by Ann McMan
“I thought we’d already covered that?”
“No fucking way.”
“Why not?”
“Look at them!” Mavis waved a hand toward the dock. “They look like a preview of tomorrow’s headlines.”
Barb laughed. “And you said you can’t write.”
Mavis gave up. “There’s no arguing with you.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know. But it’s a starting point for negotiation.”
“Crazy white woman.”
“Maybe. But I always get my way.”
Mavis shook her head and tapped out another smoke.
Barb held out her hand. “Give me another one?”
Mavis extended the pack. “These things will put us in an early grave.”
Barb gave her an ironic look.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Mavis handed her the lighter.
“I promise.”
“I have a feeling those words are gonna come back to bite me on the ass.”
Barb laughed and lit up another cigarette.
They didn’t talk anymore. There wasn’t any need to. They stood, and smoked, and watched as endless arcs of white light flashed across the sky behind a pair of swinging fly rods.
“Ten o’clock. Two o’clock. Cast.”
Montana kept repeating the same phrase over and over.
Quinn was pretty sure she had that much down.
“It’s all about rhythm and syncopation,” Montana explained. “A lot like writing.”
“And sex?” Quinn leered at her. She was glad that Montana was the one who offered to help her out. Montana was pretty hot. She was tall, but had a compact frame. She reminded Quinn of one of those QVC garment bags that could fold up small enough to fit inside your wallet.
Quinn always did go for the boyish types. Lipsticks never did much for her. Especially lipsticks like Viv. Viv was just too sharp. She was all points and angles. Plus she had a voice like a cheese grater.
Montana gave a tired-sounding sigh. “Yeah. Like sex. Now concentrate. Ten. Two. Cast.”
“Aren’t these poles too skimpy for bass?”
“You won’t use these poles in the tournament. They’re just for practice.” Montana shook her own pole so its tip danced back and forth. “You know? So you can learn how to cast?”
Quinn took the hint and tried it again. It seemed to go pretty well. The line sailed out and the fly skipped across the water a nice distance from the dock. A lone kayaker, out for a midday paddle, shot them a concerned look when he heard the soft splash near the side of his boat.
Quinn was pleased. Maybe she was starting to get the hang of this? Just like she was starting to get the rhythm of how the dock kept bobbing up and down beneath their feet.
“How was that?” she asked.
Montana shook her head. “More like nine, six, hurl.”
Quinn lowered the pole and looked at her. “Hurl?”
“Yeah. You tossed that line about halfway to Mt. Mansfield.”
“Where’s Mt. Mansfield?” Quinn looked toward the small island that was about two miles away from where they stood.
“No.” Montana touched her on the elbow before pointing off toward the blue-green horizon. “Over there.”
Quinn could see several ranges of mountains. They didn’t look as big or imposing as the Adirondacks that framed the view on the other side of the island. These looked—softer. More like they’d been worn down to a size that fit the landscape better.
She squinted her eyes. “Which one is Mt. Mansfield?”
“That big one in the middle. The one that looks like a man’s profile.”
Quinn was pleased. If she really managed to cast her line halfway to that, she had to be doing it right.
She turned to face Montana. “Isn’t that the point?” The sun was glinting off Montana’s short, blonde hair. It looked like the top of her head was glowing.
“No.” Montana shook her head. “The point is to exercise control, not power.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Clearly.”
It was Quinn’s turn to sigh. “You said you’d help me out with this.”
“I am trying to help you out. Fishing is about patience and finesse—not speed and force.”
“How come you know so much about this?”
“Because I grew up in Missoula and spent my summers on the Blackfoot.”
Quinn blinked. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
Montana narrowed her eyes. “Ever seen the movie A River Runs Through It?”
Quinn shook her head.
Montana took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. “Tell me again why you want to do this?”
“Fish?”
Montana nodded.
“I don’t care anything about fishing. I just want to win this tournament.”
“But you can’t separate the two.”
“Sure you can.”
Montana was staring at her like she was the blue light special at K-Mart. Quinn didn’t mind. She got that a lot. “I guess that doesn’t make much sense to you?”
“Not really, no.” Montana stared out across the water for a few moments, then looked back at Quinn. “In one week, this lake is going to be choked with professional anglers from all over the country. And they’ll have every single advantage—the fastest boats, the best tracking equipment, the most expensive tackle, and hundreds of hours of tournament experience. And every one of them will have the same objective: to bag the biggest, fattest fish they can flush out of hiding, and take home that prize money.”
“That’s my goal, too.”
“Yeah, but, see? That’s the point, Quinn. To do this, you have to know how to fish.”
“Junior knows how to fish.”
“I thought you said that Junior was just going to ride along on the boat?”
“Well.” Quinn smiled at her. “You know how to fish.”
“Me?” Montana pointed a finger at her own chest.
Quinn nodded.
“Nuh uh. Forget it. I am not getting on that damn boat with you.”
“Why not? It’ll be fun.”
“It’ll be suicide.”
“Oh, come on. Quit listening to Viv.”
“While I do agree with you that Viv is pretty much a pompous windbag—when it comes to this, I happen to agree with her.”
Quinn huffed. “This is a goddamn conspiracy.”
“I’m just trying to get you to see reason.”
“The only reason I see right now is no reason. As in, there’s no reason why I don’t have as good a shot at winning this thing as the next person. So what if the other people in the tournament have better or faster boats—or more ‘experience’ whipping these stupid rods around at exactly ten and two o’clock?” Quinn paused in her tirade. “I really want this. I don’t understand it, and I’m not sure I have to. I just know that this—thing—feels different to me. Not like anything else.” She sighed. “Haven’t you ever felt that way about something that nobody else understood?”
Montana didn’t reply right away.
“Well?” Quinn asked again.
“Sure. Of course I have.”
“Does that mean you’ll keep helping me?”
“Quinn. This is a lost cause. I couldn’t teach you even half of what you’d need to know to compete in this tournament. And it’s less than a week away. Besides,” she made an oblique gesture toward the lawn behind them, where a team of authors sat on white chairs that had been arranged in a semicircle, “we’re supposed to be here to write—not to fish.”
“Why can’t we do both? The tournament only lasts three days. And it ends each day at one-thirty.”
“Yeah, but you have to get out there and practice. Learn the lake. Learn the equipment.” Something unreadable flickered across her face. Quinn was pretty sure that meant she’d thought of something new. “Please tell me you know how to swim.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey, I don’t plan to fall off the boat.”
“Nobody ever plans to fall off a boat, Quinn.”
“Well, what if I wear some of those floatie things?”
“Floatie things?”
“Yeah, you know. Like kids wear at the pool?” She extended her arm and displayed her wrist. It was nicely wrapped with a faded blue tattoo of concertina wire. It was also the size of a coffee can. “Floaties.”
“On your wrists?”
“Yeah.”
Montana looked her over. “I don’t think those would get the job done, Quinn.”
“Well, I bet we can figure something out that would.”
Montana sighed. “What about your essay?”
“What about it?”
“Don’t you need time to work on it with your team?”
“I can meet with my team, but I already wrote my essay.”
Montana’s jaw dropped. “You already wrote it?”
Quinn nodded.
“We’re only in our second day.”
“I’m a panster, remember? It’s how we roll.”
“Have you shown it to Barb?”
Quinn nodded again.
“And she’s okay with it?”
“I think so. She wants me to share it with my group later today.”
“Holy shit.”
“She said they all had their drafts done, too.”
“Good god. Why didn’t she just book us at a Days Inn near the airport?”
“Nah.” Quinn jerked her head toward the group on the lawn. “Look at that crew. They’ll be lucky to finish up by winter.”
Montana followed her gaze and studied the trio of authors. It was obvious that they were arguing. Viv was pointing at something scrawled in a notebook, and Towanda was energetically shaking her head from side to side. Shawn Harris looked like she wasn’t paying attention to either of them—probably because Kate Winston was out meandering along the rocky coastline with both dogs in tow.
Montana looked back at Quinn. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
“Cast,” Montana clarified. “I’ll help you learn how to cast.”
Quinn gave her a lopsided smile. “That’ll do for now.”
“Whatever.” Montana gestured toward the churning lake. The dock was pitching more dramatically now. “Aim for that yellow swim dock. Try to drop your line halfway between here and there, okay?”
“Okay.” Quinn started swinging her rod.
“Ready?” Montana asked. “Ten. Two. Cast.”
“That’s absurd.” Towanda crossed her arms and sat back against her chair.
“It’s only ‘absurd’ because you didn’t think of it.”
Shawn snickered at Viv’s comment.
“What are you laughing at?” Viv shot the words at her like they’d been fired from a slingshot.
Shawn looked at her apologetically. “Sorry. I was watching the dogs.” She pointed toward the cliff. “Patrick is eating goose poop.”
Towanda snorted. “That’s an appropriate metaphor for Viv’s idea.”
Shawn discreetly checked her watch. They’d been out here for nearly an hour, and they weren’t making any progress at all.
Viv glared at Towanda. “Maybe if you ever had an original idea, I wouldn’t have to do all the heavy lifting.”
“The only heavy lifting you do happens when you try to stand up.”
“Fuck you, Wanda.”
“Fuck you, Viv.”
“Ladies. Really?” Shawn held up a hand. “You two make Samuel L. Jackson sound like the Singing Nun.”
They both glowered at her. An implied “fuck you” hung in the air.
Shawn tried again. “How about we take a break?”
Viv tapped her pen against the notepad. “Fifteen minutes?”
Shawn glanced toward Kate and the dogs again. “How about thirty?”
Towanda laughed. “A half-hour for a nooner? You two must work fast.”
Shawn blushed.
Viv rolled her eyes. “Fine. We meet back here in half an hour.”
“Who made you the fucking cruise director, O’Reilly?”
“Somebody has to be in charge.” Viv waved a dismissive hand. “You’re plainly incompetent, and Shawn is only able to concentrate on her—nether bits.”
“Nether bits?” Towanda stole a glance at Shawn’s lap.
Shawn noticed and crossed her legs.
Towanda looked back at Viv. “It’s good to see that you’re still a master wordsmith.”
“Sorry.” Viv smiled sweetly at her. “I’d have said ‘cunt,’ but I didn’t want you to accuse me of plagiarism.”
“Okay.” Shawn stood up. “I’m outta here. See you all in half an hour.”
“Wait up.”
Kate slowed down so Shawn could catch up with her.
Patrick and Allie danced around Shawn’s feet for a minute or two before taking off to chase some geese that had the temerity to risk landing on a wide field adjacent to the inn’s lawn.
“They look really happy,” Shawn commented.
Kate agreed. “I know Patrick is. He doesn’t get many opportunities to be off leash like this.”
“We were lucky that Barb picked a place that’s dog friendly.”
“I think we’d have gotten a dispensation, anyway. Her cousin is the innkeeper.”
Shawn was surprised. “Page Archer is Barb’s cousin?”
“Yep.”
“Small world. I wondered why she didn’t pick a place that was more centrally located.”
“I’m glad she didn’t.” Kate took hold of Shawn’s arm. “This place is like heaven.”
Shawn smiled at her. “It is pretty nice.”
“You’re hardly objective. I think you’d say that even if we were shacked up at a hot-sheet hotel in Poughkeepsie.”
“That does sound rather charming.”
Kate rolled her eyes.
“So sue me. I like spending time with you.”
“Goofball.”
“Don’t you?”
“Don’t I what?”
“Don’t you like spending time with me?”
Kate gave her an ironic look. “You have to ask me that after last night?”
“Well.”
“I could hardly walk straight this morning.”
“Hey, that part wasn’t my fault. You were the one who got into the acrobatics.”
“Only because I accidentally kicked Allie in the nose, and she flew off the bed like she was being chased by aliens.”
“Can you blame her? I’m sure that scared the crap outta her.”
“It scared the crap outta me. Why do you let her up on the bed, anyway?”
Shawn shrugged. “I don’t. She just kinda sneaks up there.”
“Sneaks?”
“Yeah.”
“A seventy-five pound dog cannot ‘sneak’ onto a bed.”
“She can if it’s one of those very good plush tops, with pocketed coils and edge protection.”
Kate looked at her.
“One of the characters in my new book sells mattresses.”
“How do you come up with these ideas?”
“I like to write about real people.”
“Right. Like chicken sexers.”
“They’re real people.”
“In what universe?”
“In any universe.” Shawn was starting to feel offended. “Why are you always such an elitist?”
“I am not an elitist.”
Shawn stopped walking. “Kate. You work for Good Morning America.”
Kate looked at her impassively. “So?”
“So? And you tell me that my subjects are unreal?”
“Not your subjects—your characters. They strain credibility.”
“Oh. I get it. And your features about deeply important topics like Fake Miami Clubbing don’t?”
“That was a
perfectly respectable story about a new fitness craze.”
“Right. Because people who work out at six in the morning, under strobe lights with Shakira tunes blasting overhead, are more ‘real’ than people who plod off to dull day jobs selling mattresses.”
“I fail to see your point.”
“No. You fail to concede my point.”
“Fake Miami Clubbing is a legitimate form of aerobic workout.”
Shawn squinted at her.
“What?” Kate asked.
“Are you drinking the Kool-Aid at that place?”
“What place?”
“New York.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that weird.”
“No.” Shawn pointed at their dogs, now sniffing around a colony of fake bunnies that were artfully arranged at the base of a tree. It was a plum maple, and its shiny, dark red leaves were shimmering. The wind was picking up. “That’s weird.”
“What is?”
“Those clay rabbit things that are all over the place.”
“I thought so, too, at first. But now I think they’re kinda—sweet.”
Shawn looked at her. “Do I know you?”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Think about it. They’re quirky little emblems of hope and innocence, inveighing against the harshness of the elements up here. They create a perfect, metaphorical point-counterpoint.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“You really should think about quitting your day job and writing lesbian fiction full time.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No. I mean it.” Shawn indicated the tree where Allie was still cautiously nosing around the clay bunnies. “If those things could animate during the full moon, sprout king-sized incisors, and embark on an apocalyptic, twilight rampage, feasting on the flesh of all the well-fed Canadians that seem to inhabit this place, you’d have one hell of a paranormal best-seller on your hands.”
“What about the whole lesbian angle?”
“Oh, that part is easy.”
They’d reached the tree and the dogs. Kate stopped and crossed her arms. “Enlighten me.”
“One of the zombie bunnies could really be the reanimated daughter of the Canadian Prime Minister. She could have been killed and cursed because of her love for the exiled Minorcan Princess Anastasia.”
“Anastasia?”
“Just go with me here.”
“She was exiled from Florida?”
