Synopsis for: “Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story”
In this throwback to the 1990s, Lyndy Martinez is navigating the stressful changes of becoming a new mother to Mari Ellis, at the age of 40. After losing her cushy security job, her newfound domestic life is much different than the one she’s accustomed to, causing her anxiety. Things come to boil on a trip to Yosemite National Park where she accompanies Dr. Kyle Ellis, who is consulting for a land development company. While on an early morning stroll Lyndy gets accidentally tangled up in a missing person’s case and a plot to sabotage the entire project, potentially damaging an existing reservoir. In the 2010s, mature Lyndy is visited by a handsome stranger with an intriguing proposition. She learns her deceased boss Rita had set aside nearly a billion dollars, for any proven heir to the Lovelace estate. In order to claim a share of the fortune, all Lyndy has to do is testify under oath that Rita had a secret daughter. The plan seems to have no apparent downside, and Lyndy wrestles with sentiments regarding how poorly Rita treated her. But do any of Rita’s disrespectful actions justify Lyndy being dishonest and swiping the funds? And is it ever okay to lie, even in a victimless crime? Turning down the stranger’s offer to testify means risking his eventual wrath. What would Lyndy do? Hint: if you know The Spitfire, then you probably know the answer.
She adjusted her reading specs, nudging Kyle with her elbow. “Dude, this place has no prices on the menu,” she whispered. Mr. Chan, cheapskate that he was, only ever brought her places with pictures of food on the menu. Even Rita Lovelace, who owned in excess of 50 cars, hated restaurants that wouldn’t list a clear dollar amount.
“Don’t worry,” he answered shifting in his chair, patting his jacket pocket. “We’re good for it.” He encouraged her to get whatever she desired.
The patio of The Ahwahnee dining room was about the most romantic spot to have dinner in the lower 48. The architecture of the historic hotel was a stunning sight, towering from a meadow on the east end of the valley, mimicking a grandiose Northwestern lodge. The style, a blending of river rock and fir logs, matched the surroundings and somehow felt right.
Candles had been lit, casting a soft amber glow for their meal.
Behind her Mari was snoring, a fuzzy blanket pulled up over her tiny abdomen, and her head tilted to one side. Across the meadow, Lyndy could see flickering campfires at the perimeter of a dark pine woods. The sun was setting and silver-orange light reflected, shining upon the smooth cliffs. The air was chilly, but it made the dining experience cozier.
She’d have been on cloud nine, if it wasn’t for Kyle’s elitist business partners.
Lyndy tilted a champagne flute to her lips, taking a quick sip. Plucking off her readers, she slipped them into a delicate metal case as someone uttered the phrase: “Reagan was the most effective president this country has ever had. I stand by that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Pete sake,” Lyndy muttered slowly under her breath. “Quite a group of raconteurs we got here.”
“Babe, shush,” scolded Kyle.
She wasn’t allowed to interject in any political conversations, Kyle forbade it. Those were habits of the old unmannered Spitfire.
“Your order Mrs. Ellis?”
Her ears perked. She recognized the manly voice and it made her jump. Glancing up, she knew him as the tall climber she’d encountered by the waterfall trail. He had a nametag now, which read Neil. He was dressed in a plum-colored hotel uniform with a bow tie. His messy hair was now combed and nicely gelled. He seemed to enjoy the element of surprise.
“Oh, holy cow,” she grinned nervously, holding up an empty ring finger. “He’s not. We’re not. This is my boyfriend, Dr. Ellis.”
Neil nodded, hiding any evidence of emotion.
“Lyndy Martinez is such a delight. You should marry her! Look at how good she is for you.” The woman, wife to one of Kyle’s partners, pointed at Mari’s buggy. “And look at what gorgeous babies you make.”
That ship is sailing, thought Lyndy.
Kyle smiled shyly.
Neil had been patient this entire time. “Glad to see the little one napping.”
“We all are,” agreed Lyndy. She folded up her heavy leather-bound menu. “I’ll uh, have the swordfish fillet. With a baked potato, no butter please. And an iced tea.” Lyndy shifted her gaze, surveying the table. “As Rita would say, I’m working on my summer bod.” Everyone chuckled.
“Very well,” said Neil. He’d taken her order first which must mean something. He looked handsome all dressed up, though so did Kyle.
Once orders were taken, the conversation turned to company stock performance, the financial “woes” of vineyard ownership and the new 49-ers quarterback. Neil hastened back across the dining room and she watched him disappear behind a series of screens, blocking a view of the kitchen.
At some point a lady with bifocals on a beaded chain, leaned across the table to make friendly conversation. “So, what do you do for a living?” the woman asked.
Lyndy put a hand on her chest, then responded: “You mean like work, work? A job?”
The lady confirmed with a nod.
“Oh, I don’t mess around with that,” answered Lyndy gleefully.
The woman leaned back, cocking her head, processing the answer. She said no more, as though it made sense in context.
Lyndy fixated on the meadow and those campfires. Higher up on the cliffs, tiny lights were blinking also, evidence of climbers. She pressed her fingers onto Mari’s back, rubbing them up and down. She loved to caress their baby, feeling her backbone through her wool onesie. She recalled the experience of seeing the pregnancy test turn positive for the first time. And the joy in Kyle’s eyes when she showed him, her initial fears evaporating.
“She’s great, isn’t she?” Lyndy whispered in Kyle’s ear. Under the table, he squeezed her thigh, then wrapped his fingers around her hands. His hands were warm. He smiled back saying, “It’s good to be here with you.”
Two hours later ….
Lyndy Life Observation: Living with Kyle, he had no idea what anything should cost. So, one time he purchased a commercial blender for $900, which I later explained to him was outrageous for our kitchen or any normal home. That stupid thing had only 4 speed settings: Low, Medium, High and lastly, hurl the contents into a 360-degree nuclear explosion painting every surface in your kitchen. I learned that the hard way.
After the meal, Kyle was standing, conversing in a circle with his colleagues. At their backs, a 20-foot table with an elaborate model display: the Silver-Pacific dam project on the Tuolumne River. The project was a capstone to a new housing development, and the reason Kyle’s company had been brought in to consult.
Lyndy circled the colorful model, ignoring their words while dabbing on her favorite shade of violet lipstick—her heels clicking on the floors. She smacked her lips together as she capped the gold-colored container. Four can lights had been directed on the scene, and she was enthralled at the level of intricacy on this thing—some artist spent hundreds of hours crafting it. The shaded contours of the rocky foothills matched every twist and turn of the river, and every side gulch. Even the trees were modeled, not just a spray of green foam, but literally hundreds of toothpick size pine and oak trees blanketed the hills.
How do you win approval to construct four thousand new houses in Walnut Creek, one of the driest municipalities in the bay without water? Answer: throw in a dam for free. 2-million-acre feet. It’s not like Californians were eager to share water, or part with their precious swimming pools and lawns.
Lyndy paused and sighed, resting her fingers upon the table’s edge. She twisted her arm to adjust her gold bracelets. Peeking through the doorway, she began watching the bar.
How Kyle’s associates could fritter away so much time debating the geology—aka rocks—business and not get bored into a coma was beyond her understanding. The bar looked fun though. A more relaxed space, sharp dressed bartenders and a classy 1920s art-deco style. A man was playing a piano—it had to be good. One high-backed leather stool was open. A beer sounded nice. Just one.
She drifted that direction in a curious mood.
As she came near to the entry, she sensed a commotion overtaking the otherwise sophisticated atmosphere. A bellicose drunk kept arguing with the bartenders, ranting over something to do with fault lines, virtue and her money not being green enough. The staff were threatening to call security. Everyone seemed to know this entitled blonde lady, who’d worn out her welcome.
“Sir this is America! Are you suggesting I can’t speak about God or righteousness in a bar anymore?” complained the overdressed woman, pacing back and forth. “We’ll see what THE LAW has to say about this.” She emphasized “The Law” as though it would transcend any rotten behavior and rain down punishment on a couple of low wage bartenders.
Lyndy focused her gaze on the baby buggy next to Kyle, confirming Mari was still asleep. He had a hand resting on the rubber grips, and was rolling it gently back and forth the way she’d taught him.
She hoped Kyle was prudent enough not to exit the meeting room without their baby in tow. It wasn’t guaranteed for any man, but at least he had common sense. They didn’t give just anyone a PhD.
Feeling confident, Lyndy strolled to the doorway, listening as the blonde lady continued arguing. She warned the patrons of an impending “Big One” earthquake, some sort of catastrophic judgement day. As in, “God created the San Andreas fault for good reason. Remember that.” While this distraction carried on, Lyndy slipped in, unnoticed. She cinched the cross-body strap on her purse, halting abruptly in front of the drunk.
Immediately she realized this lady was taller in stature and heavier, up to 170 pounds, a lot of excess weight to throw around. Forty more than herself. But the woman was older too, in her early fifties. To compensate, she’d dolled-up with expensive makeup, including fake lashes—becoming an angrier, chubbier version of Cathy.
“Time for you to jet,” Lyndy announced.
With benefit of heels, Lyndy stood near eye-level. A tattoo of a Norse symbol, a shield perhaps, emerged from the sleeve on the drunk woman’s wrist and a tiny gold crucifix hung just below her collar.
“Why’re you here?” her opponent replied, slurring words. “I know my rights! These people need to learn how to listen.” Her face with was flush with red, as the blonde poked a stiff finger in Lyndy’s upper chest. The plump finger narrowly missed some sensitive areas, causing her to backpedal. “What’re you gonna do, hoe?” she challenged.
Lyndy felt a rush of adrenaline. “What am I gonna do? Make you leave for one.”
“How will you do that … Old Navy shopper?” Her intoxicated mind had been searching for an insult, but with nothing clever falling into place, she’d settled on that zinger. Then she balled up a fist. Lyndy easily dodged a sloppy punch, then pushed her palm into the other lady’s gut. Deftly she latched onto her thrown wrist, pivoting a foot, coming up behind. Lyndy wrestled the opponent’s arm behind her back—bouncer style—until the woman began squealing in pain. The Spitfire tensed her muscles, pressing on the blonde lady’s knees, forcing a surrender. They moved together, twisting around, kicking and stumbling toward the exit door.
“This dress is from JC Penny,” corrected Lyndy through gritted teeth.
“Okay, made yer point.” The lady panted, catching her breath. “I underestimated you, but I honestly wasn’t bothering anybody.” She paused to inhale, while pinching her crucifix. “I was telling them about the fault line. Loosen up.” She was gurgling a bit, out of breath from a mere five seconds of struggle.
Lyndy tightened her grip, pushing her rival further to the door. “I don’t think anyone wants to hear your doom spiel right now.” The blonde lady strained against her. Even with superior size in the other woman’s favor, Lyndy held firm. She was tougher and she knew it. Yet Lyndy felt empathy for anyone in this position. Wasn’t much of a stretch to picture herself with no friends, drunk and ranting in a bar at 50 years of age. Hell, it might happen later tonight—probably not about quakes, but the old days and what a shit job working for Rita was. “Go sleep it off or somethin.”
“Fine. Made yer point.” The blonde repeated, then started coughing. “They say my credit card won’t go through.”
“Maybe it’s a sign from God to hit the road. I’ve been in your shoes.” She still didn’t loosen up. “Will you leave now, peacefully?”
“Yes. I’m done.”
As Lyndy loosened her grip, the lady bent at the hips, bracing on the frame of the double doors. She grabbed for her chest, like one of those middle-aged guys who have pacemakers, muttering something indiscernible. Then she clawed for a fur parka—the fashionable ones worn in Manhattan. From the inside pocket, the woman removed a hundred-dollar bill, clipped to the back of a Motorola cellular phone. She gave everyone a dirty look, then slapped the money onto the hostess stand. “There, last of my cash. Big One is coming though.”
In those days, there used to be bearded, gray haired guys on street corners, in both LA and San Francisco, holding up signs that read essentially the same. People were numb to it.
“Kristen, if you don’t clean up your act, you’re gonna get banned from staying here. Yer husband won’t like that one bit,” warned a bartender.
“Oh, screw it,” scoffed the lady, stomping out the door. “God knows he did the same to me.” She attempted to slam it for a more dramatic exit, but the little stops were in place on the double French doors. Instead, the blonde wandered out into the lobby in the direction of the back lawn.
Lyndy realized all eyes were on her now, probably thirty-five people. A lot of those folks were well-dressed, men in blazers.
Lyndy sniffed for dramatic effect. She rotated in the direction of the bar, straightening her black dress around the thighs. “Martini please, … shaken, not stirred.”
Everyone in the room chuckled, which was more about a sense of relief than humor. Still people were smiling at her. Lyndy buttoned her cardigan across her chest, pacing forward to the empty stool. She set down a designer handbag—another gift from Kyle—then said, “I’m kidding. I hate martinis.”
“Miss, whatever you want is on me,” said a gentleman next to her.
“California could use a good earthquake,” thought Lyndy.
Several hours later …
She awoke from a vivid dream, brought on by heavy food, champagne, a shot of tequila and three IPAs. Kyle was elbowing her. Mari was screeching again, loud enough to wake any hotel guest on the entire fourth floor.
She squinted at the red LED clock, 02:00. In the morning. Lyndy groaned. Kyle elbowed her again. Rolling onto her side, she forced herself upright by climbing hand over fist on the headboard, exhaling. “I know. I know,” she muttered.
In her twenties and thirties, a shot, three beers and two flutes of champagne would’ve been considered an afternoon hydration session at the VP. She’d drink that much and go out dancing too. Now it was a punch to the head. A headache radiated through her cheekbones, into her eye sockets. Even her ears were ringing.
Hopefully Maribel simply needed her bottle.
Lyndy was wearing candy cane striped pajamas, paired with a sleeping shirt that said mama bear on it and had a picture of a female grizzly. A fierce one.
She checked Mari’s ears, on the off chance it would be the same problem, but they still looked okay. She moved Mari up to the nightstand, which she’d setup as a makeshift changing station. She went through the motions, putting on a fresh diaper with the rash powder. Then Lyndy warmed up a bottle, offering it to Mari. Predictably, Mari pushed it away with her tiny arms. She continued to wail.
“We gotta make her stop soon,” muttered Kyle, as he sat up. “People are gonna dial the front desk.” His hair was all messed up and his eyes were just slits.
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I’M DOING!!?” shouted Lyndy. It came out as a top of her lungs rage, though she hadn’t meant it to. The neighbors would’ve heard that loud and clear. She hadn’t realized how upset she was. She’d delivered a Shatner-esqe performance, raging about Khan.
“I’m doing the best I can,” she clarified at a more sensible volume.
Kyle stared at her while yawning.
Lyndy sighed. She lifted Mari into her arms, trying to rock her.
“Lyn, when you got in the car today, by the waterfall, were you crying? Your makeup was streaked and you looked like you’d been crying. A lot.”
Lyndy rubbed her eyes. “I dunno. Dust in the air?”
“Okay,” said Kyle. “Though he didn’t seem to believe her.”
Lyndy carried Mari, who was screaming, over to the buggy. “I’m gonna try taking her for a walk.” She shrugged on a fur-lined winter coat, faux of course, bought from REI. The garment extended to her knees but really held in the heat, especially when one was burdened with having to wear a dress.
“It’s two in the morning,” argued Kyle, checking the clock by tilting it toward him.
“What are our other options?” Lyndy took a few breaths, watching Mari, same look of pain on her face. “This is normal. Anxiety is normal. You would know if you took a moment to crack open any one of the goddamn books I gave you. But no. You don’t have any time. You have time for…,” she gestured to the outside. “… fishing boats, but not this. I get it. I have to learn everything and do everything.”
Kyle sat there listening. He rubbed his own eyes again. “Lyn, I love you. Everyone who meets you loves you. And I know this is hard to hear, but like, you’re a mom now.” He added, almost under his breath: “It’s on your shirt.”
Lyndy glanced at her chest. She held back a hasty, dry retort, knowing she’d regret her words. It was hard to be angry at a man who paid every child rearing expense. Kyle was like a walking ATM in her life. But she knew he loved her too. That’s why this situation was such a mess. It was a mess before they had a baby.
In early spring the same precious Sierra snowmelt feeding taps of tech billionaires in San Francisco, nourished the wild streams in Yosemite National Park. Tumbling over rocks in canyons carved out over millennia, most of them met an unceremonious end, pooling in ugly reservoirs behind monstrous concrete dams. Stagnating. But where fortunate waters encountered the granite cliffs of a world-famous valley, they kissed the sky in a flourish of power and beauty unsurpassed by man.
On this April afternoon the waterfalls were at full capacity, chutes of white soaring in free fall, forming glorious arcs and delicate rainbow veils—wowing onlookers. The woods were fragrant, dotted with dogwood blossoms, bedded with spongy pine needles. The roar of the falls thundered from cliffs across the glacier carved valley, while the river below murmured serenely over rounded stones with a robust current. Here and there, clusters of deer were grazing in each meadow, surrounded in wildflowers.
She should have been taking it all in, as a trip to Yosemite was a once in a lifetime experience, but not for Lyndy. The problem? Maribel Ellis was crying incessantly. Not one of her cute whimpers or whines; she was making a goddamn scene.
Nothing was working. Other moms of young babies were judging her. Tourists who didn’t speak English were pointing, conversing in their native tongue. “Look everybody, an incompetent 40-year-old American mom.”
Well, obviously they didn’t know how old Lyndy was, but she imagined that’s what they were thinking. A bungling mother with a stroller that cost $650 and about $1000 more in baby supplies and accessories, but none to make a kid stop wailing. Whatever primal forces were necessary to tap into and bond with this baby, simply weren’t present. No bonding meant no communication, no control.
Lucky YouTube hadn’t been invented or some idiot would be filming her.
Still, Lyndy was going through all the motions, rolling the high-tech buggy back and forth in a soothing manner. She tried her organic baby bottle and her pacifier, but Maribel pushed those away. She rubbed her belly, while twisting this goofy mobile with colorful paper birds. Mari continued to wail. Lyndy danced a foam giraffe on her chest. Made the Elmo voice. Checked her diaper. And she was so hopelessly out of ideas Lyndy sat down on a flat rock and started crying too.
Her clothes were caked in baby food Mari kept spitting out and crusty stains from god knows what else. And Lyndy had to pee, but couldn’t handle all this chaos by herself, or any more judgement if she attempted to enter a line for the commodes. Plus, those things stank to high heaven.
Lyndy pushed up her sunglasses, wiping the corners of her eyes with her thumb. A teardrop pooled, escaping her touch and sliding down her cheek. Then another. She wanted a cigarette, but Kyle would know. She slipped off one heel, squeezing the middle of her arch to relieve tension.
This rough patch was normal right? A trace of post-partum anxiety. Normal.
She’d read nine books and countless magazines on modern parenting. They formed a pyramid structure on her side of the bed. In the end it still felt like guesswork. This sense of hopelessness began spreading, taking root, a fact she’d been afraid to acknowledge or reveal. Most importantly to Kyle. Because being a new mom and live-in girlfriend to Dr. Ellis was a difficult transition, very different from her old life. All his Lake Arrowhead pals had kids at a more typical age, so theirs were teenagers.
Speaking to other parents, she learned there were such things as “easy kids”. In theory, easy kiddos just lay there all day smiling at the world. Like condors in the wild—those existed too. But she’d never spotted one. Admitting to any kind of struggle, mental or otherwise was bad for one’s image. Especially for Lyndy Martinez. The Spitfire was too cool for this. She was known for her wisecracking nature.
Lyndy gazed up at the granite walls where a red-tailed hawk rode the air currents in spiraling loops. The closer she looked, the more she noticed water splashing down in teeny tiny waterfalls, passing grottos blanketed in ferns, trickles so inconsequential people rarely spoke their names—light playing with water. Little flowers too, yellow and violet hugging the shaded streambanks. And the incessant crying continued.
Knowing Maribel was perpetually like this she began to wonder if she herself had been insufferable as a baby. Perhaps it explained a mystery, the reason Lyndy’s mother abandoned her at one year of age, dropping—or more accurately dumping—her off with Aunt Rose. Then disappearing for good. Because of this and the drama which followed, Lyndy resolved she couldn’t let the same happen to Mari. She would never give up. But how to weather this storm? She was still learning—at forty—how to be a freaking adult. Hopeless, overwhelmed, words of the day. This was normal right?
That’s when the tall stranger emerged from a maze of nearby boulders; Lyndy was weary of strangers. She tracked him with her eyes, discretely, to avoid making eye contact.
He was a clean-shaven fellow with a thin frame and long limbs, not fully handsome on first impression. He had a friendly, some might say goofy demeanor, but also a ruggedness. The soul of a mountain man. He pointed to the “active mom” style buggy.
“Oh sorry,” muttered Lyndy. “She’s annoying, I get it. Sorry.”
He tilted his head in curiosity. “Uh, I wonder if her ears are plugged. Lot of pollen in the air today and we’re at higher elevation. Babies can’t stand the pressure. Try pinching her nose a sec.”
Lyndy raised an eyebrow. She felt like saying, “Have at it, mountain dude. Think you know something I don’t? That demon baby is never gonna stop for love or money.”
“I’m serious,” said the tall man, conscious of her distrust. He set down a plastic tub of camping gear he’d been schlepping.
Lyndy sniffed and stood up, leaning over her cute but impossible-to-please daughter. She pinched Mari’s nose, making the child writhe in discomfort. Ordinarily she wouldn’t strain at that. Curious.
“Got any cotton swabs?”
Lyndy nodded. She hadn’t seen which direction the mountain man came from, but it seemed like Camp 4, the climber’s zone. The rambling type too. She guessed he was 38, with streaks of gray hair overtaking an otherwise dirty blonde mop.
Mari continued to cry. Lyndy let go of her nose, reaching for a small zippered accessory pouch. Inside was a baggy full of ear swabs.
“Since we don’t have a rubber bulb, let’s try gently inserting this in her ear.”
“I’m pretty sure baby books say never do this, but I’m desperate, so okay. We gotta try something.” She’d give him one chance, cause she liked problem solvers. That quality was attractive in a person. Versus the other 75 percent of the populous who stood by passively watching any crisis unfold.
Lyndy positioned Mari on her side, gently cleansing her left ear. She did it as calmly as she could. Meantime the stranger made funny faces and distracted the baby. He was good at this silliness. Once she’d finished with the left, she rolled Mari to the other side, doing the same for her right.
And like magic, Maribel stopped crying. Her constant grimace melted away. Her eyes began to clear up and shine. A moment later, Mari grinned and giggled. Unseen angels began to sing. Lyndy started humming for the baby.
She glanced up in awe at the tall stranger. There’s something in the gaze of a capable man, even for a new mother. It was a wonderful, private moment between them. She smiled back, repositioning her head band and smoothing her messy hair as the breeze caught the loose ends. Hopefully this would distract from the stains on her blouse.
Lyndy cleared her throat. “Well, I’d say I was the worst mom ever. But then I remember my mother exists. So that’s not possible.” Lyndy removed Maribel from the buggy, cradling her in her arms and rocking her.
The stranger sat down beside her.
Lyndy continued, not knowing how to break the ice. “I spent most of my life doing what I want, living for me. I’d already given up on motherhood. But suddenly by some miracle I found out I was pregnant with Mari … I started to realize it’s time to maybe grow up. Not so easy.” Lyndy exhaled a sigh.
He laughed. “Trust me. I uh, know the sentiment well.” He rubbed his palms together, gazing at her baby. “For the record you still look young to me.”
Lyndy ruffled Mari’s wisps of deep brown locks, the same color and amount of curl as her mom. “Well, that is something every woman wants to hear. But I don’t believe you.”
Shifting her stance, Lyndy scooped Mari into her baby sling.
Lyndy straightened her stance, then walked a tight circle, bending her knees in a musical rhythm. Her mental state gradually recovered. Her eyes set upon the peaceful scenes—even with tourists all around—and she witnessed for the first time the power of Yosemite Falls. Even noticed a cool spray of mist against her cheek. She saw toddlers splashing, playing in a little ribbon of Yosemite creek. She pulled her cardigan sweater tighter. Her heartbeat slowed.
A black Range Rover whipped around a corner, then aligned to the nearby curb without scraping a wheel. WHOOSH! The window lowered with a buzz and it was Kyle. “Hey, Mari stopped crying?”
“Yeah. Finally!” cheered Lyndy excitedly, throwing a fist in the air.
“Awesome!” He eyed the stranger who seemed out of place and uncomfortable. “I think I got it all sorted.” Kyle fanned a stack of papers on the dash. “There was a mix-up with our original reservation. But now they’re offering us a nicer room,” he stated proudly.
Lyndy gave him a thumbs up sign. Kyle pressed the button to raise the back hatch, and together they loaded in the baby stroller. Lyndy held Mari close to her body, using the sling. Before stepping up to the passenger seat, she glanced to the helpful man who was reaching for his camping gear.
“Uh, thanks for everything,” said Lyndy waving to the man.
He stood there staring at the car as they peeled away, and she noticed for the first time he’d been wearing approach shoes and carrying a coiled rope strapped diagonally across his chest. A man with that kind of look on his face could only be thinking one thing: “Damn. There goes a rich girl.” He was wrong about that.
Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s
Lyndy Life Observation: One fateful New Year’s Eve myself and Mr. Chan were alone, making resolutions in his office: Chan to quit smoking cigars, me to quit drinking. A week or so later, someone gifted a box of real Cubanos to Mr. Chan, thanking him for bailing them out at a desperate time. That evening the V-P bar had a special “ladies’ night” event, and all single gals got two free import beers of their choosing. The resolutions were never mentioned again.
“Care for some goat’s milk in your coffee,” offered Lyndy, as black S-bucks dribbled from a cardboard carafe into their twin Styrofoam cups. “It’s from this morning. Chilled on ice.”
Her blonde friend blinked but said nothing.
“Beats that fake Coffee-Mate gunk by a country mile. You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve tasted it,” added Lyndy. She shook a glass bottle, halfway full with the whitish unpasteurized liquid. Bubbles had formed near the top, thick and heavy like cream.
“Did you milk a goat with your bare hands?” asked Catherine.
“Yes, with hands. How else you goof?”
“Then hell no,” answered Cathy.
Lyndy snickered, knowing she’d only said it to get this reaction out of her old rival. She’d been pushing Cathy’s buttons for decades, having reached expert status. Yet she really did top off her coffee with the milk from her goats.
“More for me,” she whispered.
Coffees in hand, Lyndy waited, as Catherine Cookson took her precious time wriggling her feet into high heel sandals, then positioning her sun hat on her head at the ideal slant. Between this and the flowy pink dress, she looked like one of those ladies who try too hard on a Real Housewives show. The Spitfire no longer bothered with impractical fashion, having wholly switched to jeans and cowboy boots long ago, much better for the toes. And her silver hair was perennially in a pixie cut style now. She’d mostly given up on appearances, but still applied the occasional lipstick and blush. The two of them side-by-side looked like an old lesbian couple.
“You ever gonna quit wearing dresses?”
“Nope,” Cathy replied proudly.
As soon as she was “put together”, they resumed meandering the aisles in one of the last free places in America, the Ash Fork cars and coffee. Each Sunday after church, the event held in the expansive parking lot of a ceramic tile store drew dozens of vintage autos.
With a scrunching of her nose, Cathy winced at a Z-28 Camaro. “Isn’t it funny, how cars you and I hated in the eighties and nineties, are cool now?”
“Ugh. I know right. Same happened with men,” commented Lyndy.
Cathy nodded in agreement, while exhaling loudly. They paused to drool over a mint 57 Chevy, owned by a bald guy pushing 90. Cathy ran her fingers over the two-tone paint, generally a no-no, but the fellow was charmed by her. He stood near the splendid tailfin, smiling, propped up on his walker, which was only missing the green tennis balls to complete the ensemble.
In her defense, Catherine had been making a cornucopia of positive changes in her life. She’d quit drinking, then retired from her longtime waitressing gig. She sold her dad’s old place in Barstow, and with this modest sum purchased a tiny home in Ash Fork, not far from Lyndy’s abode. Lastly, she filed for social security. It was such an about face that Lyndy, somewhat dumbfounded, welcomed her with open arms. Lyndy had yet to see the new house, but later that day Catherine had offered her a tour. All she asked was a little help unpacking the kitchen utensils.
Oh, Cathy was on new meds too, which seemed to have curtailed her bipolar depression, but done nothing to affect her outspokenness.
“If I were a breakfast cereal my tagline would be: Fun, satisfying and a great start to the day,” joked Cathy with a grin. The old man smiled again at her, loving her stupid jokes.
“If you were a breakfast cereal, you’d be Sugar-O’s,” replied Lyndy. “Nothing in em and you’re hungry forty-five minutes later.”
Catherine covered her mouth, disguising an impolite snort. She paused to fluff her hair and reposition the hat. “Hey, seriously, how’s Maribel doing?” she asked innocently.
Lyndy frowned, feeling the gut wrench of not having spoken aloud her present dilemma. It was the wedge driving them apart, even though she loved her daughter more than life itself.
By the sudden silence, Cathy knew something was up. She pivoted mid-stride, meeting Lyndy in the eye. “Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay.”
Lyndy had her fingers shoved in her back pockets. “Yeah. Well, this is fun. Mari got a DUI three weeks ago.” She tilted her chin down in shame.
Cathy’s eyes went wide. “Damn, really?”
“I’m afraid so. Not exactly something to brag about in the family newsletter. Kyle is livid by the way. I assume he blames me—like I gave her alcoholism genes.” Lyndy shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like her though.”
“I was just about to say that,” Catherine agreed, reaching out a hand to squeeze Lyndy’s right arm. “She’s such a sweet kid. No wonder you’re distant.”
Lyndy sniffed, wiping at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. “Mari says she doesn’t wanna talk about it with me or tell me what’s really going on.” She breathed deep, gazing off toward the San Francisco Peaks to calm her nerves. “We used to talk about everything.”
“Hey, lean in girl,” Cathy demanded. Reaching with her other arm, she wrapped it around Lyndy’s shoulder, pulling her in for a tight hug. The hug felt pretty good and lasted for twenty seconds. Strange how life twisted and turned. She’d never imagined this day would come, when a hug from your nemesis felt this way. “We’ll get through it. Maybe I should talk to her? Cause ya know, I’m like a neutral third party, not a parent.”
In any other timeline, Lyndy would’ve laughed off the idea. Blondie doling out life advice. But now, with her and Catherine neighbors and all life in opposite land, it made sense. In a Cathy way. Lyndy squeezed her cheeks. “I should warn you, Mari is just as stubborn as me, if not more so. Can you picture trying to convince twenty-year-old me of anything?”
Aiden S Clarke, author 