by Jean Andrews
* * *
I did what Ramona suggested because I had nothing else to do. I sat at the computer and wrote, then deleted, then wrote. The story had begun as a hard-core mystery about a man stalking his ex-wife because she was having multiple, embarrassing affairs. But I found myself incorporating more love scenes than I initially intended. In fact, I never liked writing love scenes because they felt so mechanical, and now I was gravitating toward romantic encounters.
Maybe it was my current environment, the romance of the Northwoods, or maybe it was meeting Levade. She’s the most sensual being I’ve ever encountered. Maybe she’s my muse. That would explain my feelings.
I typed a sentence. “She looked at her with eyes that severed her soul and left her with half of who she was.” Then I stared at the sentence and quickly struck the S from the first word. It should be He. HE looked at her with eyes that severed her soul. What a Freudian typo. I pushed back from the desk as if the computer were possessed and sipped my coffee, staring at the screen. Finally, I touched the key and put the S back. It’s a love story about two women. It’s She.
Ramona’s been touting my new male-driven mystery, and I’m working on a lesbian love story. I can’t help it. The S makes it sexier. The S excites me and makes me want to write the love scenes. Maybe I should write the love scenes with She and then just change it all to He when I’m done. Or maybe I should just own the fact that a woman has completely upended my sexuality.
* * *
On my next trip to town for groceries, I spotted an orange cardboard calendar tacked to a corkboard above the frozen-food section. It was headlined MUSKIE AREA EVENTS—AUGUST, a jumble of anything happening in the region this month. True Grit was playing at a tiny local theater, the farmers’ market was open today in Pine City, and an upcoming dressage event was scheduled in Duluth. I was surprised that something as elegant as a dressage event was posted on a grocery-store tack board, but I was happy to spot it and wondered if Levade would attend the show, since she loved horses. I jotted down the dressage dates. Then feeling antsy, with nothing to do, I decided to drive to Pine City and check out the farmers’ market.
The drive was beautiful, the roads winding and tree-lined, sparkling water dotting the landscape. Pine City was a small mining town, with a population approaching four thousand. The buildings were multistoried and constructed of huge lake stones, making them seem as impenetrable as a medieval fortress. The farmers’ market was held in the town square, and I purchased Iowa corn and garden tomatoes and leaf lettuce and stashed them in a cooler bag in my car. Then I spotted a coffee shop. “Oh my God,” I said out loud. Not a café that serves coffee, but an actual coffee-specializing shop. I headed in that direction, ebullient.
The store was crowded, packed shoulder to shoulder with coffee aficionados who had found this singular caffeine oasis. People sat in small booths drinking and chatting. I paid for a pound of ground coffee and a cup to go, and was about to walk out the door, when I glanced over at the corner booth and was shocked to see Frank Tinnerson deeply engrossed in conversation with Levade. Frank, who was supposedly dangerous, with Levade, who had mysteriously disappeared. Is she having an affair with him? Is she warning me to stay away because there’s something more between them? A booth near them cleared, and I quickly sat down in it, feeling like a spy in a B movie.
All I wanted to do was stare at her. Actually, no, I wanted to hold her and kiss her, as I had at her cabin. The feeling overwhelmed me, as if she’d cast a spell on me.
“I still have it,” Levade said, her voice low.
“I want it.” His tone was forceful, perhaps even sexual, and my heart pounded as I prayed she wasn’t involved with him. “This is a dangerous game.” He turned menacing. “You know I won’t let go of you. Not after what you did.”
“It’s in someone else’s hands, and if anything happens, it will happen to you next.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, Levade. Every law-enforcement officer in the state would give his eye teeth to be the friend and fishing buddy of Frank Tinnerson, the Muskie Champion of the world. You know what I mean? In fact, some of them already have! The one thing I don’t have in my taxidermy collection is a white horse. Wouldn’t that look great, right there in my front window, facing the lake?” He laughed, and slapped the table, making a startlingly loud sound, then exited the coffee shop.
I took a deep breath and slid into the seat he’d just vacated. Levade collapsed back into the booth on seeing me. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, obviously drained of energy.
“My question to you. And I have an even better question. What is Frank threatening you with?”
“You have to stay out of it, Taylor.”
“You’re seeing him?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Then why is he so obsessed with you?”
“I have some things to do here over the next couple of days,” she said, not answering my question.
“I heard him threaten Alizar. That’s horrible. Let me help you. I’ll do anything.” I meant it, regardless of what danger it put me in.
She paused, looking into my eyes and judging my sincerity, I assumed. “Okay. Pull your car up behind mine across the street,” she said. I slid out of the booth and jogged to my car, got in, and moved it two blocks, parking adjacent to hers. I was behaving like a trained seal, but I didn’t care.
Her car windows were cracked, and she was parked in the shade, and when she opened the Jeep’s cargo area, I saw a large pet carrier inside, containing the most humongous cat I’d ever seen.
“I need you to take him,” she said.
“Take him where?” I was startled.
“With you. He was my mother’s cat, and Frank has threatened to kill him and stuff him to get back at me.”
“Stuff him? Oh my God! But I don’t know anything about cats!”
“Here’s his food and litter box.” She began unloading items into my car. The cat food was in twenty-pound bags, and the litter box was the size of a small wading pool. “He can’t go outside because he looks so large that someone could mistake him for a wild animal and shoot him.”
“Why is he so damned big?” I was still fixated on his sheer size.
“He’s a Maine coon cat. His name is Sasquatch.”
“Sasquatch, of course.”
“My mother called him Sassy.”
“Okay. How do I get him out when I get him home? I mean, can I just reach in there?”
“It’s a cat, Taylor. If you can’t do this—”
“I can do it, of course. I want to do it. I just have to…how much does he weigh?”
“Thirty pounds.”
“My God, that’s two cats.”
She kissed me right there on the street. Not a full sexual kiss, but a kiss that was enough that I would have agreed to take a six-pack of cats if she’d asked.
She thanked me profusely as I climbed into the car and drove off, heading back to the cabin, waving good-bye to her out of the window. Sasquatch sat on the front seat. His three-foot-long frame more than filled the cat carrier, causing masses of black and gray tabby fur, and no small amount of tabby fat, to stick out between the bars. He had a perpetual frown, large hanging jowls, and tall ears standing straight up on top of his head like two little dunce caps with fur streaming from them, making him look like the pissed-off guy at the costume party. I reached over to touch his nose reassuringly, and he let out a low growl.
“Okay. You’re not the pussy I had in mind, but we have to make the best of each other. And we’ve got to dump the silly Sassy shit. It’s not you. I’m calling you Sass.” He stretched to the extent possible given his tight quarters and let out a big sigh, as if relieved by the name change.
By nightfall, Sass was out of his cage and stalking around the cabin like a mountain lion checking everything out. I closed my bedroom door, feeling vulnerable in my nightshirt to cat scratches and hoping he wouldn’t claw anything in the living room. Suddenly the door beg
an to vibrate, and then the door handle rattled violently. I could see Sass’s huge paw, pad-side up, clasping the underside of the door, shaking it vehemently, clearly demanding I let him in. I told him to stop it, but that only seemed to infuriate him, making him shake the door louder.
I finally relented and opened it. His big green eyes glowed in the dark like alien orbs, scaring the hell out of me, so I pulled the quilt up to cover my face. He bounded up onto the bed and draped his entire body over my head. After extracting him twice, I gave up. “Look, I know you’re upset, and you’ve lost your owner, and you’re being dragged around to strange places, and you don’t know what’s to become of you, but do I really deserve this?” I tilted my head to the side to question the cat, who was snoring so loudly his upper lip was vibrating. A thirty-pound cat sleeping on my head, all because I crave the Lake Goddess. What has become of me?
* * *
At dawn, I called Ramona to ask her what she knew about feeding a cat this size.
“I didn’t get the feeding instructions from Levade, and every time I put a little food down for Sasquatch, he eats it and screams for more. At what point does a cat just bloat and die? And who would even recognize bloat in a cat this size?”
“You’re keeping her cat?” Ramona fixated on his mere existence. “Does he claw anything?” She was protective of her cabin.
“No. He just sleeps on my head. I guess her mother let him do that.”
“No wonder she lost her mind—a huge cat on her head night after night.”
“Do you know anything about the feeding amounts for a Maine coon cat?”
“I have authors who call me about everything in the world, Taylor, but you’re the only one who wants feeding instructions for her lover’s cat.”
“She’s not my lover.”
“Google ‘cat feeding,’ for God’s sake. I have work to do,” she said and hung up.
My lover’s cat. My lover’s cat. I tried the words out in my head to see how they sounded and how I felt about having a female lover whose cat I was babysitting.
Sasquatch let out a huge belch. “My stomach’s upset too,” I told him.
Chapter Fourteen
The whole Pine City encounter, with Frank threatening Levade and then me becoming custodian to Sasquatch, had completely derailed my thinking. I’d forgotten to ask Levade if she was planning to attend the horse show in Duluth, and more important, I had failed to get her phone number. So I would just have to press on with my plan.
I stopped over at Marney’s cabin to ask if she’d check in on Sass and make sure he ate his dinner and had plenty of water. I was headed to Duluth to see a horse show.
“Oh, for fun!” she said, and I was reminded that Minnesotans put “Oh, for” in front of almost any word. Marney bubbled over. “I think that’s the show that the woman on the Point goes to see every year. Helen says she takes her horse along, although I can’t imagine a horse watching a horse show, but maybe it’s an outing for both of them.”
Levade will be there! My mind danced with the possibility of seeing her. I thanked Marney profusely for helping more than she knew.
Marney followed me back to my cabin to meet Sass, and I began to prepare her for the shock of seeing a cat his size. “Now he’s perfectly harmless, but he’s a big boy,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Why don’t you sit in this rocker for your first meeting, kind of be on his level,” I suggested. Then I opened the bedroom door, and Sass came flying out, rounded the enclosed porch, and raced into the living room like he was passing the one-mile marker at Churchill Downs, clearing the couch and the second rocker and landing on Marney, causing all the air to blow out of her body at both ends.
The force of Sass’s landing tipped the rocker over backward, and Marney’s head was on a trajectory with the hard floor when I scooped them both up like a ground ball and righted the rocker. Marney had completely disappeared behind a pile of fur, and I was certain Sass had blown my chances for a babysitter.
Before I could apologize, Marney swooned. “Oh, for cute! Don’t you worry about a thing, Taylor. Little Sassafras and I will be juuust fine.” It was clear Sass had found his true love.
Bonus round! I patted Sass good-bye before anything else could happen, hugged Marney, and told her I’d be back late. Then I hit the road.
Turning the radio up and the windows down, I sang along with Kelly Clarkson to Love So Soft, ecstatic I had a lead on Levade.
* * *
The fairgrounds were packed with expensive horse trailers and rows of booths selling everything from spangled show jackets and expensive horse-themed jewelry, to German riding crops and tufted saddle pads. In and near the arenas, riders in shiny, knee-high boots led buffed and beautiful, high-priced horses around for a little exercise. I stood in line to buy a ticket for the day, picked up a program, and scanned the crowd for Levade.
It certainly wasn’t the kind of casual horse show I’d imagined. The horses were well groomed and well trained, and they were competing for ribbons and rankings. I sat next to an older man, who seemed fixated on the horses exercising in the ring.
“Do you have a horse in the show?” he asked politely, keeping his eyes on the ring.
“No. I know next to nothing about dressage. Just an outing.”
“This is a recognized FEI event, Fédération Équestre Internationale. Do you know the movements like the half pass, where the horse is moving forward and sideways on the diagonal, and the flying change, where they switch leads as they travel at a canter?” When I looked clueless, he pointed to a little insert in the program that described what the horses were being judged on. “It doesn’t really matter if you know what the movements are. The horses’ performances are just beautiful to watch.” He pointed to a man warming up on the sidelines. “That’s the passage, where the horse performs a powerful and suspended trot.”
I scrolled down the list of riders, their entry numbers, their horse’s name, and the time they would ride. Like a flashing neon sign, it jumped out, startling me. #312 LEVADE BISSET—ALIZAR 2:42 P.M., ARENA #1. I looked up at the logo-covered walls and spotted a big sign that said ARENA #2. I checked my watch; it was 2:10 p.m. I asked the man next to me for directions, then bolted out of the stands and jogged to the adjacent arena, skidding to a stop inside the giant doors.
Several riders were working their horses and preparing them to compete or just standing with them. In their helmets, and from a distance, the riders were nearly indistinguishable from one another, so if Levade was there, I couldn’t find her.
I took a seat as close to the ring as I could. The announcer asked everyone to clear the arena. Then arena-drag equipment drove through, smoothing the dirt for the riders.
After fifteen minutes, dirt smoothed and track cleared, the announcer said, “First in arena one is Levade Bisset on Alizar, a twelve-year-old Lipizzaner stallion.” Levade and Alizar cantered out to the center of the ring, stopped, and bent their heads to salute the judges. I wanted to applaud because she and Alizar were so beautiful together, and they hadn’t even done anything yet.
Then the music began, and Levade, her body never moving, her hands quiet, seemed to be merely along for the ride as Alizar executed the half pirouette, half pass, and flying change fluidly and in rhythm to the music, as if he and Levade were dancing together. It was incredibly sensual to watch—an elegant woman and a powerful stallion making dramatic moves that landed right on the beat of the music. I knew enough to realize that Levade was giving him expert, invisible cues, and that the two of them were mentally in tune, more so than she was with people. After five minutes of sheer magic, Alizar came to a stop in front of the judges—halt and salute! It was beyond sexy, and the crowd went wild as the two of them exited the arena. How many hours, days and years must they have trained together for this? I’ve reached a new low. I’m jealous of Alizar for dancing with her!
I could see Levade in the exercise area, adjacent to the arena, watching through the arena doors as ten other ho
rses went through their paces. None of them were as graceful and talented as she. At four thirty p.m., they announced the ribbon winners, and Levade took first place in her division. But her big win came at the end of the day, when the announcer intoned, “High Point for the show goes to rider number #312, Levade Bisset, on Alizar.” The applause drowned out the remainder of his remarks. She re-entered the ring for the awards ceremony, took the lead spot, at the head of the riders, and circled the arena as people applauded. Then she stopped to accept her trophy as Alizar tucked his front leg under and bowed for the photographer to snap a photo. I was overjoyed. How amazingly talented. How beautiful. People crowded around her, and I wanted to be one of those people, but interrupting would disrupt her moment with all the other riders.
After the show, Levade led Alizar to a horse trailer that looked like a luxury liner, kissed his muzzle, patted his neck, and looked into his eyes for a long talk. She spoke at length with a man who took the halter rope and led Alizar up a ramp onto the trailer, and they drove away. The trailer was marked LF, and I wondered if Levade owned Alizar, or if she just trained and rode him for someone else, or if she’d just sold him. Her body language seemed to say she wouldn’t be seeing him back at the Point, and I felt incredibly sad for her. I decided to walk over and speak to her privately and congratulate her, having finally understood why she carried herself so ramrod straight, moved so elegantly, and was so sophisticated. She had obviously been trained from childhood for this world of magnificent horses and elegant riders.
I was within earshot when a tall woman in riding gear approached, and Levade seemed delighted to see her. They hugged a too-long embrace, as far as I was concerned, and the taller woman slung her arm over Levade’s shoulder and walked her toward the concession stand, saying, “We’re all getting together for dinner to celebrate your big win.” That was the end of my opportunity to speak to her.
