Backcast

by Ann McMan

  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 c
harge 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?”

  Kate didn’t reply.

  “Jesus, Viv.” Quinn managed to stretch her three syllables into a whine that sounded like ten. It seemed clear that she got a lot of practice. “Will you dial back the fucking drama machine? Patrick is her dog.”

  Viv looked disappointed.

  “What time did you say we were meeting in here later?” Kate asked.

  “Two. Barb wants to do some orientation and put us all together in teams.” Quinn was plucking at a striped lily that drooped from a blue vase on a nearby table.

  Teams? That didn’t sound good. Kate wasn’t much for teamwork. To her, words like “teamwork” brought back unhappy memories of smelly gym shoes and always being the favorite target in dodge ball.

  “I’m not very comfortable working in groups,” she said.

  “You’re preaching to the choir, honey.” Viv sounded sympathetic. “But Barb’s the head honcho on this little production, so she gets to call the shots.”

  “Wonderful.”

  The door to the parking lot flew open and two big dogs came bounding in. One was Patrick.

  Kate was mortified. “How did you get out of the car?”

  He came dancing over to greet Quinn and Viv, with his tail swinging around in lopsided circles.

  The second dog had peeled off. It was now frozen in place, barking at a couple of clay rabbits that were huddled together on the floor near the lobby desk. Something about the golden retriever looked familiar.

  Allie.

  “Those clay things really creep me out,” Quinn muttered.

  But Kate wasn’t listening to her. She was too busy watching the door. Seeing Allie could only mean one thing: Shawn had arrived.

  “Why’d you bring so many clothes?”

  Shawn had all the dresser drawers pulled out. She was trying to find space to stash her stack of shorts and t-shirts. Kate had already finished putting her clothes
away, and remaining space was next to nonexistent.

  Kate shrugged. “Why’d you bring so few?”

  “Maybe because it’s summertime and we’re supposed to be on vacation?”

  “It’s fifty-four degrees.”

  “So?”

  “This is Vermont. It’ll probably be snowing by dinnertime.”

  “Oh, come on.” Shawn checked the closet. It was full, too. “You’re exaggerating.”

  Kate sat down on the end of the bed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Shawn pulled out a wooden hanger that held a skimpy-looking black garment.

  “A cocktail dress? Seriously?”

  Kate shrugged.

  “Did I miss something? Are we auditioning for Dancing with the Stars?”

  “If so, I’ll have to look for another partner.”

  Shawn lowered the hanger. “Why?”

  Kate pointed at her feet.

  Shawn looked down. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

  “Nothing, if you’re planning to muck out a stable.”

  “These Chucks cost forty bucks.”

  “Wow. Forty whole dollars? You’re really living high on those Bottle Rocket royalties, aren’t you?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Apparently.” Shawn returned the dress to the closet. “I’m out of practice.”

  “Well,” Kate crossed her arms. “That would be the point of this trip.”

  Shawn smiled. “That and contributing to Barb’s little project.”

  “I don’t think I’d refer to a one hundred and ten-thousand dollar project as ‘little.’”

  “I don’t think I’d refer to our experiment as ‘little,’ either.”

  “Experiment?”

  “Sure. You. Me.” Shawn hefted her stack of t-shirts. “Cohabitation.”

  “We’ve spent time together before.”

  “True. But not this much time.”

  Kate nodded in agreement.

  Shawn walked over and sat down next to her. “So I guess that means we’re working on our own performance art project?”

  “So it would seem.”

  Shawn smiled at her. “I wonder if that means we can deduct the expense of this trip twice?”

  “You’ll have to ask Gwen about that.”