Backcast (6 page)

“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?”

“It could happen.”

Kate sighed.

“As I was saying, Princess Anastasia was the hapless victim of her guardian, Vorlich—an evil, white-haired Scottish woman with a dark and sinister past. Insert all kinds of eerie, druid-like, occultish undertones here.”

“Druids?”

“Why not?”

“In Canada?”

Shawn shrugged. “It's lesfic.”

“Okay. I'll give you that one.”

“Vorlich uncovers the love affair between Anastasia and Felix—and flies into a jealous rage.”

“Felix?”

“Her name is really Felicia—but she goes by Felix.”

“Right.” Kate nodded. “Androgynous names. A very important story convention . . . Shawn.”

“Hey.” Shawn feigned umbrage. “I did
not
create this name to be cool or androgynous. It was just easier to spell—and it kept me from getting beat up every day at school.”

Kate studied her for a moment. “What
is
your real first name, anyway?”

“You know what it is.”

“No, I don't.”

Shawn sighed. “Shoshana.”

“Like Rosh Hashanah?”

“No.” Shawn corrected her. “Like Sho-sha-na. It's Hebrew for Rose.”

“Your name is Rose?” Kate smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. My name is Rose. Go ahead. Yuck it up.”

Kate touched her on the arm. “I think it's sweet.”

“Oh, thanks. Sweet. Just like these zombie bunnies.”

“Stop it. Tell me more about the love affair between Felix and Anastasia.”

“Well, it pretty much follows the plot of every lesbian zombie love story.”

“Which is?”

“Girl gets girl. Girl loses girl. Girl eats other girls—literally and metaphorically. Girl gets girl back. Girls live happily ever after in some exotic location, free from the curse of reanimation.”

“The familiarity of the story does elicit a certain margin of comfort.”

“Right. It's no different from any book by Laura Ingalls Wilder.”

“Only with flesh-eating bunnies?”

“Right.”

“And hot, girl-on-girl sex?”

“If you're lucky.”

“I feel so foolish. I never noticed the similarities.”

“Pantyliners.” Shawn tapped her chest with an index finger. “We know some things.”

Kate smiled at her. “I have missed this, you know.”

“Missed what?”

“These dialogues.”

“What do you mean? We talk all the time.”