The Understory (7 page)

“I’m fine. Hello,” Story finally said, unaware of how flirty her inflection was until she heard the “o” stretch out and echo its way down the hallway. “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” she said, but when she tried to back away from him, she realized she had somehow snagged the waist of her pajama bottom around a tool hanging from his tool belt.

The two of them danced for moment in an awkward series of movements, until the man smiled, raised his eyebrows, and in a quiet voice said, “You’re stuck on my big hammer.”

She rolled her eyes but softened when the stranger said, “Here,” and tenderly separated the two of them using the little claw of his much smaller hammer.

Story was still trying not to ogle. “You look just like . . .”

“That guy. I know.”

Nice voice. Quiet yet confident. God, nice teeth, too
, she thought when he smiled.
He’s perfect. How despicable.
Secretly, Story hoped he’d burp, use a double negative, or act servile—anything to make him seem less attractive—but he didn’t. Instead, his tall frame, unfaltering, stood still and attentive, his T-shirt calling attention to his lean biceps, strong from real work probably, not from fake workouts at a trendy gym. His Carhart work pants were clean and wrinkle-free, as if he wore them to do handiwork and then out to dinner.

Then Story raised her hopes.
Maybe he smells.
But no luck there either. When Story subtly leaned forward and took in a breath, she inhaled a manly cocktail: part hardware store (complete with the slightly dirty smell of little drawers full of nails and screws), part freshly-showered clean, and part maple-cured bacon, which he probably cooked himself.
God, yummy enough to eat. And he cooks!

And truth be told, he did look like
that guy
, if
that guy
was a Greek god with a tool belt. His light brown hair, cut short, lay close to his head in gentle swirls, and when bits of sunlight entered through the hallway window, specks of amber streaked his hair with gold.
What the hell am I doing?
she thought.
These are observations made by the predictable heroine in a cheesy beach novel. No wonder I can’t make it as a real writer!

But then she noticed something interesting and less clichéd. As he adjusted his tool belt, Story noticed what set this man apart—his hands. They were beat up, scraped, and chafed from his labors, but it was more than that—they seemed broken, like flawed companions for his eyes, which were bright but, now that she thought about it, vaguely wounded.

“Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he said. “I’m fixing a door downstairs . . . I heard something up here.” He took a closer look at her as he rubbed one of his hands. “The homeowner said nobody would be home—”

“Right.” Story let out a nervous chuckle. “Right! I forgot to tell her I was coming.”

“Claire?”

“Yeah,” Story said, swallowing. “She’s my sister.” Violating her personal rule of never reciting the oft-quoted Salinger because it was cliché, she thought, until the man spoke again,
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that
David Copperfield
kind of crap—

“Always travel in your pajamas?” He smiled again, but this time the smirk ended on a skeptical note.

She raised her eyebrows and took a step toward him. “Always entrap people with your big hammer?” she said, looking into his eyes. When he didn’t laugh, she took a small step back. “Came late last night. Let myself in.”

“People really should lock their doors,” he said, nodding. “You could be a serial killer.”

“I know! I totally could be!” Story said.

“If you’re not a serial killer, what are you, then?” he asked, securing his hammers.

Story had already lied, so she continued her prevarication by pretending to be someone her mother would be proud of. “I’m a doctor,” she said.

Impressed, he said, “Really? I’ve got this pain in my . . .”

“I’m a proctologist,” she blurted.

“. . . neck.”

Story mumbled while the man, in a calm and thorough manner, described the aches and pains aggravated by his line of work. And then he glanced in Cooper’s bedroom.

“That’s my nephew’s room—Cooper,” Story said, lost in a dreamy stare, and when she said his name out loud, she felt more confident than ever about her decision. “He’s turning nine on Friday. I’m here to give him a big surprise.”

“If it’s a free prostate exam, I’ll be forced to call social services.”

Story let out an awkward laugh, then said, “Nope, something else.” She winked, shrouding herself in her noble endeavor, and whispered the words she wanted to believe, but didn’t. “It’s magic.”

He perked up when he heard
magic
. “Good luck with that,” he said, his smile returning. His eyes darted around a bit, looking first at her emerald eyes and her long, wavy auburn hair, and then his gaze fixed on her cupid’s bow lips. “I’m Hans.”

“Story,” she said.

“Too bad,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Not a big fan of stories.”

Oh, my God, I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I used my real name.
Trying to look calm, she said, “Let me guess, you’re a realist,” followed by a pause. “Do you buy greeting cards, by chance?” she asked, but when he gave her a puzzled look, she said, “Never mind. Look, I gotta go. Don’t mention my being here to my sister, okay? I’m coming back at dinner to give him the—”

“Surprise, right.” Hans covered his eyes. “Never saw you.” But when he unveiled his eyes, Story saw a slight sparkle, a shimmering hint of almost-enthusiasm—which, like his voice, was just on the verge of giving a shit. “May you live happily ever after, Story.”

And when the words came out, Hans looked a little shocked, as if he’d surprised even himself. Story wondered if he was teasing her, maybe to get her to flirt some more, but right when her mind wandered away from the dreamy man in front of her, and instead focused on the task at hand—her new quest to save Cooper Payne—Hans did something which seemed somehow genuine, and certainly notable.

He called her bluff and kissed her.

H
aving not been kissed,
really
kissed, in a long time, Story first went a little weak in the knees, and then stiffened, a self-conscious reaction to being caught wearing pajamas while suffering from un-brushed teeth and sleepy onion breath. It was like a post-coital morning-after kiss, but without the dinner-date protocol. She could have said, “That was nice,” or at least “Thank you,” but instead, she sabotaged yet another beautiful thing by saying, “What was that for?”

Hans could have given an elaborate answer, but he simply smiled and stared back.
Strong, silent type.
Story let out an audible, disgusted sigh.
Great. The clichés are free-flowing now.
“One kiss,” Story blurted, “and you become a mute?” Out of character, she added, “A
cute
mute.” And then she decided to stay quiet (and stop rhyming) when she recalled a first line in which being mute was attractive—at least, to one other person.
In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together.

Hans studied Story’s face, and finally said, with an air of magic and mystery, “Merry Christmas, Story.”

She folded her arms and fought back a smirk. “It’s not even Halloween yet.” And then, in keeping with the weirdness—being in a strange home, getting kissed by a stranger, and deciding to help a little boy she hadn’t yet met—she borrowed someone else’s words and whispered, “All this happened, more or less.”

Hans’s voice was soft but definitive. “Vonnegut.”

“Yes,” she said, the brevity becoming contagious. “You’re a Vonnegut fan?”

“Isn’t everyone?” His pale blue eyes seemed to be getting bluer.

Mr. Rennaisance Man knows Vonnegut
and
can fix a door? Damn it, these aren’t even my cool pajamas.
Story envisioned beefy and glistening handymen sitting in a Book Club circle, discussing extended metaphors and character believability, and wondered how she could get invited to such an event. Story watched Hans tighten his tool belt, and when he looked up at her, it seemed like goodbye.

Without thinking, she said, “This was a good time,” revealing more than she wanted, and before the full embarrassment of her desperation could set in, she shut her eyes and hoped he didn’t hear.

But he did. Hans stood tall, unmoving. “It was the best of times,” he said.

Story figured she had nothing to lose, so she opened her eyes, and continued with the most recognizable and revered first lines in all of literature. “It was the worst of times.”

“It was the age of wisdom,” he said, convincing and proud.

Like a fool, Story continued to recite Dickens in her pajamas. “It was the age of foolishness.”

“It was . . .” Hans began to laugh. “What the hell
was
it? I only read the Cliff Notes for this one.”

“The epoch of belief,” Story said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Ah,” he said, “no wonder I didn’t remember that line. It’s stupid . . . What a hack.” They both laughed. “I actually remember the
last
line of
A Tale of Two Cities
better than the first—it’s much more memorable.” He blinked slowly, folded his hands, and grew serious. “I can recite it in my sleep.”

“What is it?” Story asked.

“Slips my mind,” he said, smiling. But Story knew he hadn’t forgotten. Something told her it was an ending that needed to be earned, and after all, he’d just met her. And Hans seemed like the kind of guy who never let his Dickens reach fruition on the first date, although his timing for kisses was odd.

“I thought you didn’t like stories.”

“I used to.”

Hans wished her well with a warm smile, and Story could tell he was wondering about her. To Story, Hans looked as if he possessed a penchant for rescuing women in distress, not in a chauvinistic way, but in a real way, as if he somehow felt responsible. Several times during their conversation, when he was on the verge of talking, he instead offered her his hands. It was subtle, of course, but Story noticed how he extended them in a vulnerable way, somewhere between a peace offering and a safety net. And yet, other times, he rubbed them, as if they ached. So when he presented his large, working-man hand to Story, and let her do the talking, she felt safe, but also bummed that he saw her as someone who might not be capable of helping herself.

“A pleasure,” she said as she let his strong hands squeeze hers. After starting down the hall, she turned around for a moment to give one last smile to the beautiful stranger who would stay just that—a stranger.

Goodbye to the only real prince in Phoenix, the one who might have given me a chance.

Love,

Princess Failure

M
any years ago, in a sun-kissed land, a young Hans Turner became a man too soon. Like most tales, Hans’s is many-layered—story upon story stacked inside him like the hand-chiseled wooden blocks he could create to perfection. But just as every fictional fairy tale character has one defining moment—Cinderella’s mother dying, Jack’s run-in with a giant, Snow White’s fickle dad marrying a murderous bitch—so did the very real Hans Turner. It happened in his childhood, and it carved into his life a dark groove that, no matter what he did to smooth it over, remained a deep, lifeless furrow.

Not that he didn’t try to smooth it over, try to sand it out of his life for good. Ever since it happened, at the age of eight, Hans tried hard to wash his hands of it. But his hands were always, and are, the problem—they failed him once, long ago. To make up for it, he now used his hands as tools to fix and protect, certain that it is actions, not words, that save people—but there is an exception to every rule.

In stories, words often trump action. In stories, the things people say to each other breathe life into those in need of resuscitation. In stories, words can work magic. But stories lived only in Hans’s past, where they existed on a flat, imaginary page, fixed in time, because any fool knew this: Compared to people in real life, stories always disappoint.