even though the moon is the brightest object in the night sky, it gives off no light of its own? It actually reflects light from the sun.” A smile fought to form on Martin’s face. “That’s what Hope used to remind me when my moon did battle with her sun.”
When Martin finally released his hand from Hope’s sun, Story said, “No offense, but what makes you think you can find one of these elusive moonflowers in bloom, when so few others have?”
“Mother came close several times,” he said. “She kept a detailed diary for each trip—locations, water levels, temperatures, lunar positions—and I’ve been studying every entry. All the data points to four days from now as my best chance at seeing one in bloom.”
“I see,” Story said.
When Martin Baxter set his drink on the table, Story could tell the bad news was coming. She felt a hint of a shadow descend over them both as a big cloud enveloped the sky. This was the beginning of what would be a short-lived October afternoon storm, and as the tension surged, so did the power. The lights flickered once, and when they flickered a second time, it seemed to fuel Martin’s impatience. “Look, you seem like a real stand-up person,” he said, “and I wish you the best in your endeavor to help your friend, but this journey is a solo one for me—always has been.” He stood up and walked Story to the door.
Story said, “Good luck,” in a quiet voice, right before the door shut behind her. For the second time, she walked away from Martin Baxter’s house, but this time, she did so in daylight. She looked up into the one part of the darkening sky where sunshine still lingered. There, amongst the encroaching clouds, she witnessed the grand Phoenix sun, the one thing that united them all, and she said a secret prayer for those counting on their one chance.
TWELVE
W hen Story returned to work, she found Ivy creeping around her cubicle, preparing her customary stranglehold. “Have a nice lunch?” she said, looking at her watch. The workday was almost over.
It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Story’s beautiful, full lips spouted off an incongruous, ugly reply. “Yeah, Boss. It was a working lunch. Had soup and salad with a bunch of realists wanting to buy cards, and several sad people who hate flowers—”
“Have you been drinking?”
Story scoffed. “It’s four in the afternoon. What do you think I am, a drunk?” Story got away with snide comments to her boss for two reasons. One: Since Story had been at Special Occasions, she’d designed more top-selling cards than any other writer. Though she repeatedly missed deadlines and, in general, was untrustworthy, her end product always resonated with people. Two: For every five unpleasant comments Story hurled Ivy’s way, she always threw in one decent and superficially sincere one, just when Ivy didn’t expect it, thus making it hard for Ivy to hate her for extended periods of time.
Ivy folded her long, lanky arms. “How’s Grief and Loss coming along?” she asked, but all Story could think about was whether or not Martin Baxter would classify Ivy as a weed. “Lindsey’s almost got Wedding Bells finished, you know.”
Definitely a weed, she thought. “How’s Lindsey’s divorce coming along, Boss? That’s sure to inspire a hell of a romantic greeting card,” Story said.
She figured that would send Ivy on her way, but like any successful weed, Ivy sprouted right back up. “Story, you know that splendid feeling you get when you’ve won?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“It’s glorious.” Ivy beamed. “That feeling . . . that’s what we want for people when they read one of our cards.”
Story thought about it for a moment. “What if they haven’t really won?”
Ivy Powers swatted Story’s desk with her happy-face-on-a-stick, as if she was murdering an invisible fly. “Then you make them feel like they’ve won.”
And so came divine
When Martin finally released his hand from Hope’s sun, Story said, “No offense, but what makes you think you can find one of these elusive moonflowers in bloom, when so few others have?”
“Mother came close several times,” he said. “She kept a detailed diary for each trip—locations, water levels, temperatures, lunar positions—and I’ve been studying every entry. All the data points to four days from now as my best chance at seeing one in bloom.”
“I see,” Story said.
When Martin Baxter set his drink on the table, Story could tell the bad news was coming. She felt a hint of a shadow descend over them both as a big cloud enveloped the sky. This was the beginning of what would be a short-lived October afternoon storm, and as the tension surged, so did the power. The lights flickered once, and when they flickered a second time, it seemed to fuel Martin’s impatience. “Look, you seem like a real stand-up person,” he said, “and I wish you the best in your endeavor to help your friend, but this journey is a solo one for me—always has been.” He stood up and walked Story to the door.
Story said, “Good luck,” in a quiet voice, right before the door shut behind her. For the second time, she walked away from Martin Baxter’s house, but this time, she did so in daylight. She looked up into the one part of the darkening sky where sunshine still lingered. There, amongst the encroaching clouds, she witnessed the grand Phoenix sun, the one thing that united them all, and she said a secret prayer for those counting on their one chance.
TWELVE
W hen Story returned to work, she found Ivy creeping around her cubicle, preparing her customary stranglehold. “Have a nice lunch?” she said, looking at her watch. The workday was almost over.
It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Story’s beautiful, full lips spouted off an incongruous, ugly reply. “Yeah, Boss. It was a working lunch. Had soup and salad with a bunch of realists wanting to buy cards, and several sad people who hate flowers—”
“Have you been drinking?”
Story scoffed. “It’s four in the afternoon. What do you think I am, a drunk?” Story got away with snide comments to her boss for two reasons. One: Since Story had been at Special Occasions, she’d designed more top-selling cards than any other writer. Though she repeatedly missed deadlines and, in general, was untrustworthy, her end product always resonated with people. Two: For every five unpleasant comments Story hurled Ivy’s way, she always threw in one decent and superficially sincere one, just when Ivy didn’t expect it, thus making it hard for Ivy to hate her for extended periods of time.
Ivy folded her long, lanky arms. “How’s Grief and Loss coming along?” she asked, but all Story could think about was whether or not Martin Baxter would classify Ivy as a weed. “Lindsey’s almost got Wedding Bells finished, you know.”
Definitely a weed, she thought. “How’s Lindsey’s divorce coming along, Boss? That’s sure to inspire a hell of a romantic greeting card,” Story said.
She figured that would send Ivy on her way, but like any successful weed, Ivy sprouted right back up. “Story, you know that splendid feeling you get when you’ve won?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“It’s glorious.” Ivy beamed. “That feeling . . . that’s what we want for people when they read one of our cards.”
Story thought about it for a moment. “What if they haven’t really won?”
Ivy Powers swatted Story’s desk with her happy-face-on-a-stick, as if she was murdering an invisible fly. “Then you make them feel like they’ve won.”
And so came divine
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