The Big Sugarbush

by Ana Good

Thumper realized she had only one chance. She had to move closer to Jane, so close that the spray from her board would unbalance the other woman. Tricky, because sliding that close would mean that she, Thumper, would risk dumping her own board or forfeiting the race to a foul.

  What would Dirk do?

  Thumper leaned her muscled body a fraction of an inch to the right, toward Jane. In a flash, Jane went down, sliding on her right thigh across the slope into a crowd of cheering spectators. Onlookers tumbled like bowling pins.

  Unfortunately, Thumper followed suit. Her break wasn’t as clean as Jane’s. Instead, she tumbled head over heels. She heard something snap as she landed on her back.

  What the hell was that? she wondered as the world spun black.

  66. Emotional Baggage

  Dirk couldn’t believe Candice lived in the place the airport limo had pulled up to.

  “Holy shit!” she said as she peered up at a four-story, white adobe mansion tucked into the side of a crumbing ocher cliff. Three separate porches, all glass enclosed, jutted off the main house. The sparkling porches cantilevered over the water. The Pacific Ocean licked the cliff foundation under the house.

  Dirk tasted the salt of the ocean as she cradled her snowboard and licked her lips, which were chapped from the artificial air of the transcontinental flight.

  “Like it?” asked Candice.

  “I’ll say!” said Dirk.

  “Wait until you see inside. It’s very cool. I designed it myself.”

  “You design houses?”

  “Just my own.”

  The limo driver shouldered the bags up a steep flight of concrete-and-steel stairs. Candice and Dirk climbed to the glass abode, careful to stay back from the driver’s swing of the baggage. As they stepped into the foyer, Dirk stared down beneath her feet to see cobalt-blue water ebbing far below. The floor in the foyer of the house was made of tempered, pebbled glass. “Cool!” gasped the snowboarder.

  The interior of the house reminded Dirk of a museum. Or a church. Nothing like the dairy farm in Vermont, where she had been raised. Two modern paintings, shocking purple and yellow, both bigger than the side of a barn, hung at angles on the far whitewashed wall of the living room, which stretched four stories high at the apex. Sunlight spilled like diamonds into the immense white room.

  Candice motioned for the driver to set the bags down on an antique Chinese bench in the foyer. She tipped him generously and he was gone.

  Dirk traipsed across the living room and threw herself onto a U-shaped off-white sofa that was twenty feet long.

  “Shoes!” chastised Candice. Sitting on the sofa next to Dirk, she helped her unlace the black canvas high-tops.

  Dirk stretched out on the sofa and grinned as she kicked off her tennies. Her Olympic muff-diver T-shirt rode up, revealing a washboard stomach and the delicate hollows of her hips.

  Candice admired Dirk’s muscled body. “My God, you’re beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Just gorgeous!”

  “Come here,” Dirk said as she slipped one arm around Candice’s waist, pulling her down on the sofa. “We’re home. Can we make out now?”

  Candice didn’t answer. She couldn’t because her tongue was in Dirk’s mouth, teasing and playing, then teasing some more.

  In response, Dirk ran her hands up under the back of Candice’s silk blouse. “I really want you, baby,” she whispered hoarsely in Candice’s ear.

  Rolling to one side, Dirk attempted to flip the doctor, gain the upper hand.

  Candice fought her for it.

  Dirk pulled away. “I thought you were femme.”

  “I am,” murmured Candice. “Femme top.” To illustrate, she flipped herself astraddle Dirk’s lap in a split second.

  “Mmm!” said Dirk, who cupped the doctor’s ass as she pushed up tightly between her legs. Candice’s mid-length skirt was getting in the way so Dirk reached around to unhook it. She was halfway there when a voice startled them both.

  “Mind if I join the fun?”

  Dirk sat up, startled.

  Candice tumbled off Dirk’s lap, catching the edge of the sofa to break her fall.

  A petite blonde with long curly hair stood in the center of the room, wearing a pink Brazilian-cut bikini and a wide smile. A white gauze cover-up barely veiled a generous double-D cup. Her pale eyebrows had been tweezed into nonexistence. The blonde balanced a margarita glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She blew a smoke ring at Candice. Then Dirk.

  Candice sat up and stiffened. “Get out!” she barked at the blonde.

  “I don’t think so,” said the woman, who advanced toward Candice. The woman eyed Dirk. “Where’d you pick up this gorgeous bush baby? Rehab? If so, I’m getting sober. Pronto. Hey, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  Candice took another drag. “I said get out! Get out of my house or I’ll call the freaking police.”

  Dirk stood. “I think you better do like she says.”

  “You think that, do you? God, and here I thought you had balls. You do have balls, don’t you?” The woman advanced, clearly intent on unzipping Dirk’s jeans, a job Candice had already begun.

  Candice picked up her purse and coldcocked the woman. Three blows and the woman was passed out on the sofa next to her.

  “Who is that?” croaked Dirk.

  “Baggage,” sighed Candice. “Emotional baggage, from my drug days. Her name is Hallie. She runs Hollywood’s leading makeup studio. A place called Face Off.” Candice made an unpleasant face. “We used to date. Well, she called it dating. Mostly we popped pills together. She’d grope my tits every now and then like it was some big favor. I wrote her drug scrips. We pretended we were both normal het women. It was all very sick.”

  67. Little Lezzy Storm Trooper

  After a slow afternoon hike along the boulders above the sea in Maine, Poppy and Nan and Wee Gee decided it was time to drink hot chocolate and indulge in an old romantic movie. “Birge loves old romance flicks. We have a huge collection in the theater room,” offered Nan.

  “Theater room?” asked Wee Gee.

  “This way, upstairs,” said Nan. “Birge designed the theater room. I’ll warn you, the screen is sort of large. Birge had to get trifocals a few years ago. She built this damn thing when she was in denial over her eyes and the rest of her getting old.”

  After riding up a mahogany-and-brass Victorian elevator in the mansion to the third floor, and meandering down own a hallway or two, Nan finally slid open double pocket doors.

  The women walked into a room the size of a small movie theater with a blue silk screen any multiplex owner would envy. The decor was old-fashioned and impressive, in keeping with the rest of the residence. Carved wood panels graced the walls. A vaulted ceiling boasted an Italian mural complete with flying cherubs. Red velvet drapes hugged each side of the blue screen.

  The women walked down a long slope to sit up front on a purple velvet couch.

  Poppy eyed the cavernous room. “This Birge of yours has one bloody ego, yes?”

  Nan laughed. “We both do. It’s the primary reason we made such good partners. Nothing is ever good enough for Birge. I’m a pain in the ass at the same level. The only difference: I was born to the manner, whereas Birge grew up poor but determined.”

  Wee Gee settled onto the velvet sofa, enjoying how soft it was. “You call Birge yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Nan twisted her lips. “Why is everyone on her side in this thing? She cheated on me. She’s the harlot! Not me! I’m the injured party here. Me!”

  Poppy shrugged as she rifled through a tooled-leather box that held DVDs of a hundred old films. “You ought to talk to her. You did just sort of run out on her. You two were together a long time. I mean, what she did was bloody awful, but people make mistakes. Yes?”

  Nan rolled her eyes. “Give me that box! You guys don’t need a romance movie. You’re already sick with love. What do you two single dykes know about love, anyway?”
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br />   Poppy cried out. “Ouch! That hurt!”

  “Sorry,” murmured Nan. “Look, maybe we ought to watch some TV. See if CNN has any fresh news about Storm.”

  Nan plucked a remote from a side pocket on the couch and flicked on the mega-screen. A few thumb jabs later, the women were tuned to CNN. A twenty-foot-tall war correspondent yakked at them. He was dressed in battle khakis, but his hair was carefully fluffed, and he was wearing eyeliner.

  “Nancy boy!” jeered Poppy.

  But then the women grew silent.

  The correspondent was talking about Storm. “The Pentagon received an encoded Internet message from ISIS this morning. They have Storm Waters in custody. I repeat: They have taken Storm Waters, CNN’s top war correspondent, hostage. They are asking for a prisoner exchange. They want three of their key operatives released in exchange for Storm Waters’s life.”

  The news camera jumped from the desert of Iraq to the desk of a former five-star general, now a CNN military adviser. “General,” spoke the correspondent by satellite, “will the Pentagon agree to such an exchange?”

  “Not on your candy-assed life,” boomed the general, who, oddly enough, also appeared to be wearing eyeliner.

  “You sound confident.”

  “I am. The Pentagon adheres to a strict no-negotiation policy. This woman is a civilian hostage. Civilians can do what they want, but the Pentagon won’t waste precious resources trying to rescue them. This woman — all civilians who enter the war zone — are on their own. If this reporter has any friends watching out there, they should organize some sort of civilian release effort. If not, she’ll go down as a war casualty.”

  Poppy stood up and sprinted up the incline toward the door.

  68. The Things We Do for Love

  Wee Gee stuffed a few things into her overnight bag and hurried after Poppy, who had already ordered a car to transport her to the airport in Portland, Maine.

  “Wait!” screamed Wee Gee, waving a knitted scarf and snow boots toward Poppy as she ran. “You can’t do this alone! Old Wee Gee is coming with you!”

  Poppy crossed her arms and tapped her foot as she waited in the snow outside the mansion for her ride. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know that, you little English fool. I’m not coming because I have to. I’m coming because I want to. Understand?” Wee Gee was in Poppy’s face now, a move that reminded Poppy that in any hand-to-hand combat the older woman might easily win simply by throwing her weight around.

  “Get in the bloody car, then,” snarled Poppy as the limo pulled up.

  As soon as the two women were settled in the back seat, Wee Gee began to quiz Poppy. “You got a plan? ’Cause I’m thinking we definitely need a plan. Not like you can parachute your skinny English ass into the middle of a religious war and live to sing about it.”

  “Why not?” asked Poppy, her lips set in determination.

  Wee Gee swallowed hard. She knew Poppy well enough to know they both might end up rat meat in some desert foxhole. “Fuck!” she muttered to herself. When she got back to Kentucky, she swore she was going to stop hanging out with lesbo addicts, especially the young ones. “Crazy fuckers, the lot of them,” she muttered under her breath.

  The limo was barely off the estate when a vintage silver-blue Jaguar sped by, nearly taking the side of the limo with it.

  Poppy powered down the window, and craned her neck to see who’d just almost sideswiped them. She saw the Jaguar fishtail in the snow before slowing at the security gate to Stone Ledge. A hand shot out the window and punched in the access code, causing the iron gates to swing open. The vehicle, which featured vanity plates emblazoned “BIRGE1,” spun up the private drive toward the mansion.

  “Blimey!” cried Poppy. “I think that was Nan’s Birge!”

  “Really?” Wee Gee stuck her head out the window alongside Poppy’s, but the Jaguar had disappeared.

  Poppy powered up the window. “You think Birge will fight for Nan?”

  “She would if this were my novel.”

  Poppy eyed Wee Gee. “Did you bring your laptop?”

  “Laptop? Hell no, you yanked us out of there so fast I barely had time to grab my own ass!”

  Rummaging in her mesh bag, Poppy pulled out a notepad and pen. “Here, take these.” She thrust the items at the novelist.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re about to fix your bloody writer’s block. Watch what I do. Take it all down. You’re about to see love in action. We’ll whip up a best seller. Trust me, okay?”

  Wee Gee began to write as fast as she could. Some of what she jotted down was real. Some not. “What name do you want me to use for you in this sordid thing?”

  Poppy crossed her legs at the ankles and settled back in the leather seat. “Prudence.”

  “What?”

  “P-R-U-D-E-N-C-E. That’s my legal name, love. Very romantic, don’t you think?”

  69. Swan Song of a Lezzy Slut

  Nan was just sitting down to a quiet dinner of prime rib with red potatoes sautéed in butter and fresh rosemary when Birge burst through the library door.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” she gruffed as she crossed the room. The steel-tapped heels of her Italian loafers resounded on the wooden floor like military marching boots.

  Nan plucked up a steak knife and threatened Birge with it. “Stay away from me! You - you - you, lezzy slut!”

  “Put that knife down!” scolded Birge.

  Nan picked up a second knife instead (the butter knife) and began to wave it, also.

  Birge halted in her tracks. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Protecting myself.”

  “From?”

  “You.”

  The two women eyed each other warily.

  Birge stepped forward.

  Nan picked up a brass bookend and hoisted it aloft.

  Birge stepped back.

  “Look,” said Birge. “Rehab ended two days ago. Why the hell didn’t you come home? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “Worried? I can’t see that. Why, last we met, dear, you had your face buried in Tinker Bell’s sticky little sugarbush.”

  “That was mean.”

  “It was meant to be.”

  Birge circled Nan, wary of her weapons, uncertain of her sanity. “Can we please talk about this?”

  “We did talk. In therapy. Two weeks ago. You lied. Said everything was okay.”

  “It was. I love you. I want to talk about this. Work it through.”

  “Where’s your bush baby? Out in the Jaguar?”

  “Fired her.”

  “Probably a smart move. I mean, as an employee she could sue you for sexual harassment. Now you can ball her to your heart’s content.” Nan rounded the library table, moving closer to Birge. “Assuming she’s legal, of course. She is legal, isn’t she?”

  Birge crossed her arms against her chest. “This is not your most attractive side.”

  “Get used to it, sister. This is me, sober.”

  “You’re not drinking?” Birge shot a glance at Nan’s table setting. Sure enough, there was no frosted glass of gin, just a bottle of diet cherry Coke.

  “That was the point of rehab, dear. I went to rehab to get sober. I am sober. And I have to tell you since I got sober I’ve discovered I’m a little bit pissed.”

  “About what?”

  “Quite a bit, it seems.”

  “Like?”

  “Tinker Bell.”

  Birge narrowed her eyes. She plucked a silver cigarette case from the inner pocket of her jacket and popped it open. She lit a cigarette for herself before continuing. “I told you, she’s gone.” Birge exhaled. “I had her transferred to our office in the Caymans. She accepted it as a promotion. I’ll not see her again. Anything else you want from me?”

  Nan’s eyes softened. “Do you love her?”

  “God no!” cried Birge. “Why would you think that?”

  “You were fucking her.”

 
; “Yes, I was. And for the record that was unbelievably stupid of me. The dumbest thing I’ve done in this lifetime, next to that time I voted for Ronald Reagan.”

  70. Feel That?

  When Thumper opened her eyes, a sea of faces floated above her: Mary Lou, her coach, two men in red jumpsuits, whom she did not recognize, though she recognized their uniforms as medical personnel.

  “What happened?” Thumper asked Mary Lou, whose hazel eyes were wide with concern.

  “You wiped. Totally,” said Mary Lou, who was squeezing one of Thumper’s hands. “You feel that?”

  “Yeah. Feels good.”

  Mary Lou smiled.

  One of the medics leaned into Thumper’s face. “You took a bad tumble, ma’am. We need you to stay conscious, if possible. Talk to us. Work with us.”

  “Okay,” said Thumper, concerned now that maybe she wasn’t okay. Everyone looked scared. Maybe she ought to be scared, too.

  The medic squeezed Thumper’s remaining hand. “Feel that, ma’am?”

  “Yeah,” said Thumper. “But I like it better when she does it.”

  Mary Lou leaned in. “I’ll squeeze you some more, I promise, honey, but you have to behave yourself now. Let these men finish their medical exam.”

  Thumper nodded, relieved to discover her neck seemed fine. More than one pro snowboarder she knew had snapped vertebrae during a tumble. “What about my legs?” she asked the medics hoarsely.

  One of the medics popped into her face again. “You didn’t feel that?”

  “What?” Thumper leaned her neck up and stared down at her feet as best she could. She was surprised to see her boots off, her naked feet frosted with snow. “Feel what?” she asked, panic tightening her throat.

  She watched as one medic ran a metal reflex rod along her foot, then her ankle. “Feel that?”

  “No,” said Thumper hoarsely.

  The medic switched legs and repeated the procedure.

  “I can’t feel that,” cried Thumper, trying hard to keep her voice level. She could see the fear in Mary Lou’s eyes; God, how she hated that. “Take me to the hospital?” she asked the medic.