed. “Story, money’s not the problem here. You can’t just up and go to Brazil with a day’s notice.”

“Why not? We all have passports—”

“Those passports need specific visa stickers for traveling to Brazil, and there’s yellow fever to worry about, and what about lodging, and—”

“We’ll figure out all those minor details later—”

“Minor details?” Angela laughed again.

“Just get us there, Angela, I’ll figure everything else out.” Story paused for a moment. “Could you take care of the little visa sticker thing?”

Angela let out a groan that said she would not.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Story added. “
Really
worth your while.”

And just as her mother had assured her, fairy godmothers don’t carry wands, they carry checkbooks. “Okay,” Angela said, “I know a guy, who knows a guy.”

F
inally, at the age of thirty, Story Easton was on the verge of greatness. By tomorrow, she would be standing in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, helping create a powerful, pivotal moment in Cooper Payne’s life, fulfilling a promise made by the father who loved him.

But she still had to convince Martin Baxter to expand his travel party by three, and she still had to get someone to make a magic treasure box, and she still had to continue the
National Geographic
charade so Claire didn’t get suspicious, all of this on top of wondering, every five minutes, what Hans’s magic hands were touching—and was he thinking of her?

So what does a girl do when it’s her against the world? She goes shopping, of course. On
The Best of Brazilian Travel Tips
website, Story had read what she needed for her travels, so at 10 a.m., when the mall opened, she headed out. She was so preoccupied with her big to-do list, she didn’t even bother to comb her hair or change out of the ratty T-shirt and sweatpants she’d slept in. After all, she was going there to prepare for her trip, not to be photographed.

She was going to spend a lot of money, which was a first for her. So after arriving at the mall, enjoying the newfound luxury of buying things that weren’t on sale (via her freshly-deposited trust fund), she purchased a big suitcase, complete with warranty and wheels, and began pulling it from store to store, throwing in necessities, like Gore-Tex walking shoes, and a safari hat with special mosquito netting.

At a nature store, she bought a fancy umbrella for Claire, a flashlight for Cooper, and a small hand-painted wooden egg for Hans, though she’d probably never give it to him. And because it felt like Christmas in October, she also picked up something for Martin—a pen with a wooden handle, carved into the shape of a curvy morning glory vine, and adorned with green leaves that looked like little hearts.

She treated herself at the food court’s Mammoth Burger—home of the one-pound hamburger—wrapped up the half she couldn’t eat, and stuffed it in the outside zipper of her suitcase. As she made her way through the mall, she walked past the bookstore, intrigued by what she saw propped up in the storefront window:
Once Upon A Moonflower
announced itself on a little white easel as she strolled by. Mini-mounds of fake grass, several cut-out trees, and one purple plastic fairy, which had fallen over, facedown in the grass, created a sad and hopeless synthetic forest. The book had been out for over a year, but the market offered nothing else like it, so the display had been maintained.

She entered the store rolling her giant, now heavy suitcase behind her. After accidentally crashing into a towering display of books, formerly stacked in a perfect stair-step pattern on the floor, she reached for Martin’s book and knocked over a dozen different display books like a row of dominoes. She pulled her suitcase out of the other shoppers’ way, pushed down the handle, and used the upright case as a makeshift seat. After placing her purse on the floor next to her, she sat down, opened the book, and tried to find where she’d left off.

A mousy store clerk with glasses and long, stringy hair approached her. “Can I
help
you?” she asked, clutching Stephen King’s bloody
Carrie
, which needed to be re-shelved. The clerk stared at the wreckage, and also at Story’s tattered outfit and half-eaten sandwich, peeking out of its pocket.

“No . . . thanks,” Story said, not looking up, but flipping pages with each word she spoke, as if she were looking for the answer to an important riddle. “I . . . just . . . need . . . to . . . find . . . out . . . what . . . happens . . . to . . . the . . . fairy.” She would soon be in the jungle with Cooper, and she’d need to know how the magic was supposed to unfold.

Though Story was too distracted to notice, she looked disheveled. So when the clerk softened her voice, winked, and whispered, “We’re giving away free cookie samples in the back of the store, just past the
Story
area,” Story didn’t know, or care, why.

Focused only on the book, Story mumbled, “Invoking my name doesn’t make me—”

“Pardon?” the clerk said. “That’s our last copy, and it’s not for sale, by the way.”

“Shhhhh!” Flipping one page at a time, and skimming first through adventures with the sloth, then the snake, Story continued to try to find the last part that she’d read. “Where’s the damn capybara . . .” she mumbled, still searching, until she found a spot close to where she’d left off. Story got more comfortable, repositioning herself on her suitcase, while the clerk lurked about, watching her every move.