Uncharted(8)

Sophie’s eyes light up. She doesn’t respond audibly, except for an excited intake of air which I take as a resounding yes. After much deliberation, she settles on a garden scene in the middle of the book. I work on the flowers at the edge while she meticulously applies various shades of brown to the squirrel centerfold.

Watching her color from the corner of my eye, I find myself somewhat taken aback. I’ve never seen such concentration in a five-year-old. She’s so very serious. Almost… somber. It’s an eerie trait, in a child. She’s more self-contained than most adults I know.

I study her perfectly groomed pigtails, not a hair out of place. Her pale pink dress looks freshly ironed. There are no runs in her tights, no smudges on her shoes. Not a single stain or trace of wear anywhere, so far as I can tell. Her white sweater has pearl buttons, for god’s sake. I don’t doubt for a minute that they’re real. She looks more like a china doll than a little girl.

I can’t help but wonder about her life.

Do they ever let her play? Run through the dirt? Splash in a puddle? Roll in the grass? Skin her knees? Jump in a pile of fresh-raked leaves?

I can’t see Mrs. Flint, with her perfectly manicured fingers and high-fashion ensembles, condoning such behavior.

When Samantha walks back over a few moments later, we’ve nearly finished our picture.

“Look, Mama,” Sophie says, holding up the book for her to see. “Isn’t it pretty?”

“Mmm.” Samantha’s eyes are trained on her cellphone. They dart up for a nanosecond, scan the work of art, and drop back to the screen. “Lovely job, sweetie.”

I swallow down a scoff of disbelief as Sophie slowly lowers the picture book. Our eyes meet across the coffee table. I smile at her as I pass her a purple crayon.

“Hey, Soph, can you show me how you made your flowers so pretty? Mine don’t look half as good.”

She blinks gravely. “That’s because you’re not using two colors.”

“Two colors? Pink and purple?” I gasp. “I didn’t think of that!”

She sighs deeply, as if I’m a total idiot. “Okay, I’ll show you. Pay attention.”

I salute her and am rewarded as she cracks her first smile.

Maybe there’s a little girl beneath all those manners, after all.

We color for a few more moments in silence, until Samantha’s sound of displeasure makes me look up.

“What could be taking so long…” she murmurs, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes lock on mine. “We’re supposed to take off in a few moments and we haven’t even boarded.”

“Are we still waiting on someone else?”

She nods. “The photographer Seth hired. He takes brilliant shots, but you know these artistic types — they’re always a loose end in need of tying.”

I nod, as if I know anything about artistic types or their habits. The only real photographer I’ve ever met was the man who took my senior portrait for the yearbook last summer, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t his day job since a few weeks after our photoshoot I saw him working as a barista at the one fancy coffee shop within a twenty-mile radius of my hometown.

“More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me,” Samantha mutters. “I don’t know why we couldn’t just take our own photographs. You know, I’ve built quite a strong social media following with just my iPhone. No need for a telephoto lens and some overrated National Geographic shutterbug who charges an astronomical fee just to take some snapshots. So, he won a Pulitzer or two. I don’t see what the big deal—”

Her stream of words is cut off by the pointed sound of a throat clearing. Before we can even turn our heads to the door, a wry male voice fills the air.

“Three, actually.”

I go totally still at the sound of that sarcastic tone.

No. No. No.

It can’t be…

A low chuckle reverberates from his throat. “Three Pulitzers, that is. But, by all means, if you think your iPhone can outperform my Nikon, I’ll save myself eleven hours on a plane with you.”

Glad I’m not the only one he’s rude to — even if she does deserve it.

Samantha looks rather ruffled as she turns to face the man she’s just spent the better part of five minutes deriding. Her face is pale as she rises to her feet in greeting. I tell myself to follow suit, but I can’t. Here on the floor, half-hidden by the coffee table, I’m safe. Maybe if I stay down here, I can pretend the man attached to that voice — that incredibly gritty, incredibly familiar voice — isn’t the one person I most dread ever laying eyes on again.

“Mr. Underwood,” Samantha drawls, dashing my hopes to dust. “Thank you for finally joining us. I apologize if you misinterpreted my earlier words. It was a joke in poor taste. I certainly didn’t mean to insult you—”

He snorts.

“Anyway.” She swallows audibly. “Shall we get underway?”

Without waiting for his response, she turns and flees across the suite to her husband’s side. Unfortunately, I have no such escape route. I keep my eyes on the coloring book, but all my attention is honed on him.

There’s another amused snort, which quickly turns into a scoff of disbelief. “You again? This just gets better and better…”