by Ann McMan
“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 wa
s 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.
Page Archer was now out on the end of the dock, standing with her arms akimbo. The wooden platform beneath her feet rocked up and down, smacking the water with increasing volatility, but the innkeeper stood bolted in place. Darien thought she resembled one of the galvanized iron dock cleats—with a temperament to match.
Inside the restaurant, all eyes were glued to the spectacle. Diners at every table were spewing dire warnings about how this comedy of errors was certain to end.
“It’s comin’ in hot.”
“They’re toast.”
“That guy driving must be drunk—or stupid.”
“Did you see how close they were to that Hunter? I don’t know how the hell they missed it.”
“What the fuck’s the matter with that asshole?”
“I hope he’s got insurance.”
“Page Archer will have his ass on a cracker.”
“It’ll have to be a big goddamn cracker.”
“Could I have another double Oban, please?”
That last comment got Darien’s attention. She looked around. Cricket MacBean was still seated at her table near the fireplace. She was attempting to flag down a server by rattling the ice in her water glass.
Darien rolled her eyes. To each his own.
There was a collective gasp, and the room fell silent. The only sound came from a dozen overhead speakers playing soft music. It sounded like Enya. Sail Away.
Darien turned back toward the window. V. Jay-Jay was shaking her head.
“What happened?”
V. Jay-Jay gestured toward the water. “It looks like she stuck the landing.”
Sure enough, the pontoon was perfectly snugged up against the side of the swim dock, just like it belonged there. Quinn was standing on the side of the boat holding her bright blue dock line, looking for a place to tie up. It was clear that the stationary ladder would have to do. She bent over and began tying her clumsy knots.
People out on the lawn were shaking their heads. A couple of them bumped fists and raised their pint glasses toward the miracle of maritime maneuvering they’d just witnessed.
Page Archer, however, did not appear to share in the combined relief that a near disaster had been averted. She stormed back up the length of the dock like a thundercloud. Darien was pretty sure this didn’t bode well for Quinn, who now stood on the stern of the pontoon waiting for Montana to return with a rowboat to fetch her.
Other diners appeared to agree with her assessment of the situation.
“Page is gonna open a can of whoop-ass on that guy.”
“He deserves it. What an idiot, coming in hot like that.”
“How come Doug didn’t go out there with her?”
“He’s too busy pouring drinks for that mouthy redhead by the fireplace.”
“It looks like that woman who dove off is going out with the rowboat to get her.”
“Why doesn’t she just swim in?”
Vivien K. O’Reilly stepped into the void on that one. “Because that idiot can’t swim any better than she can drive a damn boat.”
Darien turned to face Viv. “That might be true. But you have to admit she’s got a lot of heart.”
“Heart?” Vivien threw an arm out to encompass the scene on the lawn. “You call that heart? I call that a spinal cord that doesn’t touch her brain.”
There was a titter of laughter. People reclaimed their seats and returned to their unfinished meals.
“I had no idea that coming up here would be so dramatic.”
Darien looked back at V. Jay-Jay with amusement. “It didn’t occur to you that you were going to be stuck on an island for two weeks with your cellmates from the CLIT-Con fiasco?”
“The thought did cross my mind.”
“But you came anyway.”
V. Jay-Jay shrugged.
“Admit it. The riot that ended that conference made great fodder for a lot of books.”
“It certainly put the ‘creative’ into last year’s Creative Literary Insights and Trends Conference.”
“I didn’t hear a lot of complaints coming from the organizers. They made a fortune on all that post-riot tchotchke.”
V. Jay-Jay didn’t reply. Darien continued to study her.
“What?”
Darien shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
Darien gave a little head toss. “I was just wondering.”
“About?”
“About you and that special skill of yours.”
“My special skill?” V. Jay-Jay raised an eyebrow.
“Well. Yeah. You have to admit that it’s pretty uncommon.”
“Not really.”
“Oh. So now you’re going to tell me it’s another Presbyterian thing?”
“Hardly. It’s an ability that many women acquire after successful treatment for SUI.”
“What the hell is SUI?”
“Stress Urinary Incontinence.”
Darien’s eyes grew wide.
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t have it—I just understand the prevalence of the condition, and am familiar with some of its less conventional treatments.”
“And you know this because?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had some firsthand experience.”
Darien sat back against her chair. “I’m totally confused. What does treatment for incontinence have to do with being able to open beer bottles with your hooha?”
V. Jay-Jay sighed. “It’s not rocket science. You are familiar with your Kegel muscles, aren’t you?”
“Well. Yeah.”
“After pregnancy, or as a natural part of the ageing process, many women lose elasticity in these muscles. Often, specific exercise regimens are enough to strengthen them. In other cases, workouts with vaginal weights prove efficacious.”
“Vaginal weights?”
V. Jay-Jay nodded.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Not so much.”
“So, you work out with—what did you call them? Vaginal weights?”
“Occasionally. But only to maintain my stamina.”
Darien shook her head. “Kettle bells for the hooha.” She looked at V. Jay-Jay. “Are there classes for this at the local Y?”
“Doubtful.”
“Pity.”
V. Jay-Jay was looking at her strangely.
Darien held up her pint glass of Backcast ale. “I’m just thinking about how useful that particular skill can be when you find yourself in a jam.”
“Why? Are you planning on getting arrested?”
“You never know.”
“Save yourself the trouble and get a good attorney.”
Darien gave her a shy smile. “Or I could just make sure that you’re on hand any time I plan to get into a bind.”
V. Jay-Jay didn’t say anything right away. Darien thought her expression was hard to read. She worried that maybe she’d gone too far. Then she saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
“That could work, too,” V. Jay-Jay said.
Across the room, from her seat by the fireplace, Shawn was studying a group of people standing next to the bar. She’d been watching them for some time.
“Earth to Shawn? Hello?”
Shawn gave Kate a guilty look. She had no idea what they’d been talking about.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
Kate rolled her eyes. “What in the hell has you so fascinated over there?”
Shawn shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Gwen chuckled. “Well, I know what I find f
ascinating. That woman in the red sundress has about the nicest ass I’ve ever seen in captivity.”
“Really?” Cricket followed her gaze. “Where?”
Gwen tipped her head toward the bar. “Over there, standing beside the gangly man who looks like Mr. Green Jeans.”
“Who is Mr. Green Jeans?” Shawn asked.
“Oh, come on.” Kate nudged her. “You never watched Captain Kangaroo?”
“It was a little before my time. Yours, too, come to think of it. So how come you know who he is?”
“I guess I have more esoteric tastes than you do.”
“Or a better cable package,” Cricket quipped.
Shawn didn’t disagree. “She gets, like, nine million channels in New York City.”
“An enviable situation, to be sure.” Gwen took a healthy swig from her beer glass. “So, apart from the awesome display of assets, what do you find so intriguing about the group at the bar?”
“I don’t know. They all kind of remind me of something.”
“What?” Cricket asked. “A remake of The Stepford Wives?”
Gwen snorted.
“Maybe.” Shawn decided to change the subject. “Anyone notice how chummy Darien and V. Jay-Jay are looking over there?” All three of her companions’ heads swung toward the tables that lined the windows of the restaurants. “Don’t look now,” Shawn hissed. “Jeez, you all.”
Kate elbowed her. “Will you lighten up? This place is like an IHOP on a Sunday morning after church. No one is paying any attention to us.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Cricket rattled the ice cubes in her empty tumbler. Again. “What does it take to get that damn server’s attention? Flares?”
“They might be doing you a favor, Crix.”
“Favor?” Cricket gave Gwen a dubious look. “What kind of favor?”
“Think about it.” Gwen held her nearly empty pint glass aloft. “They could all be participating in the annual ‘Save the Liver’ campaign.”
“Save the Liver?” Cricket slammed her tumbler back to the table. “You are so full of shit. I’ve never heard of that.”
“Sure you have,” Kate added. “Wasn’t Julia Child a big proponent of that one?”
Gwen was nodding enthusiastically. “It’s right up there with the Walk to Cure Nail Fungus.”
Shawn snickered.
“Why did I ever consent to sit with you three?” Cricket was staring across the room again. “You know, those two do look kind of chummy.”
