The Understory (19 page)

Joey, the slow-eyed, chubby mouth-breather, laughed, riling the crowd, and said, “Yeah, I took a giant digger on my skateboard last week. So?”

“So . . . more than likely the medicine you put on your wound had
plants
in it. Ever heard of the cocoa tree?” Martin looked at Joey’s doughy middle and said, “Looks like you’re a chocolate-eater, but if you’re unfamiliar with the cocoa tree, you should know it contains over 150 different chemical compounds in its bark, seeds, and leaves, which heal everything from emaciation to cuts and burns and poor immune systems.” Martin Baxter stared out the window, and his unfaltering gaze, coupled with his terseness, unnerved the kids. “Know anyone with cancer, Joey?”

“Uh, my Grandpa Louie has—”

“Rosy periwinkle, only found in the rainforest, treats several types of cancer, and since its discovery, childhood leukemia survival rates have risen from ten percent to ninety-five.” Martin continued to gaze out the window. “Ever used bug repellant? Then you’ve used a product containing sap from the annatto, or lipstick tree, found in the rainforest. Did I mention that half of the world’s plant species exist in the tropical rainforest?” He stopped to take a breath, and asked, “Know anyone taking birth control pills, Joey?” and when he got a dirty look from Mrs. Olson, he decided not to explain that the oral contraceptive would not be possible without wild yams from the Amazon.

Martin focused his attention on the kids. “Look, the cool thing about plants is that each one, like a snowflake or a fingerprint, is unique. Take the moonflower, for example. Not one is the same. That’s why it’s so hard to find one. It blooms differently under different circumstances. Its signature sweet smell attracts a very specific moth which pollinates it to induce its death.” The kids’ eyes were starting to glaze over, so he decided it was time for a hands-on experiment. “Could I have a volunteer?”

Hillary popped up from the middle of the crowd and squirmed her way through little bodies to get to Martin. “I’ll help,” she said.

Martin nodded a thank you, and said to her, “If Mrs. Olson doesn’t mind us using them, would you give everyone in the front row a different flower from that vase?” He pointed to a large bouquet of fresh flowers sitting on Mrs. Olson’s desk.

After Mrs. Olson nodded her approval, Martin turned his back on the crowd, and Hillary handed each student in the front row a different flower, keeping one for herself. Still turned around, Martin said, “Flowers use their scent to attract insects just as humans use perfume to attract other humans. And each flower has its own smell, its own molecular story, lurking underneath, letting us know who it is. There are between fifty to a hundred different chemicals making up any particular scent.” Martin turned around with his eyes shut tight and said, “First person on the left, come up and put the flower in front of my nose. I’ve become pretty good at this.”

A mousy little girl in a denim jumper walked to the front and held her flower in front of Martin’s face as he crouched down to her level. “Okay,” she eeked out, “it’s in front of your nose.”

After taking a whiff, Martin said, “Easy. Two-phenylethanol, the most recognizable chemical compound in the most recognizable flower scent—the rose.” He took another whiff. “A red-orange Fragrant Cloud, to be exact—a hybrid tea-rose.”

Even Joey was wowed, and as the students murmured, Martin called the second student up for his next challenge—a tall stalk with bright pink flowers. After a brief inhalation, Martin said, “
G. bortulanus
,” and everyone laughed. “Not that kind of anus,” he said, smiling. “It’s the scientific name for a garden gladiolus.” They all looked to Mrs. Olson to confirm this. She nodded—it was indeed a gladiolus—and all of the kids clapped.

Without prompting, the next student jumped up. “This is a weird one,” the little boy said. “Bet you can’t guess it.”

Martin breathed in the flower’s scent like a sommelier breathing in a wine’s bouquet, but grimaced at the height of the inhale. “Hmmm, stinky. Voodoo lily—one of the few flowers that uses the smell of rotting meat to attract flies.”

The boy holding the lily said, “Gross. Why would it want to attract flies?”

“It’s complicated,” Martin said, “but it needs the flies to move the pollen from the male part of the flower to the female part.”

“Sounds dirty!” Joey hollered, suddenly more interested in flowers now that they conjured up images from his prepubescent imagination.

“Any more flowers?” Martin asked.

“One more.” Hillary brought over the biggest flower of the bunch, its color as bold and radiant as her smile, and the moment she put it near him, it seemed as if he’d been covered in warmth and light.

“It’s a sun-lover,” he said, taking in the prairie sunflower. “Her head turns and faces the sun until she’s had enough. It nourishes her . . .” he said, but when he said
her
, a small ache formed deep inside his core. He began speaking in a dreamy tone. “We’ve tried to duplicate flower scents by making man-made ones, but it’s never been successful.” He opened his eyes and turned to Hillary’s, then glanced away. Her eyes were bright and full of hope, but he couldn’t bear to look. “Some things are not meant to be replaced,” he said, sending Hillary and her sunflower back to the classroom floor.

W
hen Story entered the upscale Deer Run subdivision, she realized how long it had been since she’d come into a stranger’s home without the intent of breaking in. Somehow, in the bustling madness of the past couple of days, she’d forgotten about pretending to be other people, and had accidentally been living as herself.

After driving up the long, winding driveway, she got out of her car and approached Harold Stone, who was standing near his new double-doors, watering his desert marigolds. He wore his signature carefree ensemble of Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, but as he sprinkled water on his flowers, he did so with a delicate and nurturing touch.

Story raised her hand to say hello, and he waved her over. As she walked toward him, she was blown away by the remarkable front doors. “My God, they’re exquisite,” she said.

“I’ve got a hell of a door guy,” said Harold Stone.

“I actually know a guy,” said Story, surprised at herself. “He’s really good—”

“Come on. Who could outdo that work?”

Drawn to the doors, Story let her hands caress the fine curve on Apollo’s wavy locks, and in a silent admission, she decided Judge Stone was right. No one could outmatch the artistry she saw before her.

She outstretched her hand. “Story Easton,” she said, putting forth a strong handshake to match his, but as it turned out, his wasn’t strong at all. It pulsed in a series of mini-squeezes, all of which were inconsistent and hesitant.

“I’m, uh, Harold Stone, Judge Stone,” he said and, as if he still weren’t sure, he added, “Harry Stone.”

Story took a deep breath and put on a confident face. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about an upcoming trip I’m planning.”

He broke eye contact and shook his head. “I’m not interested . . . there’s a sign out front about solicitors,” he said, turning to go inside.

“It’s about the moonflower,” Story said.

Harold Stone stopped in an instant, turned around to face Story, and looked her over. “How about a glass of lemonade?” he said.

Story and Harold walked into the grand entryway, complete with marble floor and massive chandelier, and he led her into the kitchen. While Harold squeezed lemons he’d picked himself, he asked Story how she knew about the moonflower.

“We have a mutual acquaintance—Martin Baxter. I work for
National Geographic
Magazine, and I met him in preparation for a promotional trip we’re planning to the Amazon,” she said.

By the time the glass was full of lemonade, he handed it to her and said, “You’re lying.” After a cordial smile, he added, “Does it need more sugar?”

Story said, “Yes, it’s a bit tart.” As he sweetened her drink, she said, “How did you know?”

He sat down on the barstool next to her and rested his hands on the high granite counter. “When you mentioned the magazine, you looked up and to the left, a dead giveaway for a liar. I was a judge for almost twenty years.”

“Was?”

Harold Stone stared into his glass when he answered, “Yes. Gave it up about a year ago.”

“Why?” Story asked. “Did Phoenix run out of bad guys?”

Story had expected him to smile, but instead he answered, solemnly, “I let one of them go.” He folded his hands, then unfolded them and laid them out flat. “And I shouldn’t have.”

What Story didn’t know, and what Harold Stone didn’t want to talk about, was that this event had exacerbated his already pronounced problem with decision-making. That one wrong decision had polluted the one place where he’d always found confidence—the courtroom. And now he found himself in a constant state of uncertainty. He’d abandoned his usual ability to rationalize, and now flip-flopped his way through each day, desperately grasping onto anything that might help him feel confident and powerful again—eating vitamins, basking in past victories, and even mimicking his former, confident gait. In the interim, he’d traded in the spotlight for a less showy job, caring for his intricate garden, which was more forgiving of mistakes.

Story gulped down her lemonade and her pride. “I need your help.”

“Okay?” he answered.

“I need to accompany Martin Baxter on his expedition to the rainforest.” Before the next sentence even came out, she knew how high-maintenance it must have sounded. “And I need to bring two other adults. And one eight year old.”

“Martin’s the expert—that’s why I sought him out,” said Harold. “As long as the mission gets accomplished, I don’t care who goes. He can run the expedition however he wants.”

Except Story and company weren’t part of the expedition Martin wanted. Story pressed on. “Mr. Stone, this trip isn’t just a trip,” said Story. “It’s a journey for this little boy. He’s already lost his father and if he doesn’t take this journey, he’ll lose his innocence, too. Cooper needs to believe that some promises can be kept.”

Judge Stone looked perplexed and torn. He fidgeted, and then voiced a strange and random thought. “Maybe I need to learn how to answer questions again . . .” he said. “Maybe I need someone to ask the right questions.”

Do I have the perfect woman for you
, Story thought.

Then Harold Stone looked up at her with a sense of urgency. “Did you say Cooper?”

“Yes, he’s the little boy—”

Harold Stone’s face turned pale. “What’s his last name?”

“Payne. Why?”

Harold Stone took a deep breath and remained silent.

“Sir? Do you know him?”

“No,” he said, “but the bad guy I let go . . . murdered his father.”

S
tory and Harold stared at each other for a few moments before Story said, “Are you sure?”

He nodded. He was. After the shooting, they informed Judge Stone that the young man awaiting a hearing for auto theft, whom he’d let out for one night on bail, had shot and killed a man named David Payne, who had appeared in Judge Stone’s courtroom on occasion. During the weeks that followed, Harold Stone found out everything he could about the family David had left behind. He learned that his wife Claire was good at listening to other people’s problems, and that she liked the ocean and the color blue. He learned that his son Cooper loved baseball movies, big books, and sausage pizza. And his dad.

Story began talking about the promise David Payne had made to his only son, but Harold Stone blankly walked through the kitchen to the veranda, which overlooked an expansive half-acre flower garden. Meticulous and stunning, it intersected with several brick paths, which were all connected and led back to one giant circle in the center.

“Sometimes I stand in the middle,” Harold said, taking in the garden’s beauty, “just to remind myself how many different paths there are to choose from.” But what he didn’t mention was how many times he’d retraced his own steps, thinking how things might have been different had taken a different path on that fateful day in his courtroom.