Backcast (2 page)

Me.

My essay is a cakewalk.

Vivien K. O'Reilly

She's a solid choice with a good-sized following. But can I deal with having her hands all over my ass for two weeks?

Quinn Glatfelter

Oh, god. She could do it—but I'll go blind if I have to see her in those chaps again.

V. Jay-Jay Singh

Maybe if we hide all the flashlights and metal utensils? On the other hand, it would be useful to always have a bottle opener handy.

Towanda
(a.k.a. Wanda Faderman)

Might work out if I can catch her between kale cleanses—and her husband agrees to keep their five kids. No way we're adding that to the equation.

Darien Black

Definitely want her. Know she has some great, totally bleak childhood angst to work out. I think her grandmother was pretty eccentric.

Cricket MacBean

Those “Naughty Nurse” tales she writes are esoteric reads—but she's a very disciplined writer, and she has some rich background from her years in a M.A.S.H. unit.

Montana Jackson

She's the lesfic equivalent of Scarlett O'Hara—
and
Rhett Butler. Still, she has a pretty broad following in the Southwest—and the show will be travelling to Santa Fe.

Kate Winston

Now that she's such a hot commodity on
GMA
, she might not be available. But if I can get Shawn, I can probably get her, too.

Shawn Harris

Simon & Schuster will be releasing her second novel soon—so this timing could be perfect as an interlude before she starts her next project.

Gwen Carlisle

Shawn's agent. But she cut her teeth as a comedy writer for Second City.

Linda Evans

Doesn't do much writing these days, but that early work she did for
Mother Jones
was terrific. Heard her arthritis was pretty bad now. She may not want to travel.

Of course, the last member of the motley crew was no longer available. She had given up writing to pursue a lucrative career as a ventriloquist. But Barb already had a bead on the perfect person to replace her. She'd have a little fun revealing that solution later on.

Barb tapped her pencil on the pad and reviewed her list. This was quite a team.

God,
she thought
. If I threw in a stunt driver and a munitions expert, I'd have the cast of a
Mission: Impossible
episode.

She tossed back the rest of her Wild Turkey and reached for her cell phone.

Once more unto the breach.

1

Rabbits

Fifty-four degrees. That's what the thermometer on the dashboard read.

Fifty-four? In June?
Seriously?

She'd never vacationed in Vermont before. Not unless you counted that one freebie ski weekend she spent in Stowe about ten years ago.

Kate won the all-expense-paid trip for garnering first place in a
Mademoiselle
magazine essay contest. Her ski instructor, “Brandi” Alexander, was more interested in teaching her how to navigate the bed linens in her hotel room than she was in showing her how to master the slopes. What a nightmare that experience turned out to be. Kate ended up clocking Brandi with one of her own ski poles, and checking out of the hotel. She spent the rest of her prize weekend cooling her heels at a Hampton Inn near the airport in Burlington, waiting on her flight back to Atlanta. She'd never had the interest or the inclination to return to Vermont—until now.

Barb Davis's venture appealed to her on several levels.

For one thing, it was a great excuse to get out of New York for two weeks. Her job as a pop culture and social media reviewer for
Good Morning America
was exhausting. On air days, she had to be at the studio by 4:00 a.m. She only got back to Atlanta about one weekend a month, and that was getting old fast.

She wasn't cut out for life in Manhattan. Her temperament was too cranky, and she didn't really like people. Especially when those people were about eight million Yankees—most of them rude and
equally cranky. Her third-floor walkup “apartment” in Midtown was about the size of a Frigidaire—and nearly as cold. It was a terrible situation for her dog, but she refused to leave him in Georgia.

Behind her on the bench seat, Patrick sat up and yawned.

Kate reached back and rubbed him behind his floppy, black ears.

“Isn't that right, buddy? Mama couldn't leave you all alone.”

Patrick licked her hand a few times before shifting his weight toward the partially open back window. All manner of smells were chasing each other on the early summer air. And mercifully, some of them were less like cow manure and more like something—interesting.

Kate smiled at him and lowered his window a few more inches.

No. She could never be without Patrick. She'd miss him too much. And, as hard as it was for her to admit, she was finding that she missed Shawn too much, too.

That was the thing that surprised, and irritated, her the most. They had only been able to see each other about five times in the last year, and that wasn't working well for either of them. She knew Shawn was growing frustrated by her constant lack of availability, and no matter how hard Kate tried to explain that it was a function of her job and not her romantic inclination, the results were the same. Kate knew that it was only a matter of time before Shawn grew tired of carrying out a relationship by phone.

Shawn was coming to Clifstock, too—and was scheduled to arrive later that afternoon. The two-week, intensive writing workshop Barb had organized would provide them both with the biggest block of time they'd ever spent together. And it was an opportunity to do some serious writing. She missed that. Her reviews for
Gilded Lily
were now few and far between, and she felt the need to reconnect with her first love.

And maybe, with her second.

She turned off U.S. Route 2 at the Hero's Landing sign, and drove her rental car down a long gravel road that led toward a cluster of white buildings. A wide swath of water was visible in the distance. The driveway curved around in front of a barn with a blue metal roof. Kate did a double take as she drove past it. A couple rows of
terra cotta rabbits lined the deep sills inside the windows. Their black eyes stared back at her with suspicion.

“What the hell is up with those?”

Patrick woofed in agreement.

On the backside of the barn, she noticed a big Harley parked in one of the open bays. It was nicely rigged out with studded saddlebags and a flip-up windshield. Its tiny license plate read
BDSM 69.

Quinn
, she thought.
Great.

She drove on toward the main entrance and parked in the visitor lot. There was a simple elegance to the place with its snow-white buildings and lush, green lawn. There were rocks everyplace. They lined the walkways and surrounded flowerbeds that were filled to bursting with early-blooming tickseed, iris and bright yellow daylilies. Through a narrow breezeway, she could see the dark blue water of Lake Champlain, moving beneath the June sky.

It didn't look calm. It looked irritated.

She took a deep breath. Something smelled like roasted turkey. It reminded her of Sundays in her grandmother's kitchen, back in St. Louis. At least the food here would be a welcome change. Twelve months of wandering among Manhattan's hyperforaged Scandinavian eateries, ramen and kale pizzerias, and liquid nitro, colon-cleanse smoothie stands made her long for the simple things—like a burger. Or an egg salad sandwich that didn't descend from free range, flexitarian chickens that wintered in Boca, and never ingested oxidized omega-3 fats.

Kate's stomach growled. She was always hungry.

She began to understand why Barb chose her cousin's inn as the place to host their retreat. Staying here for two weeks wouldn't be a punishment at all.

And it was dog friendly, too.

Patrick's head was bobbing up and down like a bandleader's baton. She gave him a pat.

“You stay and be a good boy. Mama will be right back.”

He looked at her and sighed. He knew the drill.

She climbed out and walked toward an entryway covered by a
blue canvas awning. She heard the voices as soon as she opened the door.

“It's an insane idea.”

“It's
not
insane. It could totally work.”

“It
is
insane, and you're crazy.”

“I'm not crazy. Unlike you, I have creative vision.”

“You have creative delusions.”

“Why do you always have to be this way?”

“What way?”

“
This
way. Negative.”

“I fail to see how you can equate reason with negativity.”

“Reason? How are your objections reasonable? You don't know anything about watercraft.”

“Neither do you. And that would be where the ‘reason' part comes in.”

The big woman dressed in black huffed and sagged back against her chair. “I've been on a boat before,” she muttered.

Her companion refused to concede the point. “Olivia cruises don't count.”

“Fuck you, Viv.” The big woman got to her feet, and headed toward the lobby.

“Wimp,” Viv called after her.

Kate watched the woman in black approach, and raised a hand in greeting. “Hello, Quinn.”

“Kate!” Quinn gave her a big, toothy grin and stepped forward to wrap her up in a bear hug. “When did you get here, sugar plum?”

Kate's face was smashed into Quinn's massive shoulder. “About two minutes ago.” It was hard to talk with a mouthful of fabric. Quinn loosened her hold.

“What'd you say?”

“I said I just got here.” Kate worked her jaw from side to side to test whether it was still properly aligned.

Quinn jerked a thumb toward the dining room where she had been seated. “Viv and I both got here yesterday.”

Kate leaned around Quinn and waved a hand at best-selling
mystery author, Vivien K. O'Reilly. The small redhead smiled back at her and got to her feet.

Quinn was still talking. “Barb and Mavis got here the day before us. Everybody else is supposed to show up later today.”

“Mavis?” Kate asked Quinn. “Who's Mavis?”

“The bailiff.”

Kate was still confused, and her expression must have shown it.

“From the jail,” Quinn explained. “In San Diego, when we all got busted after the Con riot? You know.
Mavis
. Black. About my height. Bad attitude. Wields a mean nightstick.”

Oh.
Mavis
. The cranky matron who was in charge of their holding cell.

“I remember, now. What's she doing here?”

Quinn shrugged. “Beats the hell outta me. Barb needed a driver, and she hired Mavis.”

“Barb
drove
to Vermont from San Diego?”

Quinn nodded.

“Why?” Kate was incredulous.

“She hates flying. Always has. And I think there were some issues about transporting her bead blaster.”

“I'm not even going to ask what that means.”

“Wise woman.” Viv had joined them. “How are you, Kate?”

Kate smiled at her. “Tired.”

“I hear you.” Viv was giving her a good-once over. “Boy, it's really true what they say. TV does add ten pounds.”

“Jesus, Viv.” Quinn was shaking her head.

“What?” Viv held out both hands. “Am I lying? Look at her. She's a wraith.”

“The food options in New York are a bit too eclectic for my tastes,” Kate explained. “I'm really looking forward to some home cooking.”

“Well, you came to the right place for that.” Quinn leaned closer to her and lowered her voice. “But avoid the tomato aspic—it's pretty shitty.”

Viv was nodding. “I'll second that. They serve it at every meal, too—even breakfast. They must buy it in bulk.”

“I've never cared much for aspics,” Kate added.

“Then you'll certainly want to avoid this. I think you could use it to stucco a house.”

“Get checked in.” Quinn pointed toward the front desk. “We're all gonna reconnect in here later today for cocktails. Barb's gonna give us an intro and talk about process.”

Kate nodded. “Sounds good.”

Quinn was still staring at her.

“What?” Kate asked.

“You ever done any fishing?”

“Not since I broke my Playskool rod in the second grade.”

Viv laughed. “That makes you more qualified than Quinn.”

Kate looked back and forth between the two of them. “Am I missing something?”

Quinn pulled a folded sheet of paper out of her back pocket and handed it to Kate. “Take a gander at this.”

“What is it?” Kate took it from her.

“It's a flier advertising a bass tournament that starts up here next week.”

“A bass tournament?”

Viv rolled her eyes. “Quinn is persuaded that we can enter and win.”

Quinn was nodding energetically. “The purse is twenty-five thousand bucks.”

Kate looked at Quinn. “Don't you need a boat for that?”

“A boat is the least of what we'd need,” Viv explained. “This would require about seventy-five thousand dollars worth of bodily injury and property damage, coverage for uninsured boaters, comprehensive and collision options, fuel spill liability, provisions for on-water towing and wreckage removal.”

Quinn cut her off. “Wreckage removal?”

Viv glared at her. “Will you be at the helm?”

“Of course.”

Viv looked at Kate. “I reiterate: wreckage removal—and a hefty provision for personal effects replacement. Besides,” Viv pointed at a line of type on the flier. “It's a Pro-Am Tournament.”

Kate was confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means that the competitors will all have corporate sponsors and seriously tricked-out rigs.”

“Not all of them,” Quinn protested. “That's what the ‘Am' part of Pro-Am means. Amateur.”

“Well, that's the one aspect of this you can cover with confidence.”

Quinn threw up her meaty hands. “Do you have to be a goddamn actuary all the time?”

“I take my day job very seriously. And so should you. It's likely to save you from certain disaster.”

“I still think it could work.” Quinn kicked at a chair leg.

Viv rolled her eyes at Kate. “She doesn't even have a boat.”

“I do, too.” Quinn jerked a thumb toward the road that ran past the inn. “Big Boy and Junior might have a boat I can borrow.”

“Who the hell are Big Boy and Junior?”

“The guys who run the marine salvage place just north of here. Page Archer told me about them. Big Boy is a tall, skinny dude—and his little brother, Junior, is a champion angler.”

Viv squinted at her. “And you asked about them—because?”

“I saw one of their cards tacked up on the bulletin board in the men's room.”

“Do I even want to know what you were doing in the men's room?”

Quinn gave her a smile that was more like a leer. “Probably not.”

Viv looked at Kate. “Erotic authors. It's like they all got stalled in puberty.”

Kate didn't bother to disagree with her. It was widely known that she held pretty much the same view of everyone now writing in the entire lesfic genre.

Including herself. And lately, she hadn't been doing much writing at all.

“What time is Shawn getting here?” Viv was giving her the once-over again. It made Kate feel uncomfortable—itchy beneath her clothing.

“I'm not sure. Sometime later today.”

Viv kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The odd, rocking motion made her resemble a metronome—an uncommonly short metronome, with hair the color of spring carrots.

“What?” Kate knew better than to ask, but she couldn't stop herself.

“It's nothing.”

“It doesn't look like nothing.”

Quinn waved a hand. “Don't burn any more rubber trying to keep up with what
she's
thinking. You'll just end up wrapped around your own axle.”

Viv cut her eyes at Quinn. “Nice image, Quinn. Still reading
Popular Mechanics
, I see.”

Quinn sighed and looked up at the tiled ceiling.

Kate had had about enough of this interview.

“If you two will excuse me, I'm going to go get checked in. I left Patrick in the car.”

“Patrick?” Viv was all ears. “Color me intrigued. Who's Patrick?”