Valley Girl Part-8

“Fun Land”: apparently a sketchy slide and an equally janky diving board into a retention pond. nope. — ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Yosemite Valley, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a road trip with Mr. Chan, we stop for dinner at a seafood place. For some reason the restaurant had a tome-like menu which was 32 pages long, bound in faux leather. I’m thumbing through the thing and it takes me 20 minutes to decide what I want. Meantime, across from me Chan is turning red and has steam shooting out his ears like a blown radiator, cause I won’t make a decision. And the waiter keeps circling back every four minutes asking if we’ re ready to order. Finally, he shouts: “Melinda, enough! This madness must end. I will choose!”

Come lunchtime her arm still smarted, the pain having migrated up into her shoulder. She rubbed a knuckle against her back in circles near the shoulder blade, to keep it from throbbing. She wondered if she had one of those muscle injuries that was hard to identify without an x-ray.

Lyndy was meeting Kyle in the luxurious and airy Ahwahnee Hotel dining room. The ceilings were 40 feet high, with a dozen log beam trusses all fastened together by cast iron hardware. At floor level, plates and glasses were clinking, and the room was swirling with chattering guests as she rolled in. She’d been feeling relaxed, like vacation mode was starting work its magic in spite of events. Plus, she’d been looking forward to spending time with Kyle.

She smiled sweetly as she arrived at their table, next to a prairie-style gridded window with views of the falls.

With a pointed toe, Lyndy applied the brake to park the buggy. She slipped off her white gloves and undid her hat string, reaching down for a glass of sprite.

“Hey Lyn, can you pass me that basket,” Kyle remarked, pointing to the bread rolls, his knife already buttered.

Lyndy reached for it, but as the leverage of the weight put force on her arm, she felt a sting of pain in her shoulder. It caused her to wince and let go, nearly dumping the rolls and tipping all the wine glasses.

“What’s a matter?” he asked, rapidly straightening the table setting.

“I fell pretty hard this morning,” she answered, taking a seat at the table for two. She unfolded her linen napkin, setting it across her lap. “Good thing I’m relatively young.”

“You mean when you were hiking? Were you holding Maribel?”

“Yes,” Lyndy confessed. “It’s how I injured my shoulder. I must’ve braced myself so I could keep her from landing hard.” Lyndy took a sip of pop. “The scenery was incredible though.”

Kyle started huffing and she could see he was holding in anger. “You fell when you were with that waiter guy!” he exclaimed, his fists clenching up. “Why is it everywhere we go this happens.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but don’t. It totally wasn’t his fault,” she whispered. Fortunately for Neil, he’d taken a later shift and wouldn’t walk into this awkward situation.

“I’m going to speak to his manager.”

Her stomach felt queasy, knowing he might do it. She gazed at Mari. Kyle was one of those men who would say something when service was poor or they were disrespected.

“Oh please, let it go,” she pleaded, grabbing his arm.

He agreed, informing her he’d taken the liberty of ordering both their lunches. For Lyndy he’d requested a tomato bisque soup and sandwich.

Kyle had settled down, soon falling into his pattern of regaling her with stories of mostly middle-aged men in a conference room arguing how to build a dam. Which by his telling, behind closed doors devolved metaphorically into a circle of boys trying to decide how to build a tree house from a stack of stolen pallets. He also reminded her that tomorrow was the company field trip, which actually did require everyone waking up early so they could catch chartered shuttle busses to the site of the reservoir. Spouses and significant others were encouraged to attend, and Lyndy agreed to go.

The Spitfire was stuffing her face with a BLT wedge dipped in tomato soup when she spotted the ranger from the corner of her eye, conversing with the hostess. After a brief back and forth, he began striding their way. She ducked her head, putting a wine list up as a shield and facing toward the window. She swallowed hard. “Ruh oh.” Perhaps Brandt was here to interview somebody else? Fat chance.

“What’s happening?” snapped Kyle, seeing her feeble attempt at hiding.

Brandt locked eyes on her buggy like a hawk on a prairie dog, hardly deviating from his course as he snaked through the dining room to their table.

“There’s the little troublemaker,” joked Brandt as he hovered over the stroller making silly faces. Mari had a pacifier in her mouth. Brandt seemed to be in a jolly mood, his mustache looking plucked and trimmed. Without asking, he dangled his keyring above Maribel’s face, causing them to jingle.

Next, he looked Lyndy in the eye. “May I have a word?” He turned to Kyle, realizing he was interrupting. “Sorry to disturb your meal.”

Kyle slapped his napkin on the table and exhaled. “What did she do this time?” The look on his face said it all, switching his gaze between Lyndy and the law enforcement ranger. The whole situation caused a stir, as anyone wearing a ranger outfit, complete with the hat, made the whole room stare. Unfortunately, this was the exact type of scene she’d been hoping to avoid, as Kyle would have to explain it later. Many of the diners were from the Silver Pacific meeting.

Lyndy stood up, wadding up her napkin. She swept the crumbs from her dress and straightened it.

“What did you do? Feed a bear or something?” whispered Kyle, sounding alarmed.

“Oh no, nothing like that Dr. Ellis,” assured Brandt with a chuckle. “Is there a place we can go?” he added.

Kyle folded arms, planting his elbows on the table and resting his chin atop. “Don’t mind me. I’ll watch the baby of course.” At the same time, Lyndy was focusing her mental energy on something more serious, the fate of Kristen Gardner.

Brandt swiveled, sensing all eyes were upon him. He grinned widely, raising his hands. “Enjoy your day everybody,” he proclaimed, which was a polite way of saying: “Will you people mind your own damn business.”

“Let’s go upstairs to the old library,” he spoke into Lyndy’s ear.

Two minutes later …

The elaborate dam model had been packed up and carted to the middle of the library, now guarded in bookshelves on topics such as forest ecology, wildlife and the history of the valley. It was a space modern hotel guests seldom ventured, as libraries were becoming relics of the past.

“Kristen is still missing?”

She could see it in Brandt’s eyes, as they were standing feet apart in the light of a narrow window slit. For the moment it felt private here. He’d made sure to shut and latch the double doors behind them.

“We have people out searching and her description has been radioed to all backcountry camps. So far nothing.” He sniffed and squeezed his nose reflexively. “It’s been over 24 hours. We have to do a press release which I’m not looking forward to.”

“She didn’t have much gear with her.”

“You’re right. That’s why I’m not placing stock in the idea that she’s hiding in the high country. If she’d been more equipped, then I’d entertain that—call out search and rescue.”

“So, you believe she’s dead?”

“Not sure.” Brandt leaned over the model, studying the stacked inlet where the precious snowmelt would be siphoned off for housing developments. “Oh, we also recovered the lost phone. Thanks for the tip. The final call had been answered around 2 AM, so she must’ve heard something, an advance warning maybe. It came from a pay phone in the Coit Tower neighborhood. Wish I knew what that last call was regarding.” He paced alongside to the portion of the model representing the wild river, tumbling down cascades before the flow abruptly entered the lake. “The sheriff probably wants to take over and kick us all out of the way. Only pays attention to us if we have intimate knowledge of the park.” With his pinky he tested a toy fishing boat, seeing whether it was glued down.

“Wait, why are you filling me in?” The fact he’d come here to tell her all this, seemed farfetched. Why was he being so generous with information?

“Well, turns out Kristen was in a cult. Some kind of eco-hippie one.”

“Sierra Spring?”

Brandt nodded. “Heard of them?”

“Some.” Lyndy gazed at the shelf across from her, which appeared to contain dusty copies of books on tourism, bound like they were printed in the 1920s and 1930s. Meantime she was rubbing her shoulder again, as the pain was intense. There were maps there, old ones, the kind showing hidden features scrubbed from current versions: old mines, sawmills and long abandoned roads.

“These folks are known to be passionate about their cause and will go to extreme lengths to deliver a message. Can’t blame em for that I suppose, however some of them are incarcerated.”

He turned his focus back on her. “If they think you know something, it might put you in harm’s way.”

“Are you advising me to leave?”

Brandt nodded, moving closer to the window. “I believe you should. No one wants to cut their vacation short. I understand. I don’t know if you can conjure up a last-minute excuse—fake a family emergency—and tell your boyfriend out there you need to skedaddle with the baby.” He sniffed. “Or, if you want, I can reason with him.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got other stuff to take care of. We’re heading into peak season.”

Lyndy bit her lower lip while scrunching up her nose, cause there was no easy way to go about this. “I answered that call,” she said meekly. “Sorry I didn’t mention it sooner.”

Brandt’s frame stiffened up like he’d double bogeyed in golf. “You answered her phone!” He braced himself against the table the model was resting on, seeming at any moment he was about to karate chop or flip it over.

“Did you ever find the car? The black one?” she whispered.

Brandt took a series of breaths before replying. “There are surveillance cameras placed at each of the entry stations, facing in and out of the park. Ruby scrubbed those. No black Porsche.”

A depressing realization crossed her mind. If Kristen Gardener had been killed, and that black 911 never left, then her killer must be here in the valley.

Coconino County, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Deputy Keynes pulls over a speeding pickup on I-15. It only takes a whiff of the driver’s breath to realize he’s intoxicated as well. In routine questioning, Dale asks the driver why they were speeding. The man answers in slurring speech: “Well you see, I’m a bit late for an AA meeting.”

Lyndy stayed up late that night, stuffing an overnight bag—a big REI duffle—while her mind overflowed with memories of the late Miss Lovelace. Their white-knuckle adventures flickered by like that stack of color pictures loaded into a View-Master. Some life events she wished had gone differently. The sweetest moments she wished she’d savored; not realizing they were her best days. That feeling of summer in a tank top. Dancing in clubs. Even special songs on the radio. It made her pensive but at the same time energized.

She thought about phoning Maribel, to explain why she was leaving. She always told Maribel what she was up to, but this time it felt different. They were already on thin ice, and she couldn’t put her feelings into words.

“Hey I’m jetting off to Cali to meet a friend?” That didn’t sound right. “I found out my deceased, socialite employer might have a secret daughter we never knew? And I owe it to myself to sit down with this kid and see what she’s like.” That didn’t make a bit of sense. Maribel was more distant than ever before, and undoubtedly, she had every right to be angry. Hopefully Catherine’s neutral approach would work.

Once she’d had enough time to pack and arrange with a rancher to come feed her goats, Lyndy got a call. It was Fred, saying he booked a last-minute flight from Flagstaff to Santa-Barbara, at not a very economical fare. Anyone on that little route needed some bread in their pocket. But Fred had sprung for it.

The next day Lyndy set out before dawn, cruising the interstate to the Flagstaff-Pulliam airport, where she planned to meet Mr. Simmons again. She was thinking about the time she left Kyle and moved out of California in the early 2000s.

Lyndy vowed nothing in the world could persuade her to return—at least no more than a few days at a time. It was too much for the soul.

To that end, she’d boxed up her earthly possessions and rented an orange moving van. She sold her original airstream and most of her potted plants. She cleared out what remained on her desert lot—giving it back to the mining co—and left her homestead a ghost town so to speak. Swept so clean, you might miss it at 60 miles per hour. Like it never existed.

She’d buried her Beretta too. Those days were behind her.

Holding onto grade-school age Maribel’s hand, she assured her daughter they would start a new life in a place they belonged. A beautiful one, across state lines in a happy place, northern Arizona. A place they would both thrive.

Maribel, trusting her mother, had believed in that dream. Still, a part of her must’ve known her mother was anything but predictable.

The new Lyndy was not in business anymore, except to help recover occasional bounties or a stolen vehicle here and there. There was plenty of job security in that work, along with her goats, garden and a Lovelace Corp pension. The latter, frankly, should’ve been four times larger given the number of times she stuck her neck out for Rita.

She arrived at the airport as a brief storm thundered, wetting the mountains with shafts of rain and skirting south of town. A morning rainbow materialized faintly in the distance, spanning the hills and canyons around Fisher Point.

She spotted Mr. Simmons in the parking lot.

Fred handed her a printed ticket with a smile. He looked as handsome as before, with a cowboy hat and bluish-gray suit. However, something seemed bizarre in their second meeting. Wasn’t it odd to imagine that his late wife had passed away, literally in a fiery plane crash. Lyndy tried to understand this, but assumed she’d never fly again after such a freak tragedy. She reminded herself Rita was a bit cursed by fire in particular. It started when she was born in a town named Phoenix.

Valley Girl Part-7

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[Author’s Note: I’m planning to swap out the title of this book to “Stonewater: A Lyndy Martinez Story”. I kept trying to conjure up a more fitting title and finally it struck me in the middle of the night. This is usually how it goes with titles, as they don’t hit until 2/3 way through.]

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-7

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s a good example of why I often compare the 1980s to the old, old west. Your children could literally do a beer run for you. Most places in the USA, parents could handwrite a note—like a permission slip—on a piece of paper, sign your name and authorize your grade school kids to purchase beer or cigarettes from a convenience store. And the clerk would look at this note, I suppose judging the validity of the signature, and then sell your child whatever you were asking for.

After her second feeding, a thorough butt cleansing and a fresh diaper change, Maribel was in a less agitated mood. She gazed squarely into Lyndy’s face with alert, watery baby eyes. Seemed as though her little eyes were pleading: “mama, don’t you even want me?” Reaching out with her index and middle fingers squeezed together, Lyndy caressed her daughter’s forehead and wispy strands of hair. It was filling in slowly, same pretty shade of brown as her mother.

Inches away, Kyle was snoring.

Lyndy felt a familiar, suffocating tightness in her chest. In frustration, she pulled back her hand, wrapping her palms to cover her scalp. Her nerves were raw, twisting like barbed wire. Lyndy settled into a chair, letting her legs muscles go limp. After a few moments, she released her grip as her arms fell at her sides. She shut her eyes, gathering willpower and thinking.

By the way, at least someone was getting rest!

She resented Kyle for being able to ignore the baby whenever, however he pleased. She resented Maribel for not allowing her the freedom to do the things she loved. For tying her down. And she felt jealous of her, ever the center of attention, which she knew was completely insane. But she felt it, a sorrow. Maribel wasn’t fun or entertaining like a movie. She hardly laughed, or smiled, or giggled. Seeing another baby—the daughter of Erica—proved it. Her baby was serious by nature. Would she always be this dour?

The TV was on mute, tuned to some flickering home shopping network selling bad exercise equipment.

Lyndy knew she needed to experiment. Sadly, this wasn’t an ideal arrangement. The one piece of furniture in the hotel suite for sitting was a humble shaker style chair, with a spindly back and solid wooden seat. A rocking chair would’ve been comfier. Hell, even a bean bag might suffice. Falling asleep in the chair was a no-go.

Arising, she shuffled to the bed, stacking all the remaining pillows. She wedged the crummiest throw pillow at the bottom of a pile, saving the softest for her head. Next, with both arms outstretched, Lyndy reached for the baby. Cradling her baby, she eased into the bed, her back at a 45-degree angle to the mattress. She wore a real silk nightgown this time, but she’d not done up the front buttons on purpose. Lyndy wanted her abdomen totally bare. Maribel only had a diaper on.

Exhaling, Lyndy lowered Mari’s squishy body until their chests were pressed firmly against one-another, skin to skin. She could feel the warmth of the baby, like a hot bread loaf, the moistness of her breath, a drop or two of spittle and the plasticky texture of a diaper. Naturally, Maribel’s head turned to one side, so her ear was touching closest to Lyndy’s heart.

Quietly, Lyndy hummed a slower tempo rendition of the tune Just One Look. Back in her cocktail waitress days, that one was a banger.

The baby coughed lightly and Lyndy curved her fingers over Mari’s supple back. Lyndy felt her daughter’s heartbeat and breathing pace slowing. And she continued to hum. Lastly, she cradled her other hand over Mari’s tiny bum.

The vortex of anxiety in her mind began settling. It started with a warm sensation in her chest, like swallowing a shot of the finest reposado. The warmth began to radiate, from its orb-like origin to areas not touching the baby at all. Her extremities began feeling it, and her brain began to focus. Her hands stopped twitching, as she kicked out her heals. She could see things more clearly. It wasn’t the baby she was angry with. Of course not. It wasn’t lazy Kyle either. It was her mom, who obviously experienced this same problem and was too weak to fight it. How could she?

Lyndy Life Observations: On oven-like Tucson afternoons, me and Rita would walk across the boulevard to a dime store and buy mint chip ice creams and car magazines. I remember us licking our double-cones, watching a painting crew on 20-foot ladders painting a commercial building. They’re too lazy to come down off the ladder and move it each time they finish a section. So instead, they literally hop the ladder by jumping and jerking their weight up and down, standing on the top rungs. Basically, they dance the ladder along the wall into the new position. Nobody fell.

The phone started ringing at 6:30, when they were both in deep sleep. Even the baby was. It rang four times before her brain waves even registered what it was. Lyndy felt for it, with squinty eyes, her left hand steered by the source of the sound. She put the old school receiver to her ear, while her head was still against the pillows. Suddenly a realization hit: “Oh, Jesus, she’d slept four hours at a 45-degree tilt!” She knew she’d pay for it later.

Even Maribel looked up at her, and her facial expression communicated: “Oh mama, we really slept like this?”

“Ooof. Hello?” Lyndy groaned, her voice weak and raspy. It was Neil Conner, sounding chipper, asking if she wanted to go for a life-changing hike. Lyndy’s right hand was still cupped around Mari’s bottom.

Covering up the receiver on her shoulder, Lyndy turned to Kyle. “Hey, you wanna go hiking?” asked Lyndy.

“Not right now,” muttered Kyle, who’d been facing the other wall.

“So that’s a no?”

Kyle simply yawned.

She uncovered the mouthpiece. “Uh sure,” Lyndy answered. “Give me like … 30 minutes to get ready.” She set the phone back down.

“Who was that?” questioned Kyle, pulling a pillow over his head. “Wait, did you spend all night sitting up? Are you sick?”

“The friends I made, you know.” Lyndy shifted, transporting Mari over to her actual cradle. “I’m good.”

“So, is it a guy?” Kyle scoffed.

“Yes,” she admitted. Maribel started moaning. It was time for a feeding anyway.

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Dammit. Tell him never to call here at 6:30 or me and him will have a problem.”

“Oh, okay tough guy, I’ll let him know,” agreed Lyndy with giggle. She poked Kyle in the ribs making him turn away.

45 minutes later …

Frost nipped her fingertips, in the early morning shadows of the cavernous gorge. She had no gloves. In her hurry she was lucky enough she remembered to put on underwear. Her cheeks were red, but Maribel Ellis was snug in a baby Bjorn. High above, beyond the canopy of pines, the south flank of Half Dome towered.

The roar of the Merced filled her ears. The river, enlarged by melting snow, spread into three channels and rushed cold over the stones at Happy Isles. Her heart was pumping and her lungs expanded with the sweetness of pure, fresh air. Her entire body felt energized by the wonder of nature and simplicity of motion. Though there were other hikers, it hardly mattered. She felt as blissful as though the mountains were hers.

Her thoughts drifted to memories of her youth, lost in the rugged continental divide with the Warner’s, or tent camping with Dale. Those places hardly had foot paths, let alone a road. The reminisces were bittersweet, but they used to visit lakes in the wilderness and would be on their own for hours, sometimes days, immersed in the wonder of nature. She felt a sting of loss when she remembered Nash.

Her old boyfriend would’ve loved this place.

When next her gaze shifted upward, sunlight glinted at the cusp of the cliffs. Lupine, buttercup and snow plants dotted trailside, poking up through pine needles. She knew she wouldn’t be chilly for long. In a few minutes, exercise would cure that.

The scents in the air were a combination of woods and an earthy smell of dirt. Maribel was calm. She usually was once being hand carried.

Nearby, the river grew louder, angrier as they climbed higher on the mist trail. The stone steps became steeper, harder to negotiate with a single stride. One didn’t want bad knees here. Though Neil Conner led the way a dozen paces ahead, he stopped often to wait for her. He even offered to take Maribel off Lyndy, making it easier. But she kept turning him down. He continued looking back to check on her every chance he got.

At the first bridge, she opened her Nalgene for a cold drink of water.

As she caught her breath, Lyndy remarked: “I noticed Maribel loves nature. It seems to be the one thing which soothes her colic.” She breathed in a few more times, folding her arms over the side of the bridge and watching the rushing whitewater.

“It’s good for Lyndy too,” Neil added.

Lyndy nodded, with her gaze on the churning river. “Yeah. You’re right.”

A golden light began to bathe the walls of the canyon. They hiked onward, past the intersection with the John Muir Trail, continuing up the stairs of the Mist Trail.

At Emerald Pool the sun was still shining. They paused for brunch next to the Silver Apron, locating a smooth spot to sit—void of pebbles—in the shade of pine boughs. From there they could watch daredevils swim in the frigid water.

Maribel was in a strikingly positive mood. Lyndy giggled as she spooned applesauce into Maribel’s mouth, and Maribel attempted to swallow it. No matter how carefully she tried, most of it ended up running down Mari’s chin onto a bib. “I want my money back,” mused Lyndy. “Two thirds of the applesauce jar is being wiped away,” Her and Neil’s eyes met, as she crossed one ankle over the other.

Without words, Neil asked Lyndy to hold out her palm and he shook some trail mix in for her to eat. Neil watched Maribel. He folded his legs and hugged them. “I don’t know why you think this baby isn’t a sweet kid.”

“You’ve seen nothing. She’s never this good,” Lyndy asserted. “It’s as if we don’t even like each other. Some days we’re just roommates. I know that’s weird.” She glanced up. “I do want to know more about you,” Lyndy said, placing a hand atop Neil’s.

He seemed startled, and she pulled her hand back.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Lots of things. Why you’re wasting time with me. But we can get to that later.”

His expression became serious, and it was easy to tell scenes from a previous life were playing out in his head. “I’m a licensed CPA. I used to have a corporate gig in Oakland. In finance.” A tone of mourning came across as he related his history. “I lived in a house worth two million dollars. Drove a car worth about 50k.” He clenched his hands, as though his heart was pounding and imaginary walls were closing in. “I wasn’t cut out for the life I guess.”

“That’s understandable,” said Lyndy.

“Every two years, they force you to be promoted.” He held out his index finger and let Maribel curl her tiny digits over his. She squeezed. “You know, I used to think, if I just get to the next level, that next rung. When I get there, I’ll be happy. I’ll finally be happy. Like I’ll stay in that position and enjoy the finer things. But as soon as I achieved the next level, nothing changed. Not a god damn thing.” He looked down at the baby’s face. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. She’s heard worse.”

“Within days I was enveloped by the same stress and all I could think about was reaching that next level in the company. Know what I mean?”

“Everyone knows what you mean,” assured Lyndy. “It’s the American way.”

“I could teach a course about it,” said Neil confidently. He stood up.

She wanted to ask about Sierra Spring, but the timing didn’t seem right.

She was embarrassed at what happened next. On the way up she’d been so cautious in choosing her footing, avoiding ice and trying not to tumble. But on the way down she wasn’t watching where she was going, missed a big step and landed hard. Naturally, her body wouldn’t let her drop onto the baby, so she braced herself on her left arm, breaking her fall.

For a second her world froze. She was frightened she’d landed in just the right way to break the bone at the elbow. Mari started wailing, but for good reason, as momma had failed her.

Neil was there in a flash, lifting her up and checking Lyndy’s arm. He had a look of grave concern. Lyndy met his eyes.

“God, are you alright?” He started testing Lyndy’s arm with his fingers, sliding them up and down. She could feel his strong, climber’s hands touching her smooth skin. She didn’t want him to stop, although she was okay.

“It’ll probably end up as just a bruise,” she said at last.

Valley Girl Part-6

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One quiet afternoon, I was managing the desk at the Lovelace art gallery while Rita ran a few errands. The phone rings and an eager assistant is asking what Rita would like to have in her dressing room, at an upcoming fashion show. I reply with: “She loves Domino’s Hawaiian style pizza and warm Mountain Dew.” Cut to a week later, and I overhear Rita chewing out somebody on the same phone with: “I don’t care if it’s for charity. I wanted to help them but the way they treated me is ludicrous. … why? … I get there to find six Hawaiian style pizzas and a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. The soda wasn’t even cold. Who does this?”

Her calls were going unanswered, as did a dozen or so texts. Days passed, and Catherine began pondering just how accurate Lyndy’s prophecy might be. That is, Maribel held the title as the most stubborn youth in Coconino County. In most ways Cathy felt confident in her will-power, believing she could best The Spitfire’s and by extension, her offspring. As time went on this feeling of superiority was fading.

Her own father, Walter, lived by a creed: sometimes you have to lift up a good friend by their shoulders and drag them into the light. By “light” he meant church, and by “lift up”, he meant literally. Pastor Cookson in his younger days was known to carry drunks out of alleyways by dragging them from a box or whatever tent shelter they were living in. Often, they weren’t keen to go at first.

Her expectation had been to burst in on Mari Ellis in her natural habitat, behind a PC screen, with a headset and mouthpiece, playing Call of Duty online. Or some other multiplayer thing-a-ma-jig, surrounded by half eaten burritos, sacks of tortilla chips and Red Bull cans. Which would’ve explained why she never answered the phone. Like ever.

But her apartment had been vacant, or at least Catherine’s violent pounding on the door had gone ignored. And when she listened for a while with her ear pressed against it, she could detect no covert activity. From the outside, not even the curtains rustled. The electrical meter hummed along about as sluggishly as a Dutch windmill. Checking her watch, it was eleven AM on a weekday. When she inquired around at Mari’s country club, she wasn’t there either. Mari wouldn’t be a member of the snobby club; she was a server of course. But no dice. She’d missed her shift, having called in sick.

This was odd.

It was a warm, sunny morning in the mountains. Mood wise would rate a 9, on a 1-10 scale, presently the highest it got. On a hunch, Cathy piloted her green 98 Carolla up the hill to a city swimming pool, where she’d witnessed twenty-somethings chilling out, listening to hip-hop music and occasionally playing tennis. There, she described Maribel Ellis to two dudes in gym shorts, without shirts on. They didn’t seem to recognize her and her detailed descriptions weren’t ringing any bells.

As she strolled away disappointed, one of the young men spoke up.

“Hey, did you mean the goth-y chick? With the Mexican tats. Kinda stuck up?”

Cathy halted in her tracks. Tattoos? Wasn’t expecting that. Lyndy was against tattoos as a concept, saying something like “who puts a dang sticker on a Ferrari?”

The other male added: “Girl wears a lot of black. Hardly ever smiles.”

Cathy faced the pair. “I guess I was describing her from a while back.”

“Skinny. Purple lipstick. Bout five-ten.” The guys exchanged glances, agreeing with each other’s assessments. “Yeah, she’s pretty weird. Drives a black Civic-Si.”

Cathy nodded. Had to be her! So much for this being a phase.

The men grinned. “Haven’t seen her in a few days, but I know she hangs out at the trailer park on Green. She has a boyfriend there.”

Cathy celebrated the lead with a double fist raised “Yeah!”

“What’re you? Her mom?” one of the men asked.

“Nope. I’m an unofficial aunt. Tell her I’m looking for her.”

From there, it was a ten-minute jaunt to the trailer park.

Around back, a circle of twenty-one-year-olds were crouching near the bumper of a Chevy Tahoe SUV. Two of them, both boys, had tobacco vapes, and several feet away was a big 24-pack of beers. The larger of the pair sported a Slayer t-shirt. Not a nice-fitting shirt, rather a super baggy one. She spotted the two girls next, one very tan in a black bikini top and shorts, with a towel protecting her shoulders. The other girl adjacent her in a similar state of dress, had paler skin. The boys were in all black, which indeed resembled a form of vampire attire.

The tan girl, though her back was turned, would have to be Maribel. She possessed the same curly chestnut hair, striking features and body type as Lyndy, albeit slimmer than her mother had been at that age.

Mari was in the act of inflating an inner-tube, using a hand bicycle pump. The boys were staring at something on a phone. There used to be such a thing called a “tramp-stamp”, to use an impolite colloquial term. Mari had exceeded this measure and then some, with the ample variety of ink on her lower back. It depicted a theme too, as one of the earlier boys mentioned. Across her left hip was a bold and conspicuous dia-de-los-muertos mask, replete with skeleton eye sockets. Above this, on her shoulder blade, a decorative bluish agave detailed with lifelike shading. On the right she had a sleek diamondback serpent, extending from the mid-line of her spine, along her slender waist and up onto her ribs. The colorful snake looked as though it were real, climbing up her body with a tiny fork tongue to test the air.

Technically, none of these items would be visible if she were in a normal top

As the others turned to the Carolla, it got Mari’s attention.

Mari shot her a menacing glare as Cathy rolled down her passenger window. She’d forgotten about the gaze. The same deep brown eyes which once transfixed unsuspecting males at the VP whenever her mother entered a room. It was spooky, seeing the rebirth of her old rival.

“I need to talk to you,” shouted Cathy, lacking a cleverer opening line.

Mari didn’t seem in a hurry to move. After a brief pause and a sip or two from a beer can, she continued inflating her inner tube. The girl next to her seemed to be waiting to use the pump.

“You kids are wearing sunscreen, right?” pleaded Catherine.

An amused look came over Mari and her friend. They both shrugged.

“Oh my god,” she muttered. “I might have some with me.” Stepping out, Cathy slammed her door and paced over to the circle. “Did you get my text messages at least?”

Mari looked up and nodded, remaining on mute.

“Do you speak English? Hablas ingles?” Cathy said facetiously, getting in Mari’s face. The boys chuckled, so Cathy turned their way. “Where’re you all going?”

“Tubing on the Salt River,” explained one of the smug boys with a surfer accent, who again, wasn’t bothering to help with anything. “Who are you?”

“None of yer business,” explained Cathy. She tapped Maribel on the shoulder to get her to look her way. “Mari, can I talk to you, away from your friends? It will only take 10 minutes.”

Mari gazed back at her and exhaled, rolling her eyes. “What’s so important?”

Lyndy had said it would be hard.

“Did my mom send you?”

“No, of course not,” argued Cathy. “I just want to chat is all. I’m your mom’s best friend and she hasn’t heard from you in two weeks.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I got a DUI. It’s done and over. I talked to my dad. He’s pissed but it’s handled. I’ll call her back when I damn well feel like it. Right now, I don’t. Me and my boyfriend are tubing today. Geez.”

“It’s a Tuesday,” said Cathy, dumbfounded. “And your mom is worried about you.”

In anger, Maribel slammed down the handle on the air pump and plugged her tube. She then flipped the rubber tube above her head, crammed it into the back of the SUV and threw her towel atop it. Finally, she answered rhetorically, “My mom is worried about me? You’re worried about me? Pardon me, are you serious?” Mari sighed angrily. “Listen, in addition to her reputation as a certified badass, my mom was widely known as the biggest floozy this side of the Rocky Mountains. And you. You weren’t far behind. You were a waitress at a glorified truck stop for 30 plus years, which is the shittiest excuse for a career I ever heard. And I’m told you were intoxicated half that time. So, excuse me for not wanting to listen to anything you two have to advise in the life or substance abuse department.” She looked back at Catherine, then stomped over to the pump and started inflating her friend’s tube.

Catherine stood slack-jawed, wiping the back of her palm across her face. “Yikes,” she voiced meekly.

“Wanna know what my mom thinks about you?”

“Uh, not right now,” answered Cathy.

“She once said, your super power is taking an ordinary unpleasant situation and kicking it up to a four-alarm dumpster fire. She’s only nice to you cause she’s lonely.”

The boys—sounding like a pair of Beavis and Butthead impersonators—chuckled at the mocking, but Maribel didn’t seem one bit amused. She had an upset look on her face, as she pumped up the next tube with max aggression.

Meanwhile Catherine was fuming. Not at Lyndy, who uttered crap she didn’t mean all the time and couldn’t be held accountable. Maribel should know better. This kid deserved a slap, but Cathy learned not so long ago to never react in the heat of a moment. She decided to take a page from her Zen-like father, giving Lyndy’s only daughter space. Sounded like a person who was not ready to listen. Real sweet kid—not.

She rubbed the center of her chest with her thumb to assuage a feeling of heartburn. “I’m starting to recall why me and Lyndy had a beef,” thought Catherine.

She took one look at the smug boys, and at Mari, then sauntered back to her Toyota. “I’ll be back,” Catherine voiced, mimicking a line from one of her favorite action films.

She needed to unpack her thoughts; she felt she’d aged ten years in the span of three minutes. Her hip was aching and for the first time, she had a desire to unzip her dress, then slip on a baggy man’s shirt and sweat pants. Not since menopause had she experienced these shifting emotions. Before thrusting the car into gear, she undid the crackling wrapper of a calcium chew and stuck the gooey nougat in her mouth. Fantastic for bone health.

Not far away, near Ash Fork …

Let’s face it. The handsome devil in the Audi wanted something, but what could it be? He was attractive and prosperous enough to be on marriage two or three. To be cynical about life. Course he didn’t have any obvious gold ring, not that she’d be able to see much in the early dawn. And she liked to believe she’d aged well, but not that well. It wasn’t like the old days when men were crazy about her. Just being honest.

At least he wasn’t here to murder her. Thank God!

Perhaps his agenda involved a new task from Miss Thurgood. Then why had his opening involved a proposal to repair her ancient car? And why was he willing to be so patient while she first fixed herself up, got pretty, before starting to cook.

Something about him felt familiar, but she couldn’t put a finger on it.

Lyndy contemplated this enigma while grinding pinyon coffee, then cracking fresh eggs, chopping tomatillos and onion for a salsa to go with her ham and cheese omelets. Hopefully this man, whom she neglected to ask for a name, wasn’t one of those vegans.

She had a cute headband on now, mascara and violet colored lipstick. And yet she was lonely which was making her weak.

A half hour later she emerged from her airstream, holding two plates containing her best recipe for omelets. The stranger was standing in the sun, admiring mighty Thor who’d been leashed to a fence rail. Having run out of invasive plant species to munch on, Thor had taken a seat on the ground, legs folded under like a cat, chewing cud.

“Quite a spread,” the man remarked. He’d been taking it all in. “My daughter would fall in love with this place.”

He had a daughter too?

“Thanks. I call it Green Acres.” She set their plates on a large wooden picnic table. By the puzzled look on the man’s face, she could tell he didn’t get the joke. He paced over and took a seat across the table.

She’d chosen this isolated retirement spot with purpose, exact center of a large meadow at four thousand feet above sea level. Wasn’t anything worth calling a tree for almost a mile in every direction. Sure, it was a nice slice of heaven for raising goats and growing vegetables, but even better for a retired bill collector, bodyguard and PI for a bail bondsman, all gigs held by The Spitfire. Meaning, you could see an attacker coming literally a mile away. She’d never had a tricker-treater out here.

“Name’s Lyndy by the way,” she stated in cheery greeting. “And uh … I think you’ve met him already… over there is my favorite goat, Thor.”

“Right, we haven’t been introduced. Fred Simmons,” he replied, with a beaming smile.

It happened again. That name was a proper glitch in the matrix; Simmons Esq was a lawyer who worked for The Lovelace Corporation back in its heyday. She remembered the gold leaf stationary bearing his name, and sometimes her checks coming embossed with his signature. But she wasn’t ready to show her cards. What would he be doing all the way out here? She’d not given them an address, only a P.O. Box in Ash Fork, where her pension got delivered monthly.

Pointing to the goat, Fred continued, “I have to ask. What makes that your favorite goat? As opposed to others. Do goats have a personality?”

“Sure they do.” She playfully seized Thor by one horn, as he resisted. “Thor is one of a kind. He’ll calmly sit at your feet like a dog. And he loves being scratched between the ears. Right here.” Lyndy demonstrated the proper scratching technique as Thor got up, pawing at the dirt in appreciation. “He’s gentle with me. Don’t you ever turn your back on him though. He’ll drop you by your kneecaps when you least expect it. I’m not responsible for any goat related injuries.” Lyndy cleared her throat, then added, “… and over there is my vegetable garden.”

“Noted,” said Fred, with a chuckle. “Hadn’t pegged you as a goat person, but now it’s starting to make sense.” He leaned over and tested the food. After one swallow, his appetite appeared to multiply. He began to eat, wolfing it down like he hadn’t had a home cooked meal in ages. Lyndy watched him for a time, while she ate at a leisurely pace. That kind of hunger alone was proof this old-fashioned man did not have a spouse. Probably been subsisting on Chipotle for weeks. Something was definitely up.

Twenty minutes later …

After breakfast, as the sun was notching higher, they each took a seat in the shade of the camper. Thor rested nearby, panting, though the thermometer needle was stuck in the middle 60s. She reckoned this could be one of the last mild days before summer really set in.

“I was thinking if I put a yurt out here, I might be able to get in on the glamping racket.”

Fred nodded in agreement.

She decided she’d better get things rolling along. “So uh, Fred, it’s nice having someone to talk to for a change. But what is it exactly you need?”

“Come again?” he asked innocently.

She bobbed her head touching her fingers and thumbs, framing a gorgeous vista of the tall mountains. “We’re adults. You don’t have to sweet-talk me. I wish I still had it, but …,” she spoke kindly and with a softness. “I saw a pic of myself on the internet recently.” She chuckled. “Let’s not beat around the bush. Why did we meet?”

A stern expression came over Mr. Simmons and he exhaled heavily.

Darn, I was hoping he just wanted to hang out. Too clever.

Fred stood up, dusting off his jeans while plodding back to his sports car. Then he reached in the passenger window, retrieving an oversize leather-bound document binder—the type containing fancy deeds—and another, smaller envelope hidden behind the seat. For a brief moment she felt nervous, assuming she was being served court papers. Wouldn’t be the first time. Instead, she observed the smaller envelope was yellow Kodak colored, a kind they didn’t make anymore. As he paced back to her, he undid the flap, confirming it was a stack of prints from an old one-hour photo place. Like “old” as in, processed in the nineteen eighties. He slapped the legal binder atop the outdoor table.

“I don’t know if I can explain everything, unless I take you to meet someone else. But to do that, we have to fly to Santa Barbara.”

“California?” she questioned, as if there was another well-known Santa Barbara. Her anxiety bubbled up each time she said the word.

He nodded.

“Oh no. Sorry man, I don’t go to California.” She put her hands up in an X pattern.

“I figured you’d say that. Which is why I wanted to give you this first.” Fred extended his hand, offering it to her as one would a mysterious gift.

Intrigued, she reached for the photo sleeve. Without a word of explanation, he folded his arms and waited. In the meantime, Lyndy poked her specs over her nose for a better look. Hard to explain, but this time capsule smelled exactly like the 80s. The way a vinyl LP, in the paper sleeve would’ve smelled. In her lap with her knees pressed, she dumped out the color prints. The magenta always degraded first in those, and so they were a bit hazy. Classic reason why prints were kind of a rip-off.

She felt a lump in her throat, shuffling through the stack. It was unnerving to see herself in her glory days, confident and sassy. She paused to examine one of the photos: Rita and her shoulder-to-shoulder, both their arms folded, backsides resting on the hood of a Ferrari. Their hair was glamorous but over-done, crimped and falling around their heads like rock stars. Her makeup matched the same tenor, a laughable amount of blush and eye shadow.

“Oh Geez. We thought we looked so cool didn’t we.”

Lyndy gazed at another. In this print, she had on a skin-hugging, midriff bearing shirt, a giant white belt and corduroy shorts. Rita was wearing a neon dress, with one of those plastic circles bunching up the fabric around waist level, and a turquoise necklace. The background setting was somewhere striking, the verdant hills surrounding Santa Fe? Or Taos maybe? A gorgeous turnout on a road lined with sycamore trees, pines and aspens. Lyndy remembered Rita’s house there—her first one—blocks from the plaza with a murphy bed for guests. And a shimmering pool lined with special emerald green tiles. That was a spiritual place.

One other photo in the stack: Rita holding the reins on a bucking Palomino horse. Lyndy knew she’d taken that, with a vintage Nikon F mount—an action shot. Dust was rising from where the horse had stomped, highlighting rays of the desert sun. It was perfectly framed, because Rita had coached her.

Fred flipped open his binder, gripping an inch-and-a-half stack of papers in one hand. The dusty, fading papers had been stapled in the upper left corner with a stapler that must’ve been industrial grade—something which could staple a phone-book if necessary. He flopped this stack of papers down onto the slats of the table.

“What’s this? Your novel?” joked Lyndy, turning it toward herself.

“What you see there is the last will and testament of Rita Helen Lovelace. I was supposed to deliver it ages ago. Unfortunately, I could never find you. Ironic given your line of work. It’s your copy to keep.” By the quizzical expression, Fred proceeded to his next question: “Were you present at the reading of the will?”

“No. At the time I wasn’t aware she died. Nobody contacted me and I didn’t find out until years later.” Lyndy pressed a thumb along the edge of the document, about 200 pages. Just from this, one could tell it was full of legal mumbo jumbo. “This is not what I was expecting today, but I guess no one would. Did she leave me anything good,” Lyndy laughed, with a touch of amusement.

She continued to separate the pack of photo prints, arranging them in a grid.

“Wish I had a time machine for some of these.” Lyndy felt her eyes become watery. “She once promised she’d buy me a cute adobe house in Santa Fe, and she’d come visit when we got old.” Lyndy sniffed. “Can’t believe I fell for that.” Lyndy smiled to herself, as she thought of all the riches Rita possessed. “You know, specifically she had this cute pink Rolex I coveted. I hope she left me that!”

Fred cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “Ahem, actually she left you those pictures,” explained Fred. “It says so on page 96.”

Lyndy tilted her head and frowned. She pointed to her lap. “Wait? This?”

“Yes. She left you that.”

Lyndy grabbed both her ribs, as she burst into a laughing fit. Stopping to gaze into Fred’s eyes, she could see he was dead serious. A billionaire heiress, whom she served faithfully and risked her life for for the better part of 20 years had left her a crummy two-dollars and fifty cents—maybe—worth of old photos. “Sorry, but that’s perfect,” said Lyndy. “Classic Rita. Well thanks. Yippee, I guess. File this under Rita treating me like crap. I needed a good laugh.”

At the bottom of the stack was a newer photo of a young girl. Lyndy inhaled sharply. It was a teenager: dark hair, intense green eyes and a thin build. The girl resembled Rita in her high school days, except she was on crutches and wore an elaborate back brace contraption typically only given to people with spinal cord injuries. “Hey, who’s this?”

Fred grinned broadly. “That’s the person I wish you had the opportunity to meet. I think you would be, … well … astounded.”

“That would be nice. I haven’t been astounded by anything since like the year 1996,” she thought. “What’s her name?”

He took a breath. “I’ve been afraid to say. It’s Gillian Lovelace. Star is her middle name. Gillian is the only living heir to the Lovelace estate. Figure if I opened with that, you woulda chased me outta here like I was some door-to-door salesman.”

She must’ve looked as if she’d tumble over, as Fred leapt into action, grabbing lightly on her shoulder to steady Lyndy. She pushed his arm away, shoving the print back in the stack and straightening them. “Is this some kind of elaborate joke to you? Are you trying to prank me?” demanded Lyndy. “Cause it’s not very funny! Particularly this subject.”Rita had a kid????

Valley Girl Part-5

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Lyndy Life Observation: In the eighties a small church in town organized its own big brother program, and being a deputy, naturally Dale Keynes was recruited as someone the kids could look up to. His “bright idea” was to teach the sixth graders how to shoot (at least the ones who didn’t know already). So, on a hot July afternoon, the boys are lined up shooting hay bale targets and one of the kids taps Dale on the back announcing calmy: “Excuse me sir, I accidentally shot myself.” Dale at first thought the boy was joking, but after seeing his white shoe turning crimson red, he stopped everything and rushed the boy—full lights and siren—to the nearest ER. Not sure if Dale was ever invited back into the program.

Mid-morning light flooded the cramped room through slats in the window shades. For the high cost, it wasn’t particularly fancy. This was no Ritz. Its hotel value was based on setting—literally in the Yosemite Valley—versus amenities.

The six-foot-tall men didn’t know where best to sit in the cramped room, so the deputy, whom she learned was named Ruby, sunk onto the bed. Meantime Steve Brandt shoved his thumbs in his belt and stood nervously against the wall, fidgeting, as The Spitfire changed in the bathroom six feet away.

She leaned out to check on them periodically, thinking Ranger Brandt looked like the type of guy who subscribes to home delivery of Consumer Reports. He certainly had the old man crewcut to match, with his hat dangling by one fist at thigh level. From her makeshift cradle on the dresser, Mari was spouting goo-goo ga-ga sounds mixed with whining. Of all her noises, these were the most entertaining.

Brandt asked if he could record Lyndy’s statement, setting a Walkman size recorder on the bureau next to the TV and pressing the red button.

“Let’s get one item straight. People call me Lyndy,” she voiced from behind the door. “If anyone says Melinda no one will know who the heck that is.” Only Mr. Chan called her that.

“What do you do for a living Miss Martinez?” questioned Brandt, ironically.

“I don’t see how it’s relevant,” she replied, pulling a floral-print sundress over her head, then shimmying her torso to level out the shoulders. The tricky part came next: getting it tightened. She had to look backwards in the mirror, as there were a series of buttons near the top which needed to be looped across. “Right now, it’s mother and homemaker.”

“And before?”

“Chief of security for a real estate investment company.” She put tiny diamond earrings into her hears, squeezing the back to secure them. “Pretty large firm.”

“Like a security guard?” asked Ruby.

“No, far from it. Like a personal body guard for VIPs.” She avoided uttering the name of Lovelace, thinking it bad luck.

“Why did you leave your job? Pregnancy?”

“I’d rather not say,” answered Lyndy. She opened the creaking door, grinning to the men, while vigorously brushing her hair.

“You have a record in the state of California,” admitted Brandt. “Along with a person named Z. Chan, the most apprehensions I’ve seen. Except by a federal Marshall.” He seemed impressed.

Ruby chuckled.

Feeling at ease, Lyndy touched up her makeup while relating what she’d seen, the figure of Kristen, alone on the bridge. She also described the scuffle they’d had, prior in the bar, and explained the reason she felt reluctant to get involved when she saw Kristen the second time. That all seemed believable to the pair. She reiterated her wish not to allow this circumstance to blow her husband’s business deal.

She even told them how Kristen had discarded a cell phone in the meadow. They were eager to recover it. From Brandt, she learned Kristen hadn’t returned to the hotel that night. She hadn’t been in her room since she left the bar. And her husband was worried.

The one detail Lyndy held close was about the actual phone call. She was saving that ace for later. Because she knew if Kristen didn’t come home in the next twenty-four hours, these detectives would be back. And when they came, she wanted leverage.

By the time she convinced Brandt and Ruby to get moving, it was closing in on one o’clock. She barely had enough time to squirt on deodorant, pack up Mari’s stroller, then race to the bus stop and try to catch a free shuttle into the village. Luckily, she’d brought the sundress and a low-key derby hat, aiming for Julia Roberts vibes.

As she waited for the bus to arrive, the skies began darkening and light rain fell, coating the parking lot. But it made the whole area smell delightful. The bus had a roof, but the sides were open air, so she could watch and listen to the rain falling on forests and meadows.

The Degnan’s building was mid-century modernist chic, in contrast to the traditional log-cabin style of The Ahwahnee. It had two-stories, a groovy river-rock craftsman facade and stunning vistas of the falls. She’d been looking forward to this.

The front entry was bustling with midday activity, all tourists, waiting in line for fast food like sub sandwiches and ice cream cones. Hopefully Maribel would be on her best behavior, cause the place was packed tighter than the Vanishing Point on ladies’ night. And no one wanted a screaming baby in the mix.

As she rolled into the doors, she felt the warmth of the space. Her heels helped her rise above the crowd and she was able to survey the dining room. It was just as lively, a seat yourself kind of joint, every table and stool occupied. She didn’t see Neil anywhere. Out front, kids were playing hopscotch games on the concrete.

Then she heard someone make the “PSSST PSSST” sound and call: “Lyndy!” The cry came from above, at the mezzanine level.

She turned to the stairs, a floating kind going at a right angle. It was Neil, waiving a hand and pointing to the top. “We’re up here.” He was still dressed in his hotel uniform. He darted down to her level and grabbed the front bar on the stroller, taking the bulk of the weight, while Lyndy lifted the back.

Kyle would’ve needed to be told to do that.

She’d not been expecting what greeted her as she crested the stairs. It was a crew of five strangers waiting at a lunch table, friends to Neil Conner. She’d not anticipated a gathering, but the room was cozier for it, with a crackling fire in a stone and metal enclosure. Indeed, up here tourists weren’t normally aloud.

They were friendly looking misfits, climbers and year-round dwellers at Camp-4. Unlike the rich boys at the Silver-Pacific meeting. They’d been playing cards; each had a hand dealt in front of them.

The first one catching Lyndy’s eye was a skinny redheaded woman in her twenties, with hippie chick vibes. Bouncing on her knee she had a little girl, less than a year old but with stunning red hair matching her mother.

The smiling woman spoke first. “Oh my gosh, you have the Rolls Royce of strollers,” she proclaimed, to the amusement of everyone in the room. “I’m serious. Every new mother I know wants one of those. I’ve never actually seen it in person.” She pretended to clap.

“I know. Can you believe this contraption?” boasted Lyndy, adjusting the height and parking it neatly in the corner. “The irony is I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve truly got no business being called parent.” Feeling like she was on a roll Lyndy, added, “If this stroller can make you one, it’s like saying Michael Jordan is a good basketball player cause of his shoes.”

The group laughed. Ordinarily, she’d have felt a certain ambivalence coming into a scene such as this as an outsider. Except for the fact Neil had complemented her twice, once in a written note, offering her the precise boost of confidence she needed.

“Uh, we ordered for you,” remarked Neil, offering Lyndy a red plastic tray with an Italian sub wrapped in paper, Doritos, a pickle and a cold Sprite. “Hope this is okay. It’s a long line if not.” He’d even snagged a stack of those brown recycled napkins.

“No, it’s perfect,” said Lyndy excitedly. “I love Sprite.” Two other male climbers were watching her. Lyndy slid out a remaining chair and took a seat at the cramped table. It felt good being the person everyone had been waiting to meet. “I didn’t know you were gonna bring the gang? So is Neil like The Fonz of this group?”

“You should know, I planned on coming alone,” clarified Neil. “But word got around camp, and these five at least, wanted to tag along. They’re dying to meet you I guess.” He took a seat next to her, at a 90-degree angle so he could lean one arm on the table.

Trying to break the ice, Lyndy peeled up a sleeve to expose the top of her right shoulder. “I want you to know, I got two nicotine patches on today. Doubling up,” proclaimed Lyndy, covering her mouth after taking a bite. “It’s probably a smart idea for me to eat something too,” she added. “Cause I’m talking nonsense.” She popped a chip in her mouth.

A smile crept over Neil’s face, and as their eyes met, Lyndy responded in kind.

The young woman, whom Lyndy learned was named Erica, turned herself slightly away from the group and started breastfeeding right there. Lyndy admired that kind of boldness.

One of the men interjected, “Neil’s been chattering nonstop, how you bounced a drunk out of the bar like a Roadhouse movie, in heels and a dress. After that much build up we had to see for ourselves.”

The redhead imitated Neil’s voice facetiously. “Oh wow guys, like the coolest mom-chick ever is staying at The Ahwahnee.”

Neil seemed embarrassed but also starry-eyed.

“Oh really?” Lyndy sipped the drink through a straw. She stood halfway up, giddy: “Now I will blow your minds cause … I’m actually a man. This whole time I was a man.”

“Well, it makes you giving birth a lot more impressive,” quipped Neil.

Everyone roared with laughter.

Another of his pals—fella with a John Muir-ish beard and shaggy hair falling on his shoulders—jumped in the conversation: “Where’re you from anyway? Let us guess. Laguna Beach?”

The Spitfire grinned and shook her head. She pushed her deep chestnut hair over her ear, elegantly using one fingertip and sipped her drink. Each time she ventured to gaze at Neil their eyes unintentionally met, because he was doing the same, making it awkward. This caused her to blush.

“Beverly Hills? Pacific Palisades?”

Lyndy rolled her eyes. “God no. Try East LA. If someone from my family went to Beverly Hills, it was maybe to clean a house.”

“Favorite genre of fiction—assuming you’re a reader?”

“Romance of course,” answered Lyndy.

“High five, girl,” said Erica.

The shaggy man who’d spoken gripped both sides of his head and shook it, as though in physical agony over this idea.

“Alright, alright, cut it out everybody,” scolded Neil, pounding the table. “No one is ever gonna join the friend group if we keep acting this excitable. Let the woman eat.”

“I’m being considered for the group? Now I see. It’s an audition.”

“You’re totally his type,” whispered Erica.

“Well, what are you guys playin?” Lyndy questioned. “Deal me in cause I got like 15 minutes until my baby makes a scene and I get bounced out myself.”

Neil checked his watch. “And I have 25 before I have to catch a ride for my next shift.”

As it turned out they were playing Gin-Rummy, which Lyndy knew. Neil was self-conscious, but in time he properly introduced her to his male friends and Erica. She learned Erica’s boyfriend was one of the climbers and she lived with him in a VW camper van. They chatted like it was a party.

As she finished her food Mari began to cry—right on cue—so Lyndy lifted her out of the stroller. She attempted to bounce her gently on her knee as she played cards.

But of course, any sense of peace didn’t last long and Maribel became fussy. She watched Erica, whose baby gazed skyward, effortlessly placid and a delight. Lyndy stood Maribel up as she would a doll and pointed her toward the other baby—a baby-to-baby stare down. Though it was uncertain how far a baby’s eyes could focus, she appeared interested. “See the redhead, Maribel? Yer grandma is a redhead. Pretty cool.”

“Wait, your mom is a redhead?” questioned Neil. The card playing stopped. Everyone seemed spellbound by this revelation. Moreso than her earlier one.

Lyndy shrugged. “True fact. Weird right? My dad is from Hermosillo.” She turned to face Erica. “Serious question. How do you do it? Your baby hasn’t cried once. What’s the trick? Is there a cheat code I need to know?”

Erica giggled, stuffing her curly hair back under a scarf. “Why don’t we go downstairs for a minute?”

Lyndy nodded, this time transporting Mari in her baby Bjorn sling.

Out front Erica offered some back story on Neil. She explained, despite his shy and modest attitude, he was actually a rock star in the climbing world, having completed first ascents across the valley and around the west coast. He taught climbing as well, to younger folks, some of whom showed up with little more than a class or two of training in Joshua Tree. He was kind of a mentor in a way. This also explained his lithe physique and his transitory lifestyle.

Erica asked about Kyle too, but Lyndy waved it off.

“Hey Lyndy, one more thing I wanted to mention,” Erica confided nervously, before they parted ways. “It wasn’t the right time in there, with all those people. But ask Neil to tell you about Sierra Spring. When you see him next” She seemed deadly serious in that moment.

“What’s that?”

“Just have him explain.”

Later that afternoon …

Lyndy Life Observation: I owned a sexy ruffled party dress that I adored but Rita hated, claiming it looked tacky and cheap on me. Perhaps I enjoyed it more knowing it annoyed her. One afternoon I was searching for it in my various suitcases, as we prepared to attend a cocktail hour, and Rita admitted to me she secretly donated it to Goodwill. To this day I’m still mad about that double-cross.

They were walking hand in hand, down a trail following the course of the Merced. On the right was a thick wood. Small birds were swooping down, catching insects floating on the water. The light was softer now and the temps had fallen some. The plan was to have dinner at the Lodge, in the upscale steakhouse. But even thinking about such heavy food made her drowsy.

Kyle was pushing the stroller with his free hand. The wind blew gently, rustling leaves on the canopy of cottonwood and birch trees.

“What were you up to today?” He inquired. “I stopped by our room on breaks a few times, but you were out.”

“What did you expect? I’d be up there watching Young and the Restless?” Lyndy smirked, gathering her hair and pulling it in a tie. “Me and Maribel were down at the pool a while, then I ate lunch with some friends in The Village. We played cards and… I walked around for an hour shopping. And then ….”

Kyle turned to her with an inquisitive look. His eyes were blinking. “How do you know anybody here? We arrived yesterday. You made friends already?”

Lyndy shrugged, squinting at the setting sun. “Yeah, I guess.”

She thanked God he didn’t seem to know about the law enforcement ranger snooping around, or the incident with the missing woman.

“How many people were there?”

“Six, not including me.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. You make friends easier than anyone I know. Everybody who you meet likes you.”

“Wow. That is so not true,” argued Lyndy.

They paused underneath a towering Sugar pine and Lyndy leaned against it to rest. “Tell you what though, this Mama Bear is tired,” she said. “I’m gonna sleep hard tonight.”

“I see you scratching your back on a tree. You gonna hibernate next?”

“Oh man. Dad joke,” replied Lyndy. “I’m warning you I might doze off face down during dinner.”

Kyle turned his back, gazing at the view of the river. He raised his camera to eye level, a 35 mm Leica, widening his stance so he could take a steady picture. The sky was lovely now, turning pink where clouds lingered over glacier point.

She inhaled deeply. “Hey, something I was wondering. Is there anyone named Gardener attending the Silver-Pacific meetings.”

Kyle slapped a mosquito on his wrist, crushing it, then rotated around. “There was a guy Tom Gardener at the meetings. Yes. He was absent today.” He raised his eyebrow at Lyndy. “Uh oh. Do you know why?”

Lyndy shook her head. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Why did you ask me that?” Kyle demanded.

“I suppose you heard about a little dust up at the bar.” Lyndy put fake finger quotes as she said the words.

“I did,” answered Kyle.

“The lady that was drunk in the bar, was named Kristen Gardener. And …” Lyndy trailed off.

“And what?”

“I heard she’s missing. It’s probably why her husband wasn’t there today.”

“Oh man, I hate it when you get that look in your eye,” said Kyle with a heavy sigh.

Valley Girl Part-4

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life observation: Rita was on tour promoting a hardcover book on southwest art, which she’d co-authored, doing interviews with print magazines and newspapers. At some point she had a sit down with a publication she’d not heard of, and when the interview came out it was all kinds of scandalous crazy: like she’d fallen in love with her cousin, secretly gave birth to out of wedlock twins afflicted by dwarfism, then refused to acknowledge them as hers. Obviously, none of that happened. The article failed to mention her art book. In the end, we discussed and decided not to respond. It wasn’t worth our time.

Lyndy sniffed, snapping out of a pity party as sunbeams radiated across the meadow like orange lasers. It was frigid in the shadow of the San Franciscos. She was grateful to see the sunrise at last. Soon ranch trucks were rumbling by, diesel smoke wafting from the stacks. Across the road in the dry grass, she could see elk. They’d be nudging away frost from the roots, hungry from the cold winter. All the California tourists, hoping for a head start on the Grand Canyon would come flooding in next. That was the money crowd. Dads with big SUVs, cargo shorts and cell phone holders on their belts.

She tightened her boot laces, walking her sign closer to the highway edge and further south, giving people enough time to slow. Then Lyndy unfolded her camp chair, tugged a Navajo blanket over her lap and dozed off.

She slept a lot these days.

Ten minutes later …

The sound of rigid street tires crunching on gravel stirred her from western dreamland. She shifted abruptly in her chair as her hat fell to the ground. She’d not intended to sleep so hard; it was dangerous. Sitting up, Lyndy pulled her denim jacket tight across her chest, then looped a crocheted scarf around her neck.

The vehicle which veered off the highway was an Audi, velvety black, the top-of-the-line sport model. Two seats. Not typical of folks who stopped at roadside venders. There weren’t even many of those luxury cars to be seen in Flagstaff. But sometimes rich folks decided to open up the wallet, buy her whole lot, in theory to feel more connected to their food supply. So, she perked up anxiously.

The door opened and a dark-clothed figure emerged, the frame of a six-foot man. No passenger. Maybe it was a run-of-the-mill businessman or maybe …. a wave of panic hit. She had nightmares of hitmen. Given her past, shadowy characters occasionally emerged, holding grudges against The Spitfire or Mr. Chan—or worse, Rita. Lots of people hated Rita Lovelace and by extension, Lyndy, her once top bodyguard and confidant. She began to wonder if she should arm the taser.

On the other hand, the visitor seemed far more intrigued by the classic Ford, walking up and circling. She changed her mind. Reaching for her purse, she slipped the trifocals atop her nose. The stranger came into focus, a fellow her age. Decently handsome, for a sixty-year-old. And dapper. He still had hair, all gray, but real hair. He could do AARP commercials. He might be a threat, but the expression on his face turned rather friendly.

“Lovely original,” he remarked, nodding his head in slow motion while admiring the car. He was wearing black jeans and a well fit suit jacket. But the casual kind, a western look that felt natural, not forced. In the eighties, such a fellow would’ve lit a cigarette in that dashing pose. He pointed to where someone had bumped her in a parking lot, cracking one of the taillights. She’d not gotten around to repairing it, fearing cost. “Man, that was a factory part. Can you imagine the mindset of someone who caused this?”

She didn’t respond, still assessing.

He wiggled one wrist, in the process shaking his metallic Rolex watch band to shift it. Sometimes that was a tell in poker, sign of something deeper in the brain. A flock of honking geese interrupted his next sentence, and she watched him arch his back, staring up and smiling as they passed over.

“I lusted over these,” he continued. “The chrome inserts with the horse. It’s a symbol of freedom and the American motorway.” He had a smooth, broadcaster voice, the kind exuding a lifetime of experiences. There was a melancholy about him too, you could hear in his tone. This was no average rich dude out for a weekend drive.

Freedom. She used to believe in that ideal—didn’t mean much anymore. Lyndy cleared her throat and replied. “I know right. Couldn’t have said it better.”

“How much you want for it?”

Lyndy chuckled, rising to her feet. He was teasing. She liked him already. “Okay, now you’re making me laugh. I better watch myself, you’re smooth.” Bending down, she retrieved her hat from the dirt, dusting it off, before pacing toward the stranger. “Mister, I’ve owned this automobile since the year of our Lord, 1976. Can’t call it a car. That pearly white son-of-bitch has nearly been the death of me. I’ve had it stolen twice. Both times I fought burly guys armed with guns to get it back. I’ve driven it hard to practically every state on this continent, broke down in the wildest, most ungodly of places.” Her voice went a little higher as she spoke, since the stranger was so attractive.

He listened to every word of her rant, then stepped closer. She let him crouch near the bumper for a better look.

“Well, they spared your sheet metal. Lucky in a way. Bezel took the brunt. I’d wager a boat hitch smashed in here. Probably a lifted, oversize truck couldn’t see where they were backing up. Bastards got away I presume.”

She snickered with a sheepish grin. “Happened in the parking lot of an Indian casino. No cameras in view. Of course. I was preoccupied with a series of off-track bets. And I can’t afford to fix it. Serves me right.”

“I was never fond of humongous pickup trucks, especially when they aren’t used to haul anything but sacks of groceries from Whole Foods.”

“Indeed. You know what they say about big ol’ pickup trucks and men who drive them,” joked Lyndy.

“You’re also fortunate. I happen to have one of these assemblies in my garage. Still in the original box.” He rubbed his fingers together to warm them. “I can see it now. Gathering dust.”

That seemed farfetched.

“Course that’s up in Santa Barbara.”

She folded her arms and smirked. “Okay, I see what’s happening. And lemme guess pard’ner. You’re willing to let it go for a low, low price of fifteen hundred dollars.”

He smiled and shrugged. “I owned the same model for years, a 66 in twilight blue.”

“I’ll be damned. Is that so?”

She heard angels singing. This man was her type—highly suspicious.

Lyndy softened her posture, resting a hip against her car door. Time to turn up the charm. She shoved her glasses away in her purse and zipped it closed. At the same time the stranger appeared to be deciding what to say next, his opening having gone far better than anticipated. This was usually where men got tripped up. Meantime Lyndy raked back her pixie cut hair, a habit from the days when she had much, much more of it—when she was pretty. She wished she’d done a better job with her makeup.

Lyndy next patted the roof of the car in a comic gesture. “My daughter learnt to drive stick in this.” She said it mainly to break the ice.

“Then we gotta fix it up. Maybe one day she’ll ask you to hand it down.”

“Fat chance,” thought Lyndy.

“I once hoped to do the same for my kid.” He stared off to the meadow across the road. “Except, that ship has sailed.”

The familiar words hit her like a jolt of electricity. To hear the phrase was just weird—a “glitch in the matrix” as the kids say—cause she’d been thinking about Maribel as a baby. How they had trouble bonding at first.

“Anyhow,” he continued. “What would it take to get you to close up shop for an hour or two. I’ll buy you breakfast, anything you want, assuming you haven’t eaten.”

“Hmmm. That sounds mysterious.” Lyndy attempted her best smile, as she pondered his offer. “I mean, of course. If you help me pack up.” She pointed to her baskets. “Either you seem genuine, or I’ve lost any sense of personal safety I once had!”

He grinned at this.

“What about this idea? I could make us breakfast at home.” Lyndy tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows. “I actually live up that little dirt road a mile. Though, uh, don’t expect too much from my house.” Trailer.

Yosemite CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: It’s the 90s. I’m 30 weeks pregnant and all these women in town (Lake Arrowhead) start giving me their unsolicited personal horror stories about vaginal birth, how they were in labor 36 hours and every story ends with: “I almost died.”

Lyndy flipped over three pages on her paperback book, hoping it would get to the juicy romance part again and away from outrageously bad dialog.

She was wearing a white one-piece bathing suit. Her third best suit to be honest, but the only one fitting her post baby body. Lyndy had a tennis visor shading her face, as she reclined on a pool lounger. It was just after 10 AM. Her toes were painted plum purple with sparkles. She loved that shade of purple.

Adjacent to her, Maribel was safely shaded from bright sun with her extendible buggy cover. She had a fresh diaper change, had been formula fed, burped and sprinkled with rash preventer. But as usual, she was whimpering and crying, thankfully, at a lower volume.

Lyndy dropped the book on her stomach, sighing and making that motorboat sound with her lips. She shut her eyes, planning for a brief snooze. But just as she dozed off, she felt a poke in her ribs and heard rustling in the bushes.

Her muscles tensed. Rascally kids? Sitting up abruptly, she found no one else in the pool area. She twisted her body, trying to see between slats in the wrought iron fence. In truth, she’d been a little jumpy after what transpired. Her thoughts kept going back to that scene, whether she should report it. But obviously, the act of doing so might drag her into it, and possibly impact Kyle. She dreaded that more than anything.

Tilting her chin, her eyes resolved the pattern of a figure. A person had been hiding which she quickly realized was Neil Conner. She caught him red-handed, grinning devilishly. He’d been poking a twig through the fence, behind a screen of hedges. He was dressed in his work uniform. Conscious of being watched, she hopped up from the chair, tickled as she tip-toed femininely across the concrete. She then crouched near the fence.

“Hey! Peeping Tom, get outta here,” she scolded in an angry whisper.

He chucked her a folded note, penned on wide rule paper like a 5th grader.

She couldn’t help but giggle, catching and shaking out the hand written note. Then she hastened back to her lounger, taking a seat and getting back in her former graceful position before reading it. She pretended nothing happened.

His male cursive was atrocious, but she could decipher it. “You look AMAZING. Lunch break with me?” 1:00 Check box. Yes or no? Degnan’s Deli okay?”

Lyndy checked the yes box and re-folded the note. She couldn’t stop smiling, standing up and flicking the note like a football back across the fence.

Before laying down, she reached to the buggy and stuck a water-filled bottle in Maribel’s lips. That quieted her down. Neil snuck away. She was feeling proud of herself. Until literally five minutes later, with Mari still sucking on the bottle, a shadow of an enormous ranger’s hat fell over her. The ranger was flanked by a sheriff’s deputy, younger and armed with a holster.

The ranger man had sun-damaged skin on his arms and neck, stemming from decades of working outdoors. And wrinkles around his eyes from squinting. Those were typical, but other key differences separated him from his peace and nature devoted colleagues. For one, he had a gold-plated badge, like a homicide detective. His brown eyes blinked impatiently as he stared at the baby, then his gaze transferred to Lyndy. He studied her up and down, which she didn’t care for. This wasn’t the type of fella who guided groups through a 20-minute walk pointing out different species of ducks.

Drill sergeants wore a similar hat to forest rangers. She only just noticed that. Also, kind of a bad time to be in a bathing suit. Lyndy wiped Maribel’s face, then capped the bottle. She wedged a pacifier in place, to prevent Maribel from making those gurgling noises.

Lyndy exhaled, as she turned back to face the men. “Can I help you?”

“Are you, Melinda E. Martinez?” He paused, staring down at a small slip of paper. “Known as Lyndy or … The Spitfire?”

She was thinking about a joke: “Ya got me. You caught The Spitfire.”

The ranger waited. He’d done his homework, or at least looked her up in the reservation system. Even knew her middle initial, which was hard to come by. His nametag said Brandt.

“What’s this regarding?” she asked innocently.

Ranger Brandt got down in a crouch. Lyndy winced. He did that thing older guy’s do with their hand to pull in the crotch of their pants. “Got anybody who can watch this youngster for an hour or two? Nanny or something?”

Lyndy adjusted her visor, glancing back to the hotel. “Not really.”

“Are you staying here by yourself?”

That was a test question, as of course he’d know the answer.

“I’m with my boyfriend. Dr. Kyle Ellis. But he’s on a business retreat with his colleagues. They’re in planning meetings all day.”

The men exchanged glances.

“For the Silver-Pacific construction?”

Lyndy nodded. She sat down, using her bare foot to roll the stroller back and forth. Hopefully it would be at least a few minutes til she needed to change this kid or anything else went wrong. Course, having her cry her brains out wouldn’t be the worst thing. She rubbed her hands on her thighs uneasily.

“Were you a witness to anything unusual last night or early today?”

“What?” It was difficult to fake surprise, but she acted off guard anyway. Kinda like those clowns at the circus who have to plan to take a pie in the face.

“Any crime?” prodded Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy blinked and inhaled a deep breath.

The county deputy tagged in with his opener next: “There are tracks from a stroller with eight wheels, in the sand bar near the Merced River. Happens to be a good view from there to Stoneman Bridge.” He got down into a squat, touching the wheels with his fingers. “I’ve seen these for sale in San Franciso, but I have to admit, there’s hardly any up here. Very unique. Probably not anyone else staying in the hotel.”

She reached for her purse, thinking, “that all you got?”

Before she could respond, Ranger Brandt added: “I found a cigarette in the gravel. Fresh one.” Rangers hated litter.

“That doesn’t mean anything. I don’t smoke,” assured Lyndy. She used her snobbiest sounding tone in the exact way Rita would dismiss a rival whom she didn’t care for.

Amusement shined in Brandt’s eyes.

“But, since you mention it. I do remember something unusual. I was out for a walk with my baby.”

“Perfect,” he answered. “You’re not in any trouble. We need to talk. Shouldn’t take longer than an hour. You’ll be on your way. I’d rather you come to the ranger station to get a sworn statement. Obviously in private.” He glanced down at the baby again. “But uh …” He shoved his fingers in his pockets.

Lyndy shot him a glance, like, “never gonna happen.” Priority numero uno on this vacation: avoid any appearance of going to a police station or involvement with the law. Not willingly at least. The consequences to Kyle and his reputation, she didn’t want to fathom. She’d embarrassed that poor man quite enough.

“Is there another place we can speak privately?”

Lyndy stared down at her old-timey brass key. The fourth-floor room seemed the safest bet, far preferable to a sheriff’s cruiser, whatever they were called. “I have to change anyway.” She said it casually, again using the Rita tone. And it must have worked as the man seemed to grapple with the idea, but then relented by nodding his head.

Valley Girl Part-3

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

[Author’s Note: This chapter includes quite possibly the #1 best Lyndy Life Observation of all time. It’s the current winner at least, unless a better comes along. See if you can spot it. 😉 ]

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rita Lovelace went on a date with a male model, probably in the mid-1980s. And things were going swimmingly, until halfway into the meal he casually let slip he owned five sports cars, but never changed the oil. Literally he owned Mercedes-Benz’s and Beamers with over 75k miles, nary an oil change or a tune up. Rita was horrified. She made up an excuse about feeling sick and split. Later when she told me this story, I pointed out the hypocrisy seeing how she owned like 50 cars and she’d be taking a car in a week if she actually maintained them. That was Rita for you.

It was a clear night, cold enough for Lyndy to see her breath. Typical Sierra weather in Spring. Tiny willow leaves were blowing across her path.

Her high-tech stroller had eight inflated tires—the cushy kind on a delivery cart. The rubber tires functioned as a Jeep-like capability, rolling with ease on dirt paths, softening the bumps and potholes. This came in handy, say if you were raising a baby on the rocky planet Mars. Or more likely, on a hike behind your white bread suburban community.

The nearest trail to the hotel crisscrossed through a pine forest, hugging the channel of the Merced as it snaked in a series of 90-degree bends. Through openings in the tree canopy, one could see Half Dome towering, a cap of snow reflecting white, and twinkling stars making up Orion’s belt.

The valley was tranquil at this odd hour, much as it had been in ancient times. No smelly tour buses belching out soot. No hordes of people clogging roads and sidewalks, snapping photos, or tourists of any kind. The rocking action, plus the calming effect of nature were working their magic. Thank God. Mari started to cry less, her eyelids becoming droopy.

Anyone sane in the campground was snoring by this hour. The flickering campfires from before had been doused, but their scent lingered. At a sandy embankment Lyndy guided the stroller downward to the water’s edge, where the current rippled against tiny pebbles. With her big toe, she put the brake lever in place to park it.

Lyndy leaned over Mari to snug her blanket. She’d finally calmed down, cried herself to sleep. Was it the river and woods? Or the power of the night? Lyndy didn’t know what forces were involved, but she wished she could bottle up that magic, save it for home.

From someplace deep in the pines, she heard the call of a nightingale. Or maybe it was a dream, she reckoned.

Fifty yards down, a castle-like bridge spanned the river to the south. It was the kind of arched structure found in amusement parks, designed as much for visuals, as for strength. She spotted the outline of a figure atop, doddering down the road center; the first soul she’d seen walking since departing the hotel.

Her body shivered with a sudden chill. Lyndy studied her surroundings, listening for any other movement. Hopefully there were no bears. Of course, somewhere in the valley there would be bears. It was their park too. But just like humans, they were probably asleep at this ungodly hour.

Setting aside thoughts of danger, she crouched in the sand next to her baby. From a hidden fold on the underside of the carriage, she undid a Velcro flap. This allowed her to slip two fingers inside and retrieve her hidden, emergency pack of Newport cigarettes.

The pack had been there a month, without anyone touching them and without Kyle knowing. She had a Nancy Griffith song stuck in her head, one of many, about leaving Mississippi, listening to the radio. She hummed the tune peacefully, as she flicked the lighter and puffed to get a smoke going. Ah, sweet comfort.

The Spitfire paced off a healthy 20-foot buffer zone, same way Aunt Rose would. With the flow of air, she knew the wisp of smoke particles would be transported safely away, nowhere near Maribel. She exhaled a ring, which floated overhead before dissipating.

“We can’t keep on like this,” Lyndy spoke aloud, her voice defeated. “Not bonding I mean.” Lyndy gazed at her baby. It broke her heart to think she might not love this child as much as a new mother should. “I seem to be lacking a mothering gene or two.”

To think that Kyle adored their baby more than she. How was this possible? Well, she must be his favorite lover. That much she felt certain of. And his love grew from their passion. The embers of a twenty-year romance, on and off. She’d seen it from the first night at the hospital, the way he looked at her with new eyes when she held their baby. He’d never shown her so much genuine affection. Maribel had elevated her to the highest pedestal, number one. Then why the resentment?

She exhaled another smoke ring. “You and me babe, have to come to … a mutual agreement, or I will lose it. Like two people on the same sports team. I warn you, I will flip out.” Lyndy paced back to the water’s edge, turning her attention to the view. “God knows I can’t watch you grow up the messy way I did.”

The view of Half Dome, patches of snow glistening, was sublime. The murmuring river was the only sound, and a distant car if she strained her ear. She stuffed the lighter and the remaining pack back in the secret spot, thinking about her life before Maribel. Then she bowed her head to pray. Her daily prayer, to make it through, when she heard the squealing brakes and tire skid. It made her jump, coming from the direction of the bridge, like someone setting off a bottle rocket.

Lyndy flicked her cigarette into the sand, near the stroller. Without any sudden moves she craned her neck to view the bridge. Instinctively she ducked, keeping herself low so she’d blend into the scenery. She observed the silhouette, same person who’d been walking. She suspected it was Kristen now. They were tall, with a long coat, same intoxicated stumble of a woman in heels. Also present, the outline of a sleek car, steam rising from its tailpipe. As it inched forward she recognized the rumble of the motor, the taillights and the roofline, a Porsche.

The woman and the driver were arguing. The Porsche must’ve been speeding, rounding a curve and nearly slamming into the person on foot. She’d reeled back, but continued to lecture the driver with a raised fist. Pumped full of adrenaline and hubris, the woman strode up to the car window. Angrily the driver sat up, extending his arms to clutch onto her sleeve. But she ripped it away and he let go. They exchanged words, and though Lyndy couldn’t put her finger on why, she got a sense they knew each other.

“Was it her husband?” Lyndy wondered.

The engine revved and the driver zoomed off. The lone figure—certainly Kristen—stormed across the bridge, to the south end of the valley. Seconds later her shadow merged and disappeared into the dark woods.

Eeesh! It was bad to be wandering in such an intoxicated state.

Lyndy ran her palms across her face, not knowing what to do. She checked on her baby. Should be alright to leave for a moment or two. Logic dictated to stay out of this dispute, but what if Kristen needed help?

Lyndy dashed off toward the bridge.

Kristen was down on both knees by the time Lyndy got another view. She’d traveled as far as the perimeter of the woods, bordering an 80-acre meadow. Her profile faced Half Dome, in a praying position, as one might do at the nave of a church.

Lyndy watched from the bridge as Kristen appeared to be mumbling into cupped hands. Light glinted from her silver-blonde hair, and the white coat, making her glow like an angel. Hard to believe it was the same drunk she’d backed out of the bar.

Half a minute elapsed and Kristen rose to her feet again. She began a steady march into Stoneman Meadow. From her coat pocket she retrieved an item the size of a paperback book. She briefly gazed at it, before tossing it casually over her shoulder to discard it. She continued walking, though lacking a path her feet sank and post-holed in the sticky mud. Any ranger who spotted you trampling a meadow would give you the sternest lecture of your existence, or at least since grade school. But Kristen seemed determined, driven to carry on with barely a nod to her surroundings.

“Hey! Hey! Are you okay?” yelled Lyndy, but there was no response. It was as if Kristen could no longer hear, her spirit leaving her body. “Do you need help?”

She’d been quite loud enough. Anyone, inebriated or not, would’ve heard.

Lyndy turned to the beach. The outdoor stroller was still there, a dozen feet from the river. No one was near, particularly not a bear or recognizable threat. Only serenity. She surveyed the roads and distant buildings. Not a ranger in sight. Sleeping probably.

Lyndy brushed her hair from her face. “Ay, yai, yai,” she mouthed anxiously. She tried again, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Kristen, are you okay? Where are you going?”

Kristen continued hiking straight across, by now halfway.

“This is no bueno,” Lyndy whispered. “Kyle would freak if he found out.” She felt panic setting in. Maybe she should run to the hotel front desk. Or the campground host. Most campgrounds had one. Or shout “Help”?

She wanted to follow her instincts, the urge to tail Kristen. But then again, she hated the idea of trampling a sloppy, springtime meadow. Next Lyndy heard a buzz which startled her out of her skin. It was a Motorola phone, unusual to carry, inches away in the grass. Must’ve been the thing Kristen tossed away. Most people didn’t own them. Only doctors and businessmen carried those. And any call to the valley would’ve been analog. The signal would be weak, only one bar.

She watched the screen blink: “Incoming Call – Incoming Call”, and the heavy brick-like device continue to buzz like an angry snake. While there was still nobody in the vicinity of the bridge, lights were coming on in nearby cabins. She could tell through the trees. People were getting up—awakened by the commotion on the bridge—and soon would be coming to investigate.

Lyndy couldn’t help herself.

Reaching for a stick, she poked the button to answer the call, then leaned over so her ear was near the receiver. It was faint, with a hissing, but someone was definitely there. She thought she heard a frantic breath, and the noises of a city at night.

“Uh, hello,” Lyndy mouthed, wincing and covering her face as she realized her actions were only making things worse. It worked though; the caller on the other end answered: “Kristen? Kristen …. you paged me, girl. Look, I spent the last hour arguing your side with Charlie. He said we’re still a go on Sunday. The pin is your favorite verse, in Luke. Use the B-channel. He knows you didn’t want Sunday of all days, but you were over-ruled.” There was a break and the call became fuzzy. “Charlie mentioned something.” Long pause, with erratic breathing. “The most dangerous person to any organization is one who won’t stop telling the truth. Thought you should know.”

After that Lyndy heard a click. The lights on the phone flashed “Call Ended.”

Lyndy took one last glance at the meadow, but Kristen’s silhouette was absent, having dissolved into the landscape. Like a ghost. “What a strange place,” thought Lyndy. Stoneman meadow, with the shadow of Half Dome looming.

Lyndy heard car engines, saw headlights traveling the loop. People would be arriving soon to investigate. She sprinted as fast she could across the bridge, into the woods and down on the sandbar. Once she had the stroller back on the walking path, she slowed her pace, but felt jittery all the way back to The Ahwahnee.

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a road trip with Chan, we were sharing a cheap room and I’m unable to sleep cause he snores like a moose. At three AM out of desperation I stagger into the bathroom, shut the door and fall sound asleep in the tub. Coincidentally I had big spaghetti sauce stains on my night shirt. Hours later I awake to a panicked Chan attempting to resuscitate me. Apparently, he saw me there and figured I’d been murdered. I was just surprised he wasn’t more relieved to find me dead—I was super annoying back then. Sometimes I think this story perfectly encapsulates my relationship with Chan.

It was so early crickets were chirping and Venus hung low in the eastern sky. Scattered lenticular clouds like flying saucers framed the horizon, reminding her why she lived here. She rubbed a sleeve-padded knuckle against her eyes as she yawned. Then she began unloading the old trunk, setting her things on the dry level gravel, using a headlamp and the glow of early dawn.

Mari Ellis once dreaded these days. Not because she didn’t love autumn. Those months were precious in the Arizona high country, with crisp, frosty mornings, azure skies and sunny afternoons to warm your spirit.

No, what Mari hated were the Saturdays. Her day off from school, spent rising with the dawn, picking and selling vegetables by the road alongside her mom. In overalls. This activity occurred chiefly in the fall months, when the harvest from their garden was at its peak.

Lyndy adored the farm stand.

On a pleasant weekend they’d set up a folding table opposite the long driveway. Then put out a hand-painted, no frills, sandwich board reading: “ASH FORK FARM”.

Together they’d arrange baskets of fresh vegetables for tourists. Mostly green peppers, tomatoes and zucchini, with a white goat on a leash as a side attraction. The pretty 67 Ford Mustang, parked nearby, was its own kind of draw. In those days Lyndy had a giant perm and sometimes a yellow bandanna. She’d wear faded overalls; they were somewhat in style and added legit farmer vibes. Mari would count out the change, which Lyndy alleged helped her learn math.

Sitting in those tube-frame camp chairs together, Mari Ellis in a pink cowgirl hat, passers-by used to stop, thinking Lyndy and her daughter were cute. Or maybe it was the goat, munching on a bale of hay. Mari claimed she found this whole exercise painfully embarrassing. But little kids wanted to pet and feed the goat, adults wanted to chat with Mari, so it worked like a charm. Men wanted to talk to Lyndy.

For lunch, the pair would close up briefly and drive to the nearest El Pollo Loco at the I-40. They could freshen up. But she didn’t dare setup shop in view of a freeway, as the highway patrol would bust your ass for not having a permit. County government could suck the fun out of anything.

Kyle Ellis hated the farm stand activity too, thinking it beneath their family dignity. He’d stop by, in his black Range Rover (U2 music blaring on the stereo) and tell Lyndy to quit the charade. Said she ought to be ashamed using their daughter for manual labor. But it only strengthened her resolve.

In truth, she relished it. Often, she sipped beer from a paper sack while on duty. Mari accused her mom of becoming more flirtatious and apt to give away free items as the day wore on. And she’d apologize for her, when she’d say something outrageous but typically Lyndy like: “Complement me in this crop top, receive a twenty percent discount.”

If Kyle stopped by and Lyndy was smashed like that, he’d be extra irate.

But after counting at the end of the day, they’d sometimes have a few hundred dollars. They’d keep the profits as mad money, buying a night at the movies or a new outfit for each of them. For this reason, Mari tolerated the stand.

These memories helped take her mind off the fact the cold was making her joints ache. Lyndy was grinning to herself, as she arranged a selection of yellow squash and bell peppers, on a bed of hay, with prices on sticks. There would be no assistance from Mari Ellis today. Hadn’t been in several years. She’d been working real jobs at the country club on Saturdays. And now her daughter was even more pre-occupied with her new pad and apparently, a budding romance.

Lyndy kicked out the legs on her sign, thinking of the hardships they’d endured together. Maribel deserved a stout dose of happiness. But she missed the old days, when she wasn’t so lonely.

Synopsis for “Valley Girl”

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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.

Valley Girl Part-2

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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.

Valley Girl Part-1

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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?”

Bad At Love Part-23

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Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-23

Lyndy Life Observation: Here’s a fun fact. The guy who played Lurch (Ted Cassidy) on the original sixties Addam’s Family TV show also played Thing (the disembodied hand).

She purchased fuel and sodas at Stateline. In the early morning trucks idled and steam rose from their engine covers. The valley was back to more agreeable weather and she was back on neutral turf.

She fed him his daily pill regimen, then left Deputy Keynes standing on a street corner nearest the county home. From there, she watched him saunter back to the portico entrance. Before sneaking away, she made sure he plodded up to the double doors, set his hands upon the pusher-bar. Knowing those places, her strategy was for them to assume he’d wandered off on his own accord. Now by some “miracle” he’d found his way back. Of course, if they checked the CCTV then they’d know the truth. But would they bother or care? Doubtful.

The mustang was performing better with repairs, taking the corners like a newer car. It was still no Porsche but vastly improved.

Next, she made her way to one of those copy and ship places, and xeroxed the sketch she’d created. She only needed 35 or so copies. She paid the man, then rolled them into a cylinder in the door pocket.

She started her day visiting with the Sikhs, the same pair who’d made jokes about her vehicle. Lyndy laughed with them this time, showed where it had been shot and she made field repairs. They gave her insider tips, places where other hourly job seekers, immigrants and day laborers congregated.

All day she drove to one day laborer site after another. She followed an irregular pattern, to evade anyone who might be out and attempting to locate her. Her spirits see-sawed up and down, sometimes in doubt and other times hopeful.

The last group she spoke to was a trio of central American brick and tile setters. They spoke Spanish exclusively, and though rusty, she was able to converse.

A row of million-dollar mansions were being framed on the northeast side. Spanish revival style. Among the crew were four Armenian carpenters. The tile layers encountered a quiet fellow who matched the drawing Lyndy showed them, as well as the description. The street was called Starlite Ridge Road. Somehow it seemed fitting.

She slept in a motel that night, having to disguise the fastback by covering it with a tarp and bungee cords. Her powers of invisibility had reached their limit. The sleep was uneasy, and she worried about Maribel. She wasn’t so much scared of death. That would in some ways be a relief. She was scared that Mari would take it hard.

The next day at lunchtime, Lyndy drove to the construction site.

In comparison to the Zohara luxury resort, this place had relatively little in the way of security. It was normal. She parked with a row of work trucks, at a yellow chain link fence and hiked her way in. Nothing but rectangular private property signs stood in her way. With one remaining folded flier, she approached a foreman.

He nodded to indicate he’d seen the fellow and pointed her to the back of one of the partially framed mansions. Said the man was one of “the best guys”.

At the patio in the shade of a fig tree, which had grown over the fence of an adjacent property, she found a circle of men. Some sat on the ground, others on bricks or inverted buckets. They were drinking Gatorades, munching on burritos, nachos and beef hot dogs purchased from a 7-11. She trekked across the compacted lot in her heels. They stared at her like: “who’s the old lady? Someone’s mom?”

Among the circle, she could tell the individual who looked like Mr. Aloyan from afar. He was wearing all white, not a jeans and flannel, making it appear he’d just arrived in America. Realizing he’d been spotted the man started behaving nervously. Aloyan seemed to recognize her, aware of her purpose, as though a stranger like Lyndy would only have come to see him.

Without a word, he tilted his head, asking to speak to her in private. She agreed and followed him out to the street.

They sat in her parked car, all the windows lowered, in view of the homes being built. She knew he wouldn’t leave, but wanted an explanation.

His grayish beard had been an excellent disguise, adding years to his image.

Once she’d seen him up close, she realized he was only thirty to thirty-five. Lean build. And when he spoke, his voice further belied his age. He conversed with an educated accent, a man who’d attended a reputable college.

He cupped one fist inside the other, rested his forehead. “Except for a few fasting days a year, my father never slept with a solid roof over his head,” he said proudly. “He built houses for farmers. But he lived in a tent his whole life.” Mr. Aloyan shook his head and laughed defeatedly. “Did my wife hire you?”

“Sort of.”

He nodded, knowing it fit her character.

“I’ve worked for some dangerous and shady people in my day. Your wife seemed genuine to me. McNair not so much. I think she deserves some kind of explanation, don’t you?”

His eyes went wide. “An explanation?” He lifted his hands skyward. “The explanation is that once we’re finished here, we go to California. A new subdivision near San Jose, in the Silicon Valley. Plenty of work. Several million dollars each house. After that, who knows.”

She looked out at the row of undone houses. They were lovely, each one unique. He stayed quiet. Lyndy held up the pack of Twizzlers. “Want one?”

“No. I’m good.”

“What about Malcolm McNair?”

By his far-off stare, she knew Mr. Aloyan was unconcerned. “My wife can take care of herself. Chantelle is safe. I never told her the details. When the time is right, maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Fine. Then what’s the deal with Zohara Ranch. I searched all over that property, never saw one nail out of place. And I have a lot of experience with flawed shit.”

“You wouldn’t. Not even an average inspector would find it. But the foundation is no good. All the cement we used is defective. I took eight samples. It needs to be re-poured.”

“And you told McNair but they wanted to continue?”

“Yes. Like always. They never see a problem they can’t patch with some temporary duct tape solution. They think there’s a 20-percent chance the foundation is good enough, even if it didn’t harden. And they’re willing to roll with it, to make schedule, rather than re-pour.”

“They’re gamblers. Makes sense. So what did he say after you told him?”

“He said there were only three options for a man like me. Either keep my mouth shut, start a war I can’t win, or quit. And I chose the latter. I could tell there was no reasoning with Chantelle. Chantelle grew up poor like me, but she’s attached to physical possessions. We never see eye-to-eye. We’re too different. There was nothing at the house I wanted. Not even the cars. They bring me no satisfaction.”

“Really?” Lyndy smiled at the enigma of Mr. Aloyan.

“Of course. All of it. It’s the work that brings me joy.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m a builder. Same thing I’ve always done.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how much I admire your spirit,” declared Lyndy. From behind the seat she pulled a notebook, setting it on his lap. “Here. Just do me one favor. Write a note to her. Otherwise, Rhonda won’t believe me. And if she doesn’t believe I found you, then you run the risk of more investigators coming. They won’t be as nice as me.”

Lyndy handed him a pen to write with. He tested the pen on the cheap spiral notebook, pushing the tip hard into the paper.

“I dunno what to write.”

“Just tell her you’ll come back for her. Like you said, when the time is right.”

“Okay,” he agreed. And reluctantly, he penned an apology plus a vague promise that he would be back someday, and she would do just fine without him. Then he signed his name.

Lyndy Life Observation: Late night channel flipping in a hotel with bad cable and I end up on Food Network. It’s a baking competition. Someone gets booted off for a bad cupcake and they’re bawling their eyes out. Half of me feels bad for them, while the other part is thinking: Get ahold of yourself. It’s just a cupcake!

That night she returned to the airstream. No one except Les had been there in multiple days—no tracks other than goats. She had only enough energy to clean the water trough and refill it. Then she went to bed.

Her fitful sleep cycle continued for the second night in a row. This time her dreams were of Rita, the younger version. They were driving through the desert in silence, upset with one another. Something to do with a case? She wasn’t sure. But there was tension and she could feel it. She could see too. So, it wasn’t the aftermath of their Vegas trip. More likely it wasn’t a real event, but the amalgamation of many encounters.

When she awoke, halfway between the dreamscape and alertness, someone was calling out her name. And the bright sunlight was pouring in the windows. She’d slept later than normal. The voice she heard, crying out, she tried to incorporate into her dreams but now as she gradually became more aware, she realized it sounded like Maribel.

“Mom,” she cried desperately. “Wake up!”

Mari was extremely fearful.

Uh oh. Lyndy sat up, propped herself on an elbow and pushed apart the tiny blind which covered her bedside window. Through the gap, she could see the yellow light of sunrise. The outline of the Fastback and at the extreme left of her view, beyond the troughs, the Honda Civic.

She turned the other way, getting a better view of the driveway. At the highway fence, over a mile distant, she could see the squarish boxes of SUVs parked. There were at least five vehicles lined up there.

Mari’s anxious calling out continued: “Mom. I’m sorry!”

She should have known. She’d warned Mari not to come here, but it was understandable that she might. If Lyndy hadn’t been so exhausted both physically and mentally, she wouldn’t have let her guard down. She probably wouldn’t have come here either, as it was obvious McNair’s buddies would be waiting for her to return.

The day felt warm and sticky. Lyndy was in her underwear. She pulled on a t-shirt. She reached for boardshorts, yanking them over her thighs and buttoned them at her stomach. Then she reached an arm for the gun and stood up.

Pushing open the door, she got her first good view of the tense scene. She held the Beretta upside down with two fingers on the grip. Descending the steps, she knelt on one bad knee, then set it on the ground, flat.

The men stood in a half-circle on the southside, past the troughs. Ten of them by quick count. And Mari, off to the right, with a gun aimed at her head. Two of the attackers The Spitfire recognized. They’d been waiting a while. The goats had all dispersed to the far side of the pasture. She slipped her bare feet into shoes.

“I’m sorry Mom. I’m so sorry,” Mari kept repeating.

“It’s alright,” Lyndy assured.

“I know you told me not to come. I knew I shouldn’t. But I wondered if …. maybe I should check on the goats. And I wanted to talk.”

“It’s okay,” replied Lyndy sweetly, adjusting her shorts and retying the white string. Seeing Mari all worked up like this, was far more upsetting than facing an untimely demise. And well, to be honest, it wasn’t all that untimely.

“And I was feeding the goats just now….”

“Mari. It’s okay I’m not mad.”

A man whistled. “Shut up and quit moving!”

Lyndy stood still, arms at her sides. All the other guns were aimed at her. Nine men with firearms, one possessing an assault rifle. Three were dressed up in suit jackets, like for a real gangster movie. The others wore outfits like mercenary types, with cargo pants and boots. And in most ways, it was flattering, imagining they would send so many for one old woman. A small army. The legends had survived. Mr. Chan would’ve gotten a kick out of this bizarre standoff. Any situation where she was outnumbered amused him.

“What took you all so long?” Lyndy jested.

“No tricks left this time!” It was the one with the beard, the one she’d fought twice. “It’s simple. If you somehow transform into,” he gestured with a 9-mm pistol, “… a white pig, we kill her,” he pointed at Mari. “And we kill you. A pig can’t outrun a bullet.”

“True,” said Lyndy.

“This is the end.”

“Let me say goodbye to my daughter,” requested Lyndy.

“No tricks.”

“Mom I’m sorry.” Maribel was shaking all over with stress. She kept bobbing her head up and down and rubbing her elbows.

“Mari, please relax,” said Lyndy sweetly. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault Vanilla Bean. Technically it isn’t my fault either.”

With arms raised, Lyndy re-pointed herself and took a careful step in the direction of her daughter. “I want to say goodbye to my daughter.” Lyndy locked eyes with Mari. “Maribel, touch my hands. It’s not a trick.”

Maribel winced, as though she were in pain.

“Touch my hands,” Lyndy demanded. She held her palms flat, in the patty-cake motion and reluctantly Mari did the same, lifting her arms. She could see the terror in her daughter’s eyes. And she felt the soft skin and her shaking hands. She wondered, was this a dream? Was it real?

Suddenly their flat surroundings shifted and transformed. They were inside a maze of sandstone formations, the Valley of Fire, at dawn. The rocks were all shades of red, orange and pink, just as she always remembered. However, no tourists or footprints marked the paths. They were in a canyon.

“Hide Mari!” commanded Lyndy. Meantime she sprinted across a bare wash, to where the Beretta rested half buried in sand. Leaning over, she yanked it from the dirt and felt a bullet zing by.

Pivoting to her left, she jerked the slide on the pistol to arm it. Then she aimed to the figure standing blocking the sun, in the middle of the dry wash. She squeezed the trigger.

The sand had the consistency of sugar and was difficult to run on.

From her periphery, she spotted Mari Ellis, scrambling a slope of stacked rocks, each the size of cinder blocks. Above, shadows and oval-shaped crevasses all resembled possible hiding spots. Mari had been forced to hide before, when things were really bad. She’d done it as a toddler. She had a talent for it and hiding was never a Martinez specialty. That came from the Ellis line.

Lyndy tackled the wall of the rocks which lined both sides of the canyon. She wished she’d been fitter for this activity, as her arm strength faltered.

“Where are we?” she heard one of the men ask.

“Valley of Fire, idiot!”

A raven took flight.

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Valley Girl Part-8

Valley Girl Part-7

Valley Girl Part-6

Valley Girl Part-5

Valley Girl Part-4

Valley Girl Part-3

Synopsis for “Valley Girl”

Valley Girl Part-2

Valley Girl Part-1

Bad At Love Part-23

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