Backcast (9 page)

This restaurant was apparently a popular destination for Lake People.

That's what Darien called them.
Lake People
.

They appeared to be a savvy and refined lot. The men had thinning hair and spreading middles. Their impossibly thin wives all had tight features, perfect tans, and summer wardrobes that contained enough organic cotton to revitalize the nation's flagging textile industry.

They were like refugees from a Flax catalog.

“What are you scowling at?”

Darien looked at V. Jay-Jay with surprise. “Was I scowling?”

“I thought so.”

“It's the Lake People.”

V. Jay-Jay glanced out the window at the lawn. “What about them?”

“They bug me.”

“Why? They look pretty ordinary.”

“Not where I come from.”

“Which is?”

Darien shrugged. “Virginia. Mostly.”

V. Jay-Jay looked out the window again. “I haven't spent a lot of time in Virginia, but I'm pretty sure that places like Richmond and Charlottesville have their share of pampered elite.”

“Yeah. Well. I'm not from Richmond or Charlottesville. ‘Pampered elite' where I grew up meant you didn't have to punch out the catalytic converter on your pickup.”

V. Jay-Jay laughed.

“I'm not kidding.”

“I know. That's what I think is funny.”

Darien regarded her with curiosity. “You think
that's
funny?

“Sure.” V. Jay-Jay quirked her head toward her shoulder. “You should think about putting more elements like that into your writing.”

“What elements?”

“Those kinds of colloquialisms. They'd really lend authenticity to your stories.”

“I don't write about Virginia.”

“Really?” V. Jay-Jay sat back and folded her tanned arms. “So those macabre little vampire yarns you spin aren't masquerading as searing social commentaries on your humble origins?”

“I didn't say that.”

“I thought so.”

“There's nothing wrong with writing about vampires.”

“I agree.”

“Besides,” Darien was trying hard not to let her annoyance show. “Vampires aren't any weirder than all that Gyno stuff you obsess about.”

V. Jay-Jay was the author of a very eclectic and popular series of books that all fell under the rubric
Gyno Galaxy
. At last count, there were four volumes, and V. Jay-Jay was hard at work writing the fifth book in the series,
Gyno Galaxy: Black Holes and Anterior Spaces.

It was clear that she did not share Darien's assessment of her work. “I write hard-hitting, edge fiction.”

“And you can open beer bottles with your hooha.”

“
Hooha?
” V. Jay-Jay made air quotes around the word.

“Oh, come on. A woman with this ability can't pretend to be insulted by my use of a common term.”

“It's common, all right.”

“And your special skill isn't?”

“My ‘special' skill is part of a carefully crafted public persona.”

“Like your ‘edge' fiction?”

“Precisely.”

Darien rolled her eyes.

“You disagree?”

“Um. Let me think. Yes.”

“I don't see why.”

“Oh, come on. It's thinly veiled soft porn.”

“And your moonlight vampire romps aren't?”

Darien noticed that V. Jay-Jay did not bother to disagree with her categorization of the Gyno books. “Soft porn sells copy. Especially in this galaxy.”

V. Jay-Jay smiled at the analogy. “Sad, but true.”

“So why do we do it?”

“Why do we do what?”

Darien waved an inclusive hand around. “
This
. The writing. And all the concessions we have to make to popular culture and bad taste.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Oh, come on. Are you trying to have me believe that you
choose
to fill your books with spread-eagled women and vaginal swabs?”

V. Jay-Jay looked amused. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“You are so full of shit.”

V. Jay-Jay didn't reply. But Darien noticed that she was absently tapping an index finger against the top of her folded napkin. Was it irritation or intrigue? She really had no idea, but she decided to go for it. “What's your story, anyway?”

V. Jay-Jay raised an eyebrow. “My
story?
”

“Yeah. You have one, right?”

V. Jay-Jay shrugged.

“Come on. Nobody knows anything about you. Your ‘official' bio gives nothing away. Why all the secrecy?”

“I'm no more or less secretive about my private life than anyone else in this business.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I told you I was Presbyterian.”

Darien gave her a confused look. “Is that supposed to be some kind of index to your character?”

“Maybe.”

“Let's try another approach. What's your day job?”

“My
day
job?”

“Sure. You have one, right? Or do you make enough money in royalties that you no longer have to pack a lunch and trudge off to the sweatshop every day like the rest of us?”

V. Jay-Jay looked amused. “I never pack my lunch.”

Darien sighed. “Of course you don't. I guess there are charming little vegan restaurants about every ten feet in LA.”

“There may be. But I don't live in LA.”

Darien lifted her chin. Now they were getting someplace. “Okay. Where do you live?”

“Boston.”

“Massachusetts?”

V. Jay-Jay gave her a deprecating look. “No.
Idaho
.”

“So sue me. I was just surprised.”

V. Jay-Jay folded her arms. Darien thought her skin looked like polished olive wood.

“Why?”

Darien shrugged. “I don't know. You seem like a left-coaster to me.”

“Well. I did live there for a while, many years ago. But I've been in Boston for nearly a decade now.”

“And what do you do there?”

“What's with the twenty questions?”

“I'm just trying to make conversation.”

V. Jay-Jay stared at her for a moment without replying. She could've been thinking about unreeling her entire life story, or she could've been getting ready to tell Darien to fuck off. It was pretty even money.

“I'll make you a deal,” she finally said. “I'll tell you one thing about my private life if you, in turn, share one detail about yours.”

“Mine?” Darien was confused. “My life is not a secret.”

“I said your ‘private' life. Not your public persona.”

“What? You mean like kinky stuff?”

V. Jay-Jay let out a slow breath. “No. Not like kinky stuff. However enthralling those details are certain to be, I don't possess any real curiosity about them.”

“Too bad. I could probably teach you a few things.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“Okay. Fine. I go first.” She leaned forward over her abandoned dinner plate. “What kind of work do you do in Boston?”

“When I do work, which isn't often, I do product development consulting for a medical implement company.”

“Of
course
you do.”

“You asked. I never pretended it was exotic.”

“So, what does that mean, exactly? You make fur-lined speculums?”

“Something like that.”

“I bet the people at Hobby Lobby just love paying for those benefits.”

V. Jay-Jay ignored her comment. “My turn. What do you do during daylight hours?”

“Daylight hours? Sleep.”

“Sleep? You don't work?”

“Oh, no. I work all right. Just not during daylight hours.”

“Oh. I get it. You're a night watchman? A security guard?”

“Do I look like a security guard?”

V. Jay-Jay gave her a once-over. “You appear to be in pretty good shape.”

“Why thank you.”

“So. Am I right? Are you a security guard?”

“Not even close. I work in asset recovery.”

“Asset recovery? What on earth is that? Some kind of financial service?”

“You might say that.”

“And you do this at night?”

“It's generally safer that way.”

V. Jay-Jay sat back against her chair. “I don't get it.”

“For someone who makes a career out of writing ‘edge' fiction, you sure aren't very quick on the uptake.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

Darien sighed. “I recover monster RVs from people who are behind on their payments.”

V. Jay-Jay's brown eyes grew wide. “You're a repo man?”

“Man?” Darien pointed both index fingers at her shirtfront. “Seriously?”

V. Jay-Jay gaped at Darien's chest before realizing what she was doing. Her cheeks took on a rosy tinge. “Oh, god. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Most people call us that—regardless of gender.”

“But this is fascinating.” V. Jay-Jay leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “Is it dangerous?”

“Sometimes.” Darien shrugged. “I've been shot at a couple of times.”

“My god. What did you do?”

“Fired back.”

V. Jay-Jay was mesmerized. “Really?”

“No. Not really. Jesus.” Darien snapped her fingers in front of V. Jay-Jay's face. “Earth to Singh? It ain't like the movies. Those things are built like Fort Knox on a bus chassis. You pretty much hook 'em up to a tow bar and haul 'em off. And most of this happens in the dead of night, while the owners are snored off in their McMansions.”

“I had no idea.”

“You don't think things like this happen in Beacon Hill?”

“I never really thought about it.”

“Trust me. Your Brahmin buddies are among the worst offenders.”

“I don't know many people with—what did you call them? RVs?”

“Sure you do. It's just that their excesses are likelier to be stick-built time shares in Cape Cod—not Freightliners parked on the back lot of the local mini-storage.”

“Incredible.”

“It's a job.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

Darien held up a finger. “Tit for tat.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You said ‘one detail.' So if I have to answer another question, so do you.”

V. Jay-Jay sighed.

“Well?” Darien asked.

“Fine. Ask me another question.”

Darien smiled. This was like blood in the water. “What's your real name?”

V. Jay-Jay blinked, but didn't reply.

“You have one, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well?” Darien asked again. “What is it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I don't know. Maybe because your nom de plume is so unique.”

“I told you. My public persona is carefully crafted to enhance my writing.”

“You got that part right.”

V. Jay-Jay didn't say anything.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Your name. What's your name?”

V. Jay-Jay sighed. “It's Vani. Vani Jaya.”

“Vani Jaya Singh?”

V. Jay-Jay nodded.

Darien shook her head. “Is
everyone
in India named V.J. Singh?

“Pretty much.”

“It must really simplify having your luggage monogrammed.”

“It's a Presbyterian thing.”

Darien blinked.

“That's a joke.”

Darien was studying her. “You're an odd fish.”

“I'm an odd fish?” V. Jay-Jay pointed out the window toward the dock. “
That's
an odd fish.”

Darien followed her gaze. Some kind of commotion was brewing on the lawn outside the restaurant. People were getting up from their chars and shading their eyes to study the lake.

“What is it?” she asked V. Jay-Jay.

“It looks like Santiago is coming in from her first foray at sea.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Darien saw the pontoon, roaring in toward the dock at full throttle. Quinn was at the helm. Montana was clinging to a railing on the bow, wildly waving her free arm and yelling. The big La-Z-Boy was empty—which meant they'd either dropped Junior off at his place on their way back to the inn, or he'd had the wisdom to jump ship.

People out on the lawn were shouting now, too. Heads at every table in the restaurant were turning toward the big windows that faced the spectacle.

She had a feeling this was going to end badly.

Apparently, Page Archer did, too. She left her post at the bar and roared toward the exit door so fast that tablecloths fluttered in her wake. She was moving like a Valkyrie in full battle mode. But Darien was beginning to learn that this was pretty much how the innkeeper approached everything.

At the last minute, Quinn reversed the engines on the pontoon and the boat lurched backwards, slamming into its own monster wake. Waves crashed over its stern and surged across its deck, racing toward the flotilla of small fortunes tied up at the dock.

Darien closed her eyes.

“I
told
you all this would happen.” A voice rang out from a nearby table. Darien turned toward the sound. Vivien K. O'Reilly was on her feet, wagging a finger at the impending disaster. The feisty romance author stamped her foot. “That woman is an actuarial nightmare.”

Quinn apparently overcorrected by jerking the wheel hard to starboard, causing the back end of the pontoon to swing wide toward the shore. The whole shootin' match was now coming in sideways, heading straight toward a floating yellow swim dock that, mercifully, was unoccupied. At the last minute, Montana gave up trying to salvage the landing. She tossed the tube rail fenders over the side, and jumped off the pontoon into the rolling waves. Her dive was spectacular. For a few perfect seconds, her long frame hung silhouetted against the orange and purple evening sky like a startling, Technicolor homage to Esther Williams. Even though they were caught up in the throes of certain disaster, a few of the onlookers were impressed enough to offer up a smattering of applause. But Quinn's boat just kept right on sliding sideways toward the bright yellow dock, missing the stern of a twenty-five foot Hunter sailboat by inches.