The Big Sugarbush

by Ana Good

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Dirk as the waitress brought their cheeseburgers. “You kinda spaced out on me.”

  “Sorry,” murmured Candice as she picked at the lettuce on the edges of her burger. “I did something a long time ago that I need to make amends for as soon as I get released.”

  “You hurt someone?”

  “Very badly, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sure they’ll forgive you. You’re a pretty cool person, you know.”

  “You think so?” asked Candice. The hot flashes were back, but this time Candice was certain it wasn’t hormonal. She wanted to touch Dirk in the worst way.

  Waiting until they were released from rehab was bound to be a challenge.

  51. Art Shop Angel

  Though Storm had invited Dylan to tag along for Christmas shopping, Dylan chose to explore Stowe on her own. Dylan hated to admit it, but she missed Bunny. Odd, really, because it wasn’t like the two women had shared a great deal. Just E and a mountain of denial.

  Dylan kicked at the snow as she strolled down an alley, away from the bustle of the shopping district. Stowe was impossibly cute. Very New England. Like a picture postcard, complete with narrow streets, tall church steeples, and fieldstone walls dusted in snow. Roger would love the place, she thought. Despite his rock star persona, deep down he was such a kind, traditional, sentimental guy. Too bad he was a dude.

  Dylan wandered down an alley, feeling like a kid who’d stumbled into a storybook the night before Christmas long ago. Snowflakes danced across her face. She caught a few on her tongue. She was glad to be alone. Feeling vulnerable like she did was not a feeling she wanted to share right now with any of the other women, because, well, it didn’t mesh with her tough dyke exterior.

  Dylan wasn’t sure how she felt about her sober life, other than lost with surges of anger for no good reason. Babe kept harping on her to dig beneath the anger. Every time she did, she felt overwhelmed with sadness. Babe reassured her it was okay to feel sad. That the sadness would eventually pass. That the sadness would eventually lead to a highway of new feelings.

  That all sounded hopelessly complicated to Dylan. “How long will all this take?” Dylan had grumbled, skeptical as well as impatient. Drugs had given her instant access to an array of feelings: a major reason she’d enjoyed them.

  “Two years. Maybe three,” Babe had assured her.

  That seemed a long time to Dylan. Hell, these days twenty-four hours seemed an eternity.

  Dylan stopped in front of a bay window that showcased the artwork of a number of contemporary New England landscape artists: striking mountains, meandering streams, birch trees weeping over waterfalls.

  Sofa art, sniffled Dylan: stuff that would look good over the sofa in any living room. Not the kind of stuff she’d ever paint or create.

  Dylan was deep in thought about her own art — she had to come up with an idea for her next monumental piece, and she was finding it hard to beat the sensationalism of Big Pink Pussy — when a woman creaked opened the door to the art shop and leaned out to take a long look at her.

  The woman was quite a bit older than Dylan, tall and willowy, dressed in robelike layers of flowing sky-blue silk. Her white hair was cropped short to accent her high cheekbones. Diamond hoop earrings caught the faint midday sun and sparkled on her ears.

  A real HOC — hot older chick — mused Dylan. Her mood immediately soared.

  “Like anything you see?” the woman asked, an amused smile on her lips.

  “As a matter of fact,” Dylan mumbled as she kicked at a clump of dirty snow, “I kinda do.”

  “Come in, then!” coaxed the woman. “I just made tea. Have some while you browse. We’ve got a lot more art inside! Gorgeous stuff! Come! Come!”

  Dylan felt herself drawn into the shop by some sort of magical string. When she stepped into the foyer, the interior glowed with the warmth of candles. A wood fire blazed in a red-tiled Victorian fireplace in one corner of the shop. Paintings were hung everywhere, even from a beam in the middle of the ceiling. Dylan had to duck to keep from grazing her head on the paintings as she walked toward an oak bureau on the far side of the room. The bureau held a tea set.

  The woman introduced herself as Glinda.

  “Like the good witch in The Wizard of Oz?” smirked Dylan as Glinda handed her a cup of steaming tea.

  “Yes,” laughed the woman.

  Glinda’s laugh was pleasant, very feminine. It reminded Dylan of water trickling across stones in a brook. As a child in Ohio, Dylan had spent a lot of time by a stony brook that ran across her uncle and aunt’s farm, listening to the water in an effort to calm herself after her uncle had …

  Glinda took Dylan by the arm, leading her to a rocking chair by the fire. “Sit down, honey,” she instructed. “Tell me about yourself. You like art?”

  “I’m an artist,” confessed Dylan.

  “Thought so.”

  “Yeah? How could you tell?”

  “Your hair, mostly. You cut it yourself?”

  Dylan nodded as she flipped a swatch of hair from her right eye while sipping at the hot, bracing tea. The teacup was hot in her hands, a relief since she had no gloves to keep her hands warm. “Yeah, I cut it with a straight razor. Never the same. Always changing. Uneven. Unruly. Like life.”

  “I like it,” admired Glinda. “I really like it. I bet you make amazing art.”

  Dylan was going to answer yes, but suddenly felt sleepy. She sat the teacup aside. “It’s kinda warm in here,” she said as she cast off her jeans jacket and threw it aside. She leaned back in the rocking chair and shut her eyes. She felt warm in the painting shop. Warm and safe. Very safe. Like the first time she picked up a palette of paints on her twelfth birthday and fell into the rich magic of all those colors.

  And that’s the last thing Dylan remembered as she fell into a deep sleep.

  Glinda retrieved a cashmere afghan from the back of a Victorian fainting couch in the front of the shop and spread it lovingly over Dylan’s lanky frame. She took extra care to tuck in the sides so no icy draft would invade Dylan’s peaceful slumber.

  When she was confident Dylan was safely tucked in, Glinda settled into a platform rocker next to the artist. She had to work at fitting into the rocker, not because she was a large woman, because while tall she was not broad. The problem was she couldn’t get her wings to bend in enough on her back so she could sit in the chair and rock comfortably.

  Dylan would be asleep for some time. The young artist had a lot to dream about. The healing dreams would, Glinda hoped, help her through this dire time. Mortals were so fragile, mused Glinda, so delicate, and this one was so very lovely, deep down in her scarred soul. But so much of her beautiful female soul had been damaged. She’d never recovered from the sudden death of her parents — then that awful uncle.

  Glinda blew Dylan a magical kiss before taking up a rainbow skein from the basket next to the rocker. As Dylan slumbered, the guardian angel knitted mittens at superhuman speed.

  52. Betrayal in the Bentley

  Storm was standing on Main Street, in front of a furniture workshop, admiring a hand-pegged tiger-maple writing desk, when a set of warm lips slid across the back of her neck. Her hand slapped against her neck in startled defense as she turned to see who had smooched her from behind.

  Scintillating turquoise eyes met Storm’s gaze: the eyes of her agent, Hunter Kincaid. Hunter was standing in the snow, her slim body wrapped in a brown leather bomber jacket with a chinchilla collar and matching chinchilla cuffs. She was dressed in a skintight black ski jumper and looked lovely, per usual.

  “Surprised?” purred Hunter as she slid an arm around Storm’s waist, pulling her forward.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” hissed Storm.

  “Christmas shopping?” Hunter flipped her long, ebony hair. “Babe told me you guys might be in town today, so I hung around. Thought you might enjoy some normal company. No offense, dear, but those women you’re in reh
ab with seem like a dreary lot of losers.”

  “They’re okay,” countered Storm, feeling defensive of the women she’d come to think of as her friends.

  “Yeah, especially that little English tart. She’s quite the bush baby? Yes?” Hunter’s eyes sparkled with malice.

  “Leave her out of this!”

  “Touchy!” cried Hunter. “Thanks, you just confirmed for me that you’re popping that tart.”

  Storm shook off her agent’s grip and hustled down the street, elbowing her way through a group of carolers.

  Hunter pursued her, determined to have her say. “Hold up! Look, I brought us lunch!” She held up a woven picnic basket, dangling it above the heads of the carolers who had ceased singing as they bustled toward a new street corner.

  “Lunch! Have lunch with me. Okay? I’ve got news from the network. A raise for you!”

  Storm halted. She stepped into a recessed doorway, allowing the carolers to swoop past. Hunter hustled into the alcove with her picnic basket. “I thought we’d do lunch in the Bentley.” Hunter nodded down an alley where a silver auto sat, motor purring, a uniformed chauffeur slumped sleeping at the wheel.

  “Okay,” agreed Storm, who was worried out of her mind about her career.

  The two women settled comfortably into the leather-ensconced back seat of the Bentley. As soon as Hunter had the contents of the picnic basket strewn across the built-in mahogany bar, she reached over and unzipped Storm’s hooded parka. Not resisting the undressing, Storm shed the parka as soon as the zipper parted.

  “You’ve lost weight,” purred Hunter as she poured a cup of hot chocolate from a thermos and handed it to Storm. “Here. Drink this. Argentinean cocoa melded with real cream, blended with a spritz of peppermint.”

  Storm took the paper cup and knocked back the hot chocolate, burning her tongue. She grabbed a cold sandwich from the basket, turkey pastrami, her fave, and took a big bite, cooling her palate. After she’d eaten half the sandwich, she stopped and eyed her agent, who was neither eating nor drinking, just studying Storm as she ate.

  “You said you had news from the network?” Storm mumbled as she took another bite of her bulky sandwich.

  “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did. You said a raise.”

  “Well, it’s sort of a raise.”

  “Sort of?” Storm stopped eating and set the sandwich aside. “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t get upset!”

  “Fuck off! I’ll get upset if I want. Now tell me what this news is from the network.”

  “They want you back early.”

  “Huh? How early?”

  “Today, if possible.”

  Storm snorted. “I don’t finish treatment until next week, you know that.”

  “They don’t care about that. They’re willing to look the other way. They need someone to drop inside the southern provinces. Rumor is there’s an ISIS plot afoot to attack the White House on New Year’s Day. Need someone in there now. Pronto.”

  Storm crossed her arms. “Tell them I can’t do it.”

  “Storm, dear, this is worth a lot to the network. They’ll pay a million-dollar bonus.”

  “A million?” Her eyes widened. “Wait. That’s a mil guaranteed, whether there’s a story or not?”

  “Yes.”

  Storm stared out the window of the Bentley. The snow was falling heavily now, blanketing the streets. “I can’t go. I have to finish treatment. I’ve been sober this long. I’m not going to stop now.”

  “Oh God! Don’t be a little ass, Storm. No one cares if you’re sober. They only care if you test sober. It’s for the insurance.”

  “I do,” she mumbled. “I care if I’m sober.”

  “Storm, this is your career. I went out on a limb to convince the execs to send you after this story. They agreed to wait another thirty days to drug test you. Frankly, they didn’t want to wait for you. They wanted Christina.”

  Storm bolted upright in the back seat. “That French bitch?”

  “Yes, her.” Hunter knew Storm hated Christina L’Etoille, a young French war correspondent whose appetite for risky reporting was matched only by her appetite for riding the laps of top male network executives.

  Storm folded her arms. “They’ll have to send her. I’m not done with rehab until the thirty-first.”

  Hunter pursed her lips. “I repeat: Don’t be an ass.”

  “Look, I’m sober. I sorta like me like this. I don’t want to go back to the war zone yet. I’m not ready.”

  Hunter shoved up the sleeve on her cashmere sweater, revealing a diamond-studded watch. She studied the watch carefully. “You’re not as sober as you think, dear.”

  “Huh?”

  “In about a minute you’re going to start feeling the effects of that hot chocolate.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Storm.

  “I took the liberty of mixing you a nice relaxing drug cocktail that will take away your pain, and which can’t be traced by any existing drug test. It’s a new designer drug from that lab in Paramus. All the sports lez celebs are using this new lab now because they create only untraceable designer drugs. I put a double shot of the stuff in your hot chocolate. You should be on cloud nine in a matter of minutes. You’ll feel like your old self. And you’ll pass the network drug test with flying colors. All our problems solved,” Hunter said as she took Storm’s face into the cool cradle of her hands.

  Storm wanted to object. Open the door and run for her life. But whatever was in that hot chocolate was beginning to take hold. She felt like giggling.

  Oh my God, Hunter was right: She hadn’t felt this good since rehab started. She felt on top of the world, like she could walk through a storm of bullets, and never feel a thing.

  53. Missing in Action

  At six p.m., the purple queermobile spun up to the Ski Kitty diner and the women piled in, noisy and excited. Candice’s arms were loaded with Christmas presents, so Dirk had to hold open the door for her.

  Wee Gee and Poppy came dragging a grumpy Nan down the street. Each one had a hold of one of Nan’s stiff arms. Nan was still foaming at the mouth about Tinker Bell and how she was going to rip that bitch’s lovely little wings. “When I’m done with her, she won’t be able to get a job managing a Kmart in Kansas City,” boasted Nan. “I’ll call every soul on Wall Street. That twinkle twat likes her women with big balls; well, let’s see how she likes it when I hit her with some really big powerful black balls.”

  Thumper loped across the parking lot, only to be stopped short by Dirk. “Dude, you’ve got lipstick all over your face,” chided Dirk as she used the sleeve of her down jacket to wipe her sister’s cheek clean. “You and Mary Lou have a nice time?”

  “Yeah. Thanks,” muttered Thumper, mindful that Mary Lou thought she should stop being such a wuss-ass about Dirk and the whole sex-change thing.

  The last one to arrive was Dylan, who showed up holding a hand to the back of her neck, her eyes bloodshot.

  “Headache?” asked Wee Gee.

  “Yeah, man. I mean, I don’t know. I was looking at these landscape paintings with some hot old chick, and then boom! Now here I am. Really weird. I think something strange happened to me back there.” Dylan cast a look over her shoulder as she shoved a load of hair out of eyes. “I feel, er, like, really weird.”

  “Ah,” said Wee Gee, “just your brain adjusting to being clean for a change. The headaches will go away in time.”

  “I dunno,” said Dylan as she climbed unsteadily into the van.

  As she slid the door shut, she noticed for the first time that she was wearing rainbow-colored mittens: thick fuzzy mittens, lined with an equally soft interior. She’d never seen these mittens in her life, and had no idea where they’d come from. She’d arrived at Sugarbush from the fair-weather state of San Francisco with no gloves or real winter wear to her name. That she was certain of.

  “Cool gloves,” remarked Poppy. “Where’d you g
et them? Fancy them myself, I think.”

  “Dunno,” said Dylan as she studied her outstretched hands. “I got no effing idea.”

  “We’ve got to go now, ladies!” called the driver as she smoothed her flattop. “Everyone fasten your seat belts!”

  “Wait!” hollered Poppy. “We can’t go! Storm isn’t here.” Poppy searched the back of the van again but Storm was nowhere to be found. She tossed aside some presents, certain the petite war correspondent had to be in the van somewhere. She scanned the street in both directions. No Storm.

  “Got my orders!” barked the driver as she put the van in gear. “Your missing lady will have to find her own way back to the center. On a tight schedule here. After I dump you ladies, I have to pick up a load of jolly boys and girls and get them to the Pride Center in Burlington. It’s queer caroling night on Church Street and I’m in charge of the volunteer van pool.”

  The van rolled out of the parking lot toward the lower village road.

  Poppy leaned forward on her seat and stared out the frosty window, desperate for some sight of Storm. They’d not driven far before Poppy spotted something that made her heart lurch. A silver Bentley blocked an alley. The New York vanity license plates read, “KINKY K.”

  Kinky Kincaid. That was Storm’s agent’s name. That car had to belong to Hunter Kincaid. And if Hunter was in town, Poppy had a bad feeling she’d managed to shanghai Storm.

  “Let me out of this thing!” cried Poppy as she tore off her seat belt. “I need to get out! Now!”