Read Online The Understory by Elizabeth Leiknes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Leiknes
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ever after.
EIGHT
“Y ou’re late.” Ivy Powers and her happy-face-on-a-stick greeted Story at her cubicle, spewing an onslaught of deadline reminders and a new suggestion for the Grief and Loss series. “You’re including flowers in the design, right? Sad people like flowers.”
“Sad people don’t like flowers, Boss . . .” Guzzling her to-go coffee with beer-bong dedication, Story shuffled past Ivy to her desk. She’d just kissed a handyman, and she had only five days to figure out how to find a magic treasure box that didn’t exist.
“Ms. Powers, please,” Ivy said.
“They just say they like flowers to be nice, Boss. Because all of us stupid ‘happy’ people don’t know what to say, and instead of just saying sorry, we bring them bushels of delphiniums, roses, tulips—all of which wither and die a slow death—so the recipient gets to witness the death of something they love. Again.” Story’s memories of the days following her father’s death overflowed not with one indelible image, but with one overwhelming, offensive smell—death in the form of decaying bouquets from well-wishers.
Ivy flipped her happy face over like a pancake, and pointed to the other side of the cardboard cutout—a sad face with a slash through it. Bad attitudes were not welcome in her division. “Just because you feel like this doesn’t mean you get to show it.” She flipped sadness on its back like the cheap whore she thought it was, and showed, once again, the preferred happy face. “Now, this is where you need to be.” She winked another scary reminder. “Happy equals profit.”
“Cha-ching,” Story said with an exaggerated smile as two-faced Ivy walked away. She hollered, “You’re really growing on me, Ivy!” but because her pun was unappreciated, she knew the only real way to get back at her boss was to use company time for personal business.
So when all was clear, she Googled “Martin Baxter” to find out more about the magic treasure box, and how she could create one for Cooper. The first entry linked her to a fan’s website about Martin Baxter, author of the popular children’s book Once Upon A Moonflower . The next entry was an article in The Oregonian : “LOCAL PROFESSOR LOSES WIFE AND DAUGHTER IN FATAL CRASH.”
Another entry led her to Arizona State University’s official web site, with a link to Martin Baxter’s background information on the Biology Faculty page. “Professor Baxter comes to us from Portland State,” began the paragraph, which went on about Martin Baxter’s area of expertise—tropical plants, specifically rainforest bromeliads. Learning he was “son of the late Abigail Baxter, world-renowned botanical illustrator” made Story curious if he had been close with his successful mother, and then she wondered if Mrs. Baxter’s flower drawings could comfort a mourning widow.
Story found several other websites devoted to Once Upon A Moonflower , but none gave the specific location of the magic treasure box, nor did they explain what was in it, so it was time to ask the writer himself. After a successful Google search, she dialed Martin P. Baxter on Esther Drive.
A man answered, at last, on the tenth ring. “Hello.” It was not a greeting—more like a warning not to bother him.
“Hello. Hi.” Story fumbled, not sure where to start. “Is this Martin Baxter? Author of Once Upon A Moonflower ?”
The man didn’t answer. He took a couple of slow breaths, as if he was thinking. Story grew uncomfortable, so she began doodling a happy sunflower on her desk calendar, and when she could no longer stand the silence, she repeated, “Hello?”
The man remained silent, but Story heard him take a drink of something and clear his throat.
“Um, I’m sorry to bother you at home, sir,” said Story, “but I’m doing a story about your children’s book, and I have a couple of questions for you.”
He grunted something that almost sounded like “Mmm-kay.”
Story began
EIGHT
“Y ou’re late.” Ivy Powers and her happy-face-on-a-stick greeted Story at her cubicle, spewing an onslaught of deadline reminders and a new suggestion for the Grief and Loss series. “You’re including flowers in the design, right? Sad people like flowers.”
“Sad people don’t like flowers, Boss . . .” Guzzling her to-go coffee with beer-bong dedication, Story shuffled past Ivy to her desk. She’d just kissed a handyman, and she had only five days to figure out how to find a magic treasure box that didn’t exist.
“Ms. Powers, please,” Ivy said.
“They just say they like flowers to be nice, Boss. Because all of us stupid ‘happy’ people don’t know what to say, and instead of just saying sorry, we bring them bushels of delphiniums, roses, tulips—all of which wither and die a slow death—so the recipient gets to witness the death of something they love. Again.” Story’s memories of the days following her father’s death overflowed not with one indelible image, but with one overwhelming, offensive smell—death in the form of decaying bouquets from well-wishers.
Ivy flipped her happy face over like a pancake, and pointed to the other side of the cardboard cutout—a sad face with a slash through it. Bad attitudes were not welcome in her division. “Just because you feel like this doesn’t mean you get to show it.” She flipped sadness on its back like the cheap whore she thought it was, and showed, once again, the preferred happy face. “Now, this is where you need to be.” She winked another scary reminder. “Happy equals profit.”
“Cha-ching,” Story said with an exaggerated smile as two-faced Ivy walked away. She hollered, “You’re really growing on me, Ivy!” but because her pun was unappreciated, she knew the only real way to get back at her boss was to use company time for personal business.
So when all was clear, she Googled “Martin Baxter” to find out more about the magic treasure box, and how she could create one for Cooper. The first entry linked her to a fan’s website about Martin Baxter, author of the popular children’s book Once Upon A Moonflower . The next entry was an article in The Oregonian : “LOCAL PROFESSOR LOSES WIFE AND DAUGHTER IN FATAL CRASH.”
Another entry led her to Arizona State University’s official web site, with a link to Martin Baxter’s background information on the Biology Faculty page. “Professor Baxter comes to us from Portland State,” began the paragraph, which went on about Martin Baxter’s area of expertise—tropical plants, specifically rainforest bromeliads. Learning he was “son of the late Abigail Baxter, world-renowned botanical illustrator” made Story curious if he had been close with his successful mother, and then she wondered if Mrs. Baxter’s flower drawings could comfort a mourning widow.
Story found several other websites devoted to Once Upon A Moonflower , but none gave the specific location of the magic treasure box, nor did they explain what was in it, so it was time to ask the writer himself. After a successful Google search, she dialed Martin P. Baxter on Esther Drive.
A man answered, at last, on the tenth ring. “Hello.” It was not a greeting—more like a warning not to bother him.
“Hello. Hi.” Story fumbled, not sure where to start. “Is this Martin Baxter? Author of Once Upon A Moonflower ?”
The man didn’t answer. He took a couple of slow breaths, as if he was thinking. Story grew uncomfortable, so she began doodling a happy sunflower on her desk calendar, and when she could no longer stand the silence, she repeated, “Hello?”
The man remained silent, but Story heard him take a drink of something and clear his throat.
“Um, I’m sorry to bother you at home, sir,” said Story, “but I’m doing a story about your children’s book, and I have a couple of questions for you.”
He grunted something that almost sounded like “Mmm-kay.”
Story began
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