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Gasoline and Matches Part-2

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Don’t write on your postcards people! -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rochelle Bishop had one of those 30-inch-wide natural hairdos popular in the seventies. She loved her enormous hair, but admitted it had drawbacks. Certain cars were dreadful to ride in, due to the low roofline and showers were practically impossible. One evening strolling out of Cadillac’s night club a small bat collided with her head, becoming tangled in it. Neither she nor the bat were harmed in the end, but Rochelle said she resolved it was time for a trim. This wasn’t an unheard-of occurrence back then, just ask any lady who had a giant beehive.

Kyle’s new cabin stood proudly on a bluff, with towering vistas of Lake Arrowhead. She found it challenging to describe the setting to one who’d never visited, other than comparing it to a tranquil slice of the Pacific Northwest transported to Southern California, then placed atop a mountain over the smog. The mountains were dense with vegetation in those days, mainly Douglas fir, ponderosa pine and incense cedar.

The custom cabin became the first home Lyndy lived in with solid non-tile counter tops. The kitchen was a true marvel. Those granite counters were an anthracite color, with flecks of embedded rock crystals reflecting light. The floors were real oak, textured with knots and little sanded imperfections. There were exposed beam trusses supporting the ceiling, and a tall set of picture windows with logs framing the lake.

One could get lost in that view, ever changing with the moods of the day. At daybreak or golden hour, the great room filled to the brim with inviting, natural light. Near sunset it could be distracting. It made you want to go out onto the deck and snap a picture, then rest your arms on the railing, take a breath and soak it in. You’d flick your shoes off, plop into a comfy chair and daydream. Soon you’d forget about the lasagna in the oven or the rice on the stove until a burning smell, or the beeping smoke alarm would jerk you back to reality.

She ruined many a dinner this way.

The more time one spent in this tree-house like environs, the harder it would be to return to desert living. Mornings on the lake were cool and crisp. Afternoons were sunny and warm. Colorful boats were constantly zipping from one side to the other. Throw in the change in seasons, like fall colors with mist swirling amongst the pines and it felt like another state entirely; Montana maybe. With a home like this one didn’t really need a TV. She spent many enchanting hours on that deck.

Another quirk: with the right angle of view, on the southernmost portion one could spot a corner of Rita’s mansion. You couldn’t see into Rita’s house per se, just a small piece of rock work. Enough to know it was there.

The name of Kyle’s cabin was Fall River, stenciled into a sign which hung by the door. Therein, another first. No one she grew up with lived in a house important enough to have a name. They didn’t give double-wide trailers names, nor did they give them to shitty stucco tract homes. Only custom homes had names. And Fall River was a very cool name, not because there were rivers anywhere near the cabin, but because of a place Kyle liked to fly fish.

On the lower level of the home paired with the bedrooms, the architects included a laundry nook containing both a washer and dryer. Such a welcome upgrade in convenience. Most places Lyndy lived had neither appliance, and she spent many weekend afternoons in the Amboy coin-op laundromat. But Fall River didn’t require a stack of quarters.

Course it wasn’t all an episode of Fantasy Island. With the house so new, it lacked furniture—two chairs were all they had for the table. No nightstand on either side of the bed. The clock radio rested on the floor. Worse, it also lacked any sort of baby proofing.

At 6 am, sun not yet rising on the lake, Lyndy kept busy hand-drilling small pilot holes for the plastic doo-hickey’s which restricted the lower cabinet doors from opening. Humming to music, she’d gotten into a groove. She worried most about the area under the sink, which she started on first, because here the cleaning chemicals were stored. Setting down the drill she began tightening the screws on these devices.

Using a towel to muffle the sound, she did her best not to make any unnecessary noise.

A few minutes later Lyndy was on hands and knees pushing the little plastic caps into the outlets when she heard Kyle’s footsteps on the stairs. She heard him yawn too. As his groggy head and shoulders poked above the landing, he spotted her.

Kyle was clutching the baby on his shoulder, supporting her bottom in the crook of his elbow. Mari was dressed in her favorite onesie.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” His voice sounded calm and sympathetic, even though she might’ve woken him.

“I got a few Z’s.” Lyndy sat up, still on her knees.

“What’s this?” he asked, poking at the open package on the island.

“It’s the baby proofing stuff I ordered. Remember?” Duh, she thought. What was wrong with dudes? Hadn’t he been through the process three prior times?

Kyle nodded as his expression morphed into “oh yeah.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Mari will be crawling soon. She’s already reaching for things and putting random stuff in her mouth.”

Kyle gestured to the empty great room, near the windows. “Another thing. I was just thinking how we have no living room furniture.” He set Maribel down on the counter, in a seated position with her little legs dangling, which of course was unsafe. Lyndy quickly jumped up and scooped her off the edge.

“We need a sofa.” Reaching into the pantry cupboard, Kyle began pushing cans and bags of rice around.

“I made some coffee,” Lyndy remarked, holding the baby and walking a circle around the island.

Kyle sniffed. “Thanks.” When he turned around, he’d snagged the pancake batter mix and was holding the box on display with both hands. “How ‘bout I make breakfast?” He gestured to the sack of baby-proofing hardware, and the many lower cabinets still needing to be drilled. “After breakfast we’ll get the rest of those knocked out.”

Lyndy smiled, taking a seat with one of her legs folded under on a kitchen stool, while resting Mari’s bottom atop her thigh. Mari watched her father’s every move with attentive eyes as Lyndy gently bounced her up and down.

“I need to ask you something … and it’s … hard to picture,” Kyle stammered, in a tone balancing disappointment and understanding at the same time. “But did you call Rebecca Broom Hilda at the pool?”

Lyndy didn’t know how to answer, other than. “No. Of course I didn’t call her Broom Hilda. I mean … why? That’s preposterous!”

“So then, you didn’t call her a witch—any type of witch?”

“Technically no.”

By the letter of the law, I did not call her a witch. Lyndy held her tongue.

Stepping up to the commercial grade stove, Kyle twisted one of the big red knobs, making the natural gas his. He had his back turned as he slid his favorite cast iron pan into place, positioning it centrally over the burner. The hissing sound seemed to attract Maribel, making her even more interested. With a click of the igniter a ring of ten neat little cones of blue flame appeared, accompanied by a FWOOSH sound.

Maribel clapped her hands and said: “F-F-F-F-ire!”

Lyndy’s jaw dropped. Kyle whipped around, eyeing the baby in disbelief. He was holding a spatula which he pointed at Mari. Lyndy squeezed Mari’s sides, twisting and tilting the baby for a better look. She happened to have some spittle around her lips.

“Did she …?”

Lyndy’s wide-eyed expression was the same as Kyle’s.

Maribel glanced up first to her mother, then rotated back to face Kyle. Seeing her two parents so excited she knew she’d done something special. “Fwire!” she said again, louder and accompanied by a giggle. Then she stuck a finger in her nose. And that’s how the milestone of Maribel Ellis’s first word came to pass.

Wonder Valley, CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Col. Rickman once remarked Swanson’s Hungry-Man TV dinners should change their slogan to: “official meal of the divorced American male”. Every time I think about that I laugh.

She threw down her shovel with enough force it dug in and stayed upright in place. Backsliding two paces, Debbie Kowalski allowed her drained body to collapse against the tailgate, resting her tailbone on the bumper. With a slow turning of her wrist, she ran her arm all across her forehead, shaking loose so much sweat it drizzled to the desiccated soil. She squinted her eyes at the bright July sun, feeling cramps in her stomach.

Weariness was taking hold. She needed a plan other than continuing to dig.

Debbie always took pride in self-reliance. Some of this stemmed from experiences with her Polish grandmother, a woman who not only survived a concentration camp, she literally worked as a slave sewing new uniforms for the Nazis. Suffice it to say, Grandma Kowalski was as tough a survivor as they come—a little piece of her spirit lived inside her granddaughter Debbie.

Debbie wore men’s pants, cowboy shirts and cowboy hats. Her high intellect and strong frame allowed her to do any job a guy could do. She went on adventures alone, fixed her own cars and generally solved any problem she came upon. She’d worked as a park ranger, a soil scientist for the USGS, a geo-chemist for a petroleum company and a cartographer. She’d hiked, driven and ridden horseback into some of the most remote spots in North America. She’d camped alone in grizzly country and trekked over sand dunes in Death Valley, carrying a fifty-pound pack.

Thus, it was disheartening to admit how hopelessly stuck in soft sand she was in the heart of her old stomping grounds. This was the Mojave Desert in summer, yet she hardly recognized the landmarks. The outlines of mountains were unfamiliar. The roads didn’t match the maps, and everything was powdery sand, burro brush and smoke trees. The only animals were distant vultures, circling hundreds of feet in the air. Gazing south, the horizon itself became distorted by heat convection.

Bending down, Debbie took another peek under the car. No change after shoveling. The Cherokee rested its four tons on the middle portion of both solid axles, colloquially called the pumpkins. Everything below, including two-thirds of the wheels were buried in the aforementioned fine sand. Like the car version of Ozymandias.

She cleared her throat. She had about a quart of Gatorade and a half gallon of drinking water. Two Mountain Dews. Should’ve brought more.

In literature they called the present condition a damsel in distress. Could one still be a damsel at forty-one? Maybe. Debbie checked herself in the driver’s side mirror. Her once carrot-colored hair from her Irish side, was turning a bit silvery. Her cute freckles peppered across her face, now looked suspiciously like age spots from too much time spent outdoors. Currently, this was covered up by the strawberry flush of heat. She was sweaty, probably smelled bad.

A younger version of herself had been a bit on the chubby side, but gradually she’d been losing some of the plumpness in her cheeks and also around the middle. With every year passing, Debbie found herself becoming the one thing she never thought she’d be—a slender woman. It was a strange turn of events.

“Stop wasting time. Need a plan.”

Debbie knew she was becoming disoriented. The symptoms of heat exhaustion were piling up. She’d tried any and everything she could think of to get the 1974 Jeep Cherokee unstuck, including unloading her gear to save weight. Still too much American steel and sheet metal. Even if she had an electric winch installed it wouldn’t have mattered. For miles around there was nothing sturdy enough to winch off. She possessed exactly one shovel, but anything she tried only seemed to make the problem worse.

Cupping her hand to shade her eyes, she tilted her chin back to study the sky. Not a single cloud. All these years, defying the odds. Being the greatest outdoors woman this side of … uh … Nelly Bly. Had her luck finally run out? The matter was settled. For the first time in months, she needed another person. As much as it stung her pride, a middle-age man with tools would be useful about now.

Debbie checked her watch, noting it was 2 in the afternoon. She staggered a few paces from the car, scrambling up the side of a berm iguana stye, to the nearest high point. With binoculars pressed to her face, she scanned along the horizon. Nothing manmade. Nothing moving.

Lyndy Martinez used to say: “anyone kooky enough to like it out here was automatically suspicious.” That was solid advice, under normal circumstances. But now, she was desperate.

The valley surrounding this spot was a western basin, an area in the rain shadow of multiple inland ranges with no outlet. Hardly any vegetation coated the soil. The mountains and hills were covered in exposed boulders, some of them a black or grayish color. Like a big Japanese rock garden. On summer days the sun roasted these stones, thus in each direction the horizon became distorted by the same rippling heat waves radiated by the rocks.

She tried again, scanning side-to-side across the mountains for anything man made. Could’ve been a mirage, but she stopped panning when she happened on a squarish cabin with two windows. The windows glinted in the harsh midday sun. Finally, a miner’s cabin! Had to be. She guesstimated the distance. Two miles perhaps? Though out here, distances could be deceiving, especially on a day like this.

Stop wasting time.

Jumping up, Debbie surfed down the slope with her boots. Slowing her speed and cushioning herself, she hugged on the car door excitedly. Next, she slipped the binoculars back in her Jeep. She left the windows down and her gear exposed, but crammed the keys in her shirt pocket. Without heavy equipment nobody would’ve been able to move that vehicle. A passer-by seemed unlikely out here. Besides, she planned to return to this point at the latest tomorrow morning.

She thought about writing a note. But what would it say? In case I don’t make it, here’s who I want to give my stuff too…

Hmmm. That felt too much like inviting the worst outcome.

Reaching in the cooler, Debbie popped the top and shot-gunned a cold mountain dew. She kept thinking about Lyndy’s warning not to trust someone who lived out here. Course, maybe the cabin was abandoned anyway. After shaking out every precious sugary drop, she tossed the empty can in the back. Then Debbie slapped her hat against her thigh, removing some of the dust.

Re-positioning her hat on her head, Debbie shouldered the one remaining jug of water and started off walking.

It took longer than anticipated, nearly two whole hours to hike from the jeep to the rolling hillside she’d seen from afar. When her tongue happened to touch along the edges of her lips, she tasted salt. But as she came nearer to her goal things were looking up. The shack dwelling appeared lived in. A handful of live plants, including a row of hollyhocks near a water tank were in bloom. Great news.

The other thing catching her attention was this hermit must be a bit of a collector. Her assumption at this point was a guy. Of course, anyone who lived out here was a hoarder by the classic definition. Out of necessity one had to hoard supplies to remain self-sufficient. She couldn’t fault them for that. But this person’s property was littered with aircraft parts—not barnstormer stuff but modern parts for jets. Expensive parts. They had pieces of an F14-Tomcat, including an engine. A few yards away stood the tail section of a DC10. On the other hand, they had D5 dozer parts too, including sprockets and rollers for the tracks. Hard stuff to move which must weigh tons.

“I don’t think UPS delivers out here,” she muttered.

Hopefully with any luck they were a mechanic type, with a running diesel truck or a flatbed to help get her out of here.

Zig-zagging her way uphill through the personal junkyard, she kept watch of the windows. She detected no motion in them, not even a flicker or glint of light. Nothing to indicate someone was watching from inside. Unfortunately, that meant surprising them.

No barking dog. Would she have to knock on the screen door?

Gasoline and Matches Part-1

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

Anaheim, CA, 1990s

People always say when you become a new mother, your tolerance for life’s gross outs skyrockets upward. Blood, urine, throw-up, whatever is in a blackhead—you name it! And in The Spitfire’s experience, this was all true. From the happy day she found out she was pregnant with Maribel, at the age of 40, to the time of Maribel’s birth, a notable transformation occurred—not only of body, but in spirit. These same changes didn’t affect the male brain equivalently, or at least not in the case of Dr. Kyle Ellis. Kyle already had three other children, the youngest of which was eight when Lyndy gave birth. For some reason Kyle was still grossed out by poopy diapers. Nowadays, Lyndy could watch the Kintner boy get devoured by Jaws, while eating spaghetti.

These special life events never came at a convenient time and place. So, it was inevitable that baby Mari had one of her worst diaper blow-outs of all time, in the midst of a ride at Disneyland and Lyndy had to sit there with a diarrhea covered baby for what seemed like an interminable stretch until the ride came to a halt. Ironically, the ride was Winnie the Pooh, proof that God has a sense of humor.

Something had upset Maribel’s stomach terribly, though she’d eaten mostly oatmeal and half a banana. The diarrhea not only squirted up her back, along her spine, but also down the insides of her thighs. People in the beehive shaped cars behind were pinching their noses and groaning. Kyle was mortified with palms over both eyes—though he really ought to anticipate these moments. Rebecca Ellis, his first wife, was in the car in front. She was snickering.

The one silver lining was Lyndy had a diaper bag. As soon as the ride came to a stop, she jumped off carrying Maribel like a watermelon, basically a mini-stink bomb, and waddled to the nearest restroom. The Goofy character happened to be walking through at the time and he said: “Golly!” Then he did the laugh which is impossible to spell out but everyone can hear in their head.

There was a line for the women’s, because of course there was; it was the ladies room at the world’s most popular theme park after all. But as soon as the other moms witnessed the gravity of the situation, they let Lyndy cut the line. Another mom had the koala care station down and had just been finishing up a diaper change on her toddler. When she saw Lyndy coming, she whisked her kid out of the way so Lyndy could get Maribel onto the table.

Mari’s diaper bag had a pack of those disposable baby wipes, but it wasn’t near enough. Lyndy had to rush to the sinks. Mari was crying like always. This time for good reason, as she had poop all over her and probably had an upset tummy. But Lyndy was used to it, because Maribel cried a lot.

Lyndy sighed.

Rushing to the towel dispenser, she yanked the arm up and down about thirty times to obtain a good fistful. She took this wad and wet it under a sink faucet, using this in place of a washcloth to cleanse Mari’s skin.

Moments later Rebecca Ellis entered the restroom, but instead of being helpful, she’d come to watch Lyndy. Thankfully the Costco wipes helped a ton, as Lyndy tried to comfort Maribel and get her to stop crying. She hummed a lullaby, even though it was a crowded place, and she looked into the beautiful eyes of her baby, laying there on that plastic shelf. Her heart swelled with love. 

Eventually, mercifully, Mari began to cry less and Lyndy affixed a fresh, clean diaper.

That same afternoon ….

Lyndy Life Observation: On a sweltering day chasing speeders up and down the San Bernardino County interstates, 15 and 40, Deputy Keynes used to frequently get an argument along these lines: “Hey buddy, I pay your salary.” Sometimes this was accompanied by a poke at his chest and the obligatory, “ … are you just out here filling your daily quota?” In the right mood, Dale Keynes would reply with: “Hey man, if you’re not happy why don’t you fire me? You pay my salary, correct?”

The classic song Pickup Man was playing softly on the speakers. The dry SoCal heat felt amazing, and her belly had been filled by an excellent prime rib meal at The Blue Bayou, paid for by Dr. Ellis. And with their troubles mostly behind them, he had his arm around Lyndy while he smiled and played with their baby. That was during the meal. Now he’d run off somewhere to take a business call.

Lyndy was on her second margarita—wearing her favorite one-piece bathing suit—when Becky Ellis entered the scene again. She plopped down on an empty chair next to Lyndy’s pool lounger. She had one of those pina-coladas with the little pink umbrella and she was crunching the blended ice by poking the straw up and down.

On the lounger next to her, seated on a towel, was one-year-old Maribel in her tiny sun hat. Mari was smiling now, having recovered and seeming to enjoy watching the activity at the pool. Later Lyndy planned to take her daughter to the baby pool, where the water was roughly eight inches in depth and Mari could have fun splashing in the sun.

Lyndy could tell when Becky Ellis wanted to talk. She got this look on her face like she was ready to burst. She should have been watching her kids, but she’d entrusted this duty to the teenage lifeguards at the Disneyland Hotel Pool.

Becky Ellis inhaled deeply, then let the air out slowly.

Lyndy lowered her pink sunglasses.

“Whelp, I see you lost the baby weight quickly,” Becky remarked. Instead of a tone of congratulations, or as a complement, it sounded more like an insult. Like Lyndy must be on drugs. “What’s your secret?”

By the way, Becky Ellis and Lyndy were the same age, but in Becky’s eyes, Lyndy was a younger B-word who’d swooped in and stolen her husband away. This explanation couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Lyndy cleared her throat. She’d taken to imitating the great Rita Lovelace in situations like this. Rita always kept an air of dignity, even when someone was obviously there to intimidate her.

“I said what’s yer secret?” Becky repeated with a grin.

“I bought a Thigh-Master off an infomercial,” said Lyndy, matter of factly. In reality, one of the benefits of this bathing suit was its flattering nature and built-in slimming capabilities.

Becky exhaled a chuckle, knowing Lyndy was being facetious.

“Do you take anything seriously?” Becky accused.

Lyndy gazed at Maribel, brushing the gorgeous strands of hair from her forehead. It was the same shade of walnut as her mother’s and Lyndy took pride in that.

Only Becky could find reason to be in a vindictive mood during a luxury family vacation to Disneyland—literally the happiest place on Earth.

“Becky for Pete’s sake, can’t we just enjoy a family vacation?” pleaded Lyndy. Lifting one of those 4-sided emery boards from her purse, Lyndy began polishing her fingernails.

With one casual glance, Becky checked on her kids. The oldest stood atop the waterslide and was about to go down in reverse. “I need to ask you some important questions,” said Becky.

“Oh no you don’t,” argued Lyndy.

“Be honest with me Lyndy Martinez,” whispered Becky. “At any point during our marriage, was there … infidelity?” Becky whispered the word infidelity, though no one was within earshot. “And I don’t mean the physical kind. I mean emotional. Or any form of shared contact that … could lead a man to temptation.”

“Huh?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Lyndy looked Becky in the eyes. “We hardly said hello to each other the whole time you and Kyle were married. I promise you.”

“And when did this start?” Becky pointed to baby Maribel, as though she were evidence of some illicit affair.

Lyndy squinted her eyes. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Maribel was 12 months old. Counting back from there, another 10 months and Kyle was already divorced.

“Deep down, there had to be a part of you wishing to get pregnant? In a way, didn’t you know it would bring Kyle back to you?”

Lyndy exhaled, thinking back to that drizzly night.

Kyle Ellis had driven past the motel where he knew Lyndy lived her lonely life in an upstairs room. He’d made a case, the two of them were basically star-crossed lovers. Now they had a chance to flip that narrative around. Living in a motel, in your late thirties, working at an oil change place called Rapid-Lube did make one feel like a bit of a loser. So, seeing a familiar face—a successful one at that—she’d been in a moment of weakness. They’d had a passion filled night or two, rekindling a lifelong romance.

She’d practically given up on her dream of being a mother. She’d tossed her chance away like a couple of spades in a game of poker. Yet Lyndy didn’t know what she was missing. It was that summer season which brought Maribel Ellis into the world. Nothing could’ve prepared her for how joyful this would make Lyndy, and Kyle Ellis in turn. Mari was a symbol of the love he’d always had for Lyndy.

Lyndy gazed up at the Matterhorn, like a snow-capped beacon in the haze of a southern California afternoon. She answered Becky this way: “Why don’t you hop on your broom and fly off with your monkeys to pester somebody else.”

Becky’s back stiffened. Her face contorted in a grimace—like someone who’d had a drink thrown in their face—and she must’ve been so insulted she huffed off without any sort of goodbye.

Lyndy smacked her forehead, knowing word of this would make its way back to Dr. Ellis, and he would not be pleased.

Later that night …

The local TV news was on silent, pictures of wildfires in the mountains and a panicked scroll on the bottom fifth announcing many evacuations. One didn’t need the volume to know all heck was breaking loose in the mountains. Sometimes it felt like that’s all southern California did in the summer—burn.

Lyndy couldn’t sleep again, her mind swirling with countless worries, irrational or not. For example, what if their new cabin in Arrowhead burned down? But the fires were far away from the lake. Beside her Kyle snored, as did Maribel on her back between them. They both had a big day. Anyone on a trip to Disneyland had every right to be exhausted. She checked her watch, then sat up.

Grabbing her key card, she pulled on a dress, stuffed her feet in heels, then headed out—shutting the room door gently so as not to wake anyone. She didn’t have a rational explanation, and Kyle would obviously want to know where she was going. He also would want to know what was wrong, but as usual, Lyndy didn’t know what was wrong. She could never put in words what it meant to be restless all the time.

Downstairs Lyndy paced across the lobby. The only people up were moms like her, who were fatigued by life. But the bar had a few empty seats. Now that was a fortunate turn of events.

Kyle could be trusted with Mari, especially since she was sleeping. Right?

With piano music filling her ears, Lyndy cozied up to the hotel bar and sighed. The bartender smiled and Lyndy said: “Heineken”. Then she slid Kyle’s gold credit card across the smooth top.

Glancing to her left and right, she counted the other patrons. Pair of dudes at the other end of the bar. One couple, and a woman, seated by herself at a table by the windows. She seemed a little older.

Lyndy took a sip of beer, then studied the stranger.

By her looks she’d guessed this mature woman was middle forties in age, but slender, with a dirty blonde bob haircut and curtain bangs. It was a pricey hairdo, done only at salons. That style didn’t work for Lyndy’s curls, requiring far too much straightener, but she envied it. Or maybe it was a wig? Lyndy kept glancing her way.

She seemed like a fellow mom, but a wealthy one. Her classy outfit consisted of a green blouse, pedal pusher pants, showing her ankles and a fine pair of high-heel strap sandals. It bested Lyndy’s department store sun-dress.

“Oops.” Abruptly the stranger looked up from a dirty martini they were nursing. Lyndy was caught in the act of spying, which was embarrassing. But the stranger grinned while Lyndy sipped from her beer.

“Welcome to the party,” the woman called out.

Lyndy nodded, with a sheepish look.

Leaning back in her lounge chair, the elegant woman crossed one leg over the other. “Care to join me?” she asked, pushing her hair over one ear.

Lyndy hadn’t known she was lonely and it was abnormal for her to talk to strangers. But in this case, she welcomed the chance for an adult conversation that wasn’t with Becky or Kyle Ellis. Or the kids.

Lyndy took a seat across from the stranger, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Sorry for … ya know …”

The woman shook her head, meaning no explanation needed.

 “Name’s Jackie,” the lady added. Jackie pointed her toe, exercising it by doing circles, while gazing at Lyndy with attentive eyes. On her third finger, a diamond ring flashed as it caught the light. “My maiden name is Bell, but these days I go by Cordray.” Then she sipped from her glass of gin.

“Lyndy E. Martinez,” replied Lyndy with a nod. “Jackie’s a cool name.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” questioned Jackie. She had a green foil pack of Newport’s peeking out from the top of her purse, causing Lyndy to have a craving.

Lyndy shook her head in confirmation.

“What brings you to the Tragic Kingdom?”

“Oh well you know, I always wanted to meet Donald Duck in person. And my anti-depressants aren’t working anymore.”

Jackie Cordray chuckled. “You got any kids?”

“One,” Lyndy answered, trying to maintain a non-slouching pose. “She’s not going to remember this trip, but years from now when she has 30 tattoos and a bone through her nose, I can point to Dumbo and tell my daughter I held her in my lap on that ride.” Lyndy gestured to the tower elevators. “My boyfriend is currently upstairs, snoring like a moose.”

Lyndy shook her head at the circuitous path leading here; while knowing the series of nervous jokes she typically used as a smokescreen to avoid talking to people weren’t going to work on this lady. Cause Jackie was too damn cool.

“I’m not a …” Lyndy twirled her fingers to indicate whatever was running through Jackie’s mind. “We’re basically a family now. The American dream. I have self-respect.” Lyndy covered her mouth with her fist, trying unsuccessfully to disguise a burp. She wasn’t sure what she meant to justify by her declaration, maybe a latent response to Becky’s digs.

Jackie squeezed her nose at the corners of her eyes, then gazed out the windows at the glittering city lights at night stretching on forever. “I got two of em. They’re too old for this place now, or at least they act like they are.” Her words were bitter, as if many painful things were being left unsaid. Her fingers displayed two diamond rings, but no wedding band. Jackie swirled her drink, then downed the rest.

Ordinarily Lyndy wouldn’t have been so bold, but something about this mystery woman made her wonder. Jackie came from money; probably lived in Hollywood or Beverly Hills. There was practically no rationale for a person like Jackie to come here, if they didn’t have a family in tow.

“You’re looking for someone,” Lyndy surmised, taking one more sip of beer.

Jackie turned back rapidly, facing Lyndy and meeting her with a haunting gaze—the kind of look someone who’d woken up from a nightmare. “They call you The Spitfire. Is that correct?”

Lyndy nodded slowly, wondering how a person she’d just met would know that name.

“I have a confession. A friend of mine—Rita Lovelace—told me I might find you here. I didn’t know you would be up at this hour or what room you were staying in. Bumping into you was purely coincidence. But I’m glad we’re meeting this way.” Jackie leaned forward. “I have an extraordinary story to tell you.”

Valley Girl Part-22

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

[Important Lyndy News: Hi everyone, this chapter will be the final entry published online for the “Valley Girl” story arc. Our conclusion (chapter 23) will appear in the print version of this narrative titled: “Stonewater: A Lyndy Martinez Story”. I am having an awesome new cover prepared now and will post an update as the plans materialize. In the meantime, we are pivoting efforts to focus on the romance story: “Sunriver Heart” with hopes to build on the successes of last year and market the novel to a more mainstream type of publisher or an agent who can assist us. To that end, I’ve been polishing up some of the scenes and the story elements within the novel. I’ll plan on posting a synopsis for Sunriver Heart, but in short it focuses on the romantic entanglement between young Lyndy Martinez and Nash Spotted-Wolf during the 1980s in a small mountain town. If you’re curious you can find the opening chapter for the novel in the Southwest Writers 2024 Mosaic Voices volume. As usual, thanks for reading and being patient with the process on this one. And just to let you know, I have a couple of new Lyndy story arcs planned for our blog, and news of that will come later in the year. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any suggestions or comments. -ASC, Jan 2025]

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: At a family gathering somebody asked the kiddos what they wanted to be when they grew up (classic!). Maribel’s half siblings had well-reasoned, noble answers. When it gets to Mari’s turn, I start to get worried; she shrugs and says: “I’m looking into various clown colleges.” To my chagrin, that is the moment I learned Mari had inherited my sense of humor and with the tables turned, I could truly be embarrassed in public by my own daughter.

By the way Brandt was violating his own park speed limits, Lyndy knew he wanted to save the historic hotel as much as her. Perhaps more so.

Neil hadn’t been much help, his remarks cryptic and misleading.

They tracked in and out of radio reception with each bend in the highway, but he knew the Ahwahnee had been evacuated. That much was reassuring. Lyndy tried feeding Maribel, except holding her steady as they drifted into the corners going 75 to 80 miles per hour proved impossible. The little baby wasn’t going to keep anything down this way.

In between attempts to radio, Brandt explained how sturdily The Ahwahnee had been constructed—out of sculpted concrete and rebar no less. Would’ve taken a great deal of explosives to bring it down, yet the size of the model was immense and heavy. The scheme was making sense from that perspective. Their goal had been to get something massive inside the building—something no one would be suspicious of—and they’d succeeded.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Lyndy became awestruck upon re-entering the deep valley. Mere photographs couldn’t do this place justice. El Capitan, a tower of pure granite soared over their heads, merging with a streak of cirrus and blue sky in the clearing of the storm. The waterfalls roared, creating graceful curtains of white. The meadows were green, plants rejuvenated by the gift of a springtime rain. Nature seemed unaffected by the goings on of humans, if only a transitory illusion.

They arrived at the access road and parking for the hotel, breathless and leaving Lyndy more than a touch carsick. The place had lost its peaceful appeal. They were met with a set of improvised barricades. Also, a mass of confused guests huddled in circles, wondering what the heck was going on. A news van was setting up. The scene was frenzied; some cross looking hotel patrons were milling about in pajamas and bathrobes. Of course they were, as the price per night was outrageous and now this disruption! Piloting an official green vehicle Brandt was able to carry on, inching by using the shoulder of the road.

Not quite an eighth mile from the entry gates they were forced to stop again due to a jam. There wasn’t any space to skirt by now. Killing the engine, Brandt went to work immediately; he marched off and set to work herding folks who seemed lost, recommending everyone be moved further back. Some guests were sneakily trying to reenter the property—and worse, the main hotel lobby. Brandt’s mere presence and look of authority shamed them into complying—something about that ranger’s hat.

Stepping out, Lyndy used the rail of the SUV to gain a height advantage, assessing the scene, searching unfamiliar faces for that of Dr. Kyle Ellis.

At first, she found no one she recognized and disappointment took hold. Lyndy began feeling colder and more exhausted. Ducking back inside, she gathered what remained of her meager things and got ready to carry the precious baby in her arms. Then she heard a whistle and shout. Her heart began to soar. She’d not anticipated what a sweet relief it would be to lay eyes upon her boyfriend.

“Lyn” he shouted. Kicking the door wide, she smiled and felt him grip her at the hips. Kyle lifted her and Lyndy fell into his embrace, shutting her eyes and wanting to stay like this for hours. He squeezed tightly though she must’ve been a little gross, badly needing a shower. Kyle rotated her body and brought her gently to the ground.

With feet planted firmly, Lyndy passed Maribel to Kyle as they kissed again. She watched the delight grow on his face while cradling his daughter. Mari wasn’t in a pleasant mood, her face grimacing. Lyndy tried to soothe her by caressing her cheek and saying “daddy is here”. He held his baby up proudly, bouncing her gently in his arms. Behind him, Lyndy noticed the one physical possession she once saw as a vanity. She realized now, in a new light, how much she missed it. “Dang, I really missed this thing!” she exclaimed, running to it with glee. Kyle and some bystanders laughed. Clicking off the brake, Lyndy twirled it through a full 360 turn, exercising the wheels.

Lyndy longed for a hot shower and real food. She wanted a whole pizza, to eat by herself. She glanced behind, as the containment line was being expanded. Rangers began pushing the crowd to disperse. “Step away! Step back everyone,” barked the park employees.

“I have the Range Rover loaded at the village. We had to leave quickly but I got your purse and …,” stammered Kyle. He tried to describe some of her possessions miming hand gestures to indicate sizes, “… the thing like a tackle box and has all the cosmetics.”

Lyndy snorted. “My makeup case?”

“Yeah, that thing,” he replied.

Lyndy felt self-conscious. “I could use a change of clothes. I think this dress is officially kaput.” But that got her pondering. The last words of a faint, scratchy phone call: Kristen’s favorite verse in Luke. The glow of a snowcap atop Half Dome.

How could she leave like this?

Without warning, something stirred inside. Lyndy scanned the crowd wondering how to find Ranger Brandt. She pivoted to face the buildings. She bit her lower lip. An irresistible urge to act gripped her, drawing her in.

“What are you scheming?” Kyle questioned.

Lyndy didn’t know how to answer. She offered him a look of apology as she turned to leave.

Kyle shook his head, but a knowing guise of resignation came upon him as he took one bated breath. Gently he snugged Mari into her baby buggy. Reaching out he latched onto Lyndy’s wrist. He pulled her back—only an instant—planting a kiss on her cheek. It lasted until Lyndy squirmed away, flashing a final charming grin. She then darted off, pushing her way into the clamor.

She located Brandt conversing in hushed tones with a group of other rangers and park personnel. Knowing there was no time to waste—not wanting to think through the possibilities—Lyndy cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned, tipping back his hat.

“Miss Martinez?”

 “I have the code. I’m going in,” Lyndy declared, covering her mouth as she spoke to conceal her words. He turned and, in his eyes, she knew he shared her sentiments.

“You’re a mother?” Brandt argued half-heartedly, leaving the question open ended.

By his tone, she knew he wasn’t about to stop her. His companions gaped at him with astonishment. They were fearful at what he seemed prepared to do.

“How much time do we have?” questioned Lyndy.

“Not sure. Minutes if we’re lucky.”

“Not to brag, but I have a knack for situations such as these.”

Brandt sniffed. “That I can believe.”

Minutes later …

Taking a circuitous route, out of view of anyone including park officials, Brandt snuck Lyndy into the restricted zone. They came in through a side exit, passing the kitchen and a series of offices behind check-in.

The abnormally quiet lobby with dimmed lights felt unsettling. Each footstep echoed on smooth walls and bare concrete floors. On the other hand, a fire alarm chirped incessantly. In a tense situation she would’ve preferred a bell, as the electronic beeping could be grating on the nerves. Moreso, because Lyndy felt tired mentally.

Through the mosaic windows she spotted employees rolling out yellow tape, wrapping trees on the farthest extent of the meadows. It gave her pause, thinking of how deep the blast zone might extend—they were preparing for the worst. The building smelled of dinner foods: prime rib, fish, hot rolls and such left to waste in the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.

Weirdly a herd of deer were grazing in the field, looking serene, probably wondering why the humans were acting so skittish. Lyndy set aside her feelings of doom as much as possible. Of course she wanted to see Mari grow up; it was something to live for. Plus, she needed to experience all those firsts her own mother had never been around for.

All the same, she hadn’t been born to sit idly by while a disaster unfolded.

With a flashlight Brandt guided her up the main stairs, wide and grand for a ball style entrance, but now empty. She rushed up them two at a time, even with her level of fatigue, feeling something of a second wind brewing.

At the dam model, Lyndy and Brandt paused for a beat. The thing was far too large to move, nor had anyone wanted to touch it. Facing the wall, Lyndy crouched, hugging her knees to her chest. She leaned back until her spine rested flat on the cold floor. Next she squeezed her way under the model, a crawl space with 18 inches of vertical spacing to the floor. Brandt struggled to get on his hands and knees, and couldn’t have easily scooted under. There simply wasn’t room for a grown man.

Lyndy extended her palm, wiggling her fingers to get Brandts attention. She heard the sound of peeling Velcro, then he set his smaller black mag light into her hand. Shining the light along the edges, it revealed a series of thumb screws attaching a particle board backing. Using her lips Lyndy blew back her bangs, which clouded her vision. She began a laborious task of undoing the screws quick as possible, knowing this was just a protective cover masking the true purpose.

For some reason Lyndy had the original Love Boat theme song stuck in her brain on repeat. It wasn’t something she’d have chosen for such a grim moment. Probably caused by too much time spent watching reruns, feeding Mari in the middle of the night.

Setting the heavy cover piece aside, Lyndy again shone the light into the void under the model. This time, as The Spitfire moved the beam it revealed a grid of bluish, polymer clay looking bricks. A knot formed in her empty stomach. Shining the light in cervices, she could see dozens more bricks taped to the plywood underside of the model. Each of these were wired, not with blue and red wires, but all black leads. Lyndy put the light into her mouth, gripping with her teeth, directing the light onto a small panel in the middle. It looked like guts of a radio transceiver, but with a small digital display. Scooting further under until her legs were engulfed, she shone the light into every nook until she confirmed the place where all the wires converged was indeed a transceiver circuit.

Lyndy exhaled. She assumed all that blue stuff was highly sensitive. Too bad. She could’ve used a relaxing smoke. In the movies they had wire clippers and screwdrivers. That would be nice. Would be nice to have a bomb squad too—but that rescue was hours away. She pushed the only button she could see, a small black switch. The digital display came to life, flashing 30:16. It was counting down.

“It says 30 minutes,” whispered Lyndy, to Brandt. “I hope this thing is honest. I had a kitchen timer once that didn’t keep good time.”

Less time than she hoped for.

“Takes like a couple minutes to get out too,” added Brandt.

“Agreed,” said Lyndy. Can’t panic yet, she thought, as she envisioned sliding down the stair rail and bursting out the front doors followed by a fireball explosion.

Below the display was a 10-digit number panel, like an old-fashioned TV remote. Lyndy poked the numbers in the order of the verse she remembered from talking to Kristen. 2-1-1-1. Ironically, a laughably simple code. The display continued its merciless downward descent. On instinct Lyndy tried again, this time hitting the star button she presumed to be like hitting enter. She cursed herself for not being better with computers and electronics. “Dang. Dios bendiga,” whispered Lyndy, doing the sign of the cross.

“What’s a matter?”

“I thought I had the code, it’s not working.”

She tried reversing the numbers. “Was hoping you diffused these in the army or something?”

“Sorry, no,” replied Brandt. “I was a tank commander.”

“What did Luke work out to in numbers?” asked Lyndy. “On a touch tone phone.”

“Oh right.” That’ll be 5-8-5-3.

Lyndy tried various combinations of the verse, the word Luke—swapping them—and other buttons. Alas nothing affected the relentless countdown. By then, she knew she wasted five precious minutes. Her heart sank. She let out a deep sigh. “Crap! I don’t want to give up but the only thing I can think of now is to start pulling wires. Wish I was smarter.”

Brandt chuckled. “I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“Did you know if there was another of these models?”

“No.”

“I heard there were two.” Lyndy shimmied out, coming face to face with Ranger Brandt.

“Where?”

A ghostly look came over Brandt. He removed his hat. “Two! The same folks made that one?” He put his fists upon the model, as though he wished to smash it.

She pressed her palms into her eye sockets. “I think …” she paused. “I think this one is a distraction.” Lyndy pointed a shaky finger North. “The … the dam. The big reservoir! They must’ve put one there to display.”

Brandt raced to the door, hesitating only cause the stairs were dim and he’d need to shine his light. It gave her just enough pause to jump up, scrambling to keep Brandt from leaving. “Wait, wait. Tell me something before you go. The voice on the phone mentioned something else.” Lyndy gripped both palms around her head. If Chan were here, he’d be very upset, particularly at her forgetting an important detail. But obviously with the 48 hours she’d had things were blurring together. “B channel. Does B channel mean anything?”

Brandt stopped in his tracks, pushing his other worry aside. The quiet was eerie. Brandt yanked his radio from the holster. He stared at the knobs which altered the comm channel or controlled the volume. “Yeah, I remember.” He set it down on the railing, using his thumbs to pry apart the back cover. “There’s a little instruction panel here. It has something to do with how the signal is transmitted.” Lyndy shone the light on the tiny schematic and mice type print, taped to the cover.

“Scratch that. I have a better idea,” pleaded Lyndy, gripping his wrist. “How quickly can we get to Camp-4? Can we make it in 20 minutes?”

Brandt took a labored breath. “Ordinarily, yes. With the traffic, I’m not sure.”

Yavapai County, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rita went to a doctor’s appointment complaining of digestive issues. The doctor went through a series of printed questions from a clipboard, including about alcohol use, as in, “are you a light drinker, moderate drinker or heavy drinker?” Rita waited a long time before responding, then finally answered with: “Sorry, can you please define those categories? Be as specific as you can.”

Delicate wisps of fog hovered over the boggy wallows in the meadow, like veils of lace. These were highlighted in amber by rays of sun, filtering through pines. It seemed just as one began to single out any of these forms, each morphed, dissolving into an illusion.

Mari Ellis listened close, thinking she’d heard a loon call, distant and faint like the howl of a wolf. While taking in such a sublime Arizona sunrise, she wrapped her scarf several more passes about her neck, puffing it so it protected her chin. Hearing a rustling, she turned back toward the farm stand. She smiled, watching white Thor paw and nibble on dried remains of wild daisies, a passel of which had grown up along the posts of a rail fence. He was in his element. Thor heard the loon too; he paused to gaze off at the meadow, still chewing.

She’d been busy arranging fresh green peppers, alongside bushels of ripe tomatoes and yellow zucchini, nesting them on beds of hay. She’d taped little white labels onto kabob sticks, with prices drawn creatively in her neatest cursive. Mari sighed, feeling satisfied with how tidy everything looked. She even had a spot on the table for clover honey. The stand looked good and her mother would be proud.

Tromping through high weeds along the roadside in her favorite boots, Mari paced to the Honda, where she retrieved the folding sign. She carried this closer to the highway, setting out the legs and making sure it was visible from a good distance, so people had time to slow.

From the camp chair at the stand, Mari gathered her hair in a ponytail across one shoulder, then snugged her favorite cowgirl hat on her head. She observed a V-shaped flock of geese in the clear blue sky, honking and flapping their way south. She watched Thor snacking his way further along the fence. Then she pulled out her kindle to read, waiting for tourists speeding to the Grand Canyon entry gates.

Not long after sunrise, Mari heard a low slapping thunder of Harley motors approaching around the bend. Early riders were sometimes part of clubs, retired guys mostly, but as they came into view through the woods, the pair began to slow. She could tell by their unflinching, somber expressions and the purposeful way they kicked out their stands these two weren’t here to incorporate more healthy fruits and vegetables in their diet.

They hung their helmets on their handlebars.

Mari sat up in her chair.

The shorter one, a Hispanic fellow with a mustache, stomped over to the folding table. She hoped he wasn’t going to kick anything, as she’d taken great care in setting this up. Thor stood on his back legs, propping both his front hooves on the table, sniffing in the direction of the two bikers.

“Howdy,” said Mari cheerily.

The man grinned. As he folded and stuffed away his sunglasses, he revealed his eyes. To her they seemed hateful. Looking to the other man, he was stocky and taller, kind of bear like. He had the same smug grin and an equally hateful demeanor.

Mari Ellis cleared her throat. “Lookin for something? Honey is on sale,” she commented. She stood up, dusting off the butt of her jeans and stepping up behind the stand, next to the cash box.

“Hello miss,” said the more outgoing one. “How old are you?”

“Uh twenty, but I don’t see how that’s relevant,” answered Mari.

He nodded.

Mari looked at Thor and he looked back at her. She pushed him down, back to all fours. The tall biker pointed to Thor. “Is that a goat?” he asked.

His partner chuckled. “Yes. Dumbass.” He turned back to Mari. “We were hoping to meet the Mexican lady who normally operates this stand. We’re old friends of hers. She’d be happy to see us. Do you know where she is?”

Mari tipped her hat, loosening her scarf. “Who would that be?”

“Goes by the name Lyndy Martinez, some would say a legendary figure in these parts. Your last name doesn’t happen to be Martinez, does it?”

Mari shook her head emphatically.

“Some people call her The Spitfire. It’s a nickname from when she was younger.”

While they spoke, the taller biker wandered to where the Honda Civic was parked, peering through the tinted windows. Mari assumed he was checking to see if anyone was inside, sleeping.

“Lyndy was seen about a month ago, in Santa Barbara,” explained the shorter biker. He held out his hands. “See, it’s been a long time since anyone sighted her. Some are concerned. That’s why we’re hoping to catch up with her.”

Mari squeezed her chin, glancing down at Thor. “You two are in luck. I know where she is.”

“Oh, fantastic,” said the biker, rather insincerely.

“I’ll show you.”

The men turned to face each other. “Hear that? She can take us to Lyndy.”

“Follow me,” said Mari.

Unhooking Thor’s leash, she led the pair through the fence rails, having to duck, into the countryside beyond. The bikers seemed confused, but as Mari ventured deeper into the pine woods, they resolved to follow. She hiked over a hundred yards to a small hill.

Valley Girl Part-9

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Coconino County AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: Before America became overly litigious like now, there used to be a family-owned waterpark roughly ten clicks from the V-P. On a July weekend in Barstow, trust me, the place was a godsend and also a prime spot to mingle. They had one particular waterslide—kind of a toboggan run—which launched you at high-speed toward these two enormous humps at the end. The flawed design essentially guaranteed you landed backward and upside down when entering the pond, almost always on your head. Sometimes I wonder how nobody died.

She watched an Anna’s hummingbird zipping through the hollyhocks until it set upon a yellow monkeyflower bush, hovering mid-air to sip nectar.

With a tilt of the wrist, Catherine deposited a pint or two of artificial rain from her watering can to nourish the drooping blooms. Nearby, bumble bees were buzzing all around her sunflowers, legs heavy with pollen. A gentle breeze blew, transporting scents of the high desert, nature’s AC in the heat of the afternoon. In the distance, a neighbor’s windmill twirled and creaked.

She loved her new country home. However diminutive it was, it made up in the soothing charms of Arizona highlands and the newness of the twenty-first century appliances.

Setting down her can and taking a breather in the shade of the back porch, she gazed at the dazzling screen of her smart phone. She remembered a time when every phone had the exact same total of 12 buttons and no screen whatsoever. Clicking on “favorites”, she resolved to try her best friend, Lyndy. It’d taken Catherine several hours to gather her thoughts, and frankly, make peace with the verbal lashing she’d received from Maribel.

Catherine cupped the phone in both hands, as she only planned to leave it on speaker. Lyndy was impossible to converse with using any type of video technology.

The phone rang five solid times, and Cathy had nearly given up, deciding to go back to watering when she heard an answer. There were sounds in the background, noisy children, thumping of people cramming suitcases in bins and random announcements.

“Hello?” answered Lyndy, in a breathless tone. She always sounded as if figuring out how to answer her Apple phone was a fatiguing task.

“Hey, it’s Cath. Where are you at?” Cathy leaned back, kicking one knee over the other and resting against one of the timbers supporting her porch.

“Oh. I’m boarding a plane now,” Lyndy’s voice seemed immediately less tense, and she sounded as though she was settling into a seat.

“Oh, I won’t bother you then. It’s not important.”

“No, I can talk for a sec—they haven’t barred the doors or anything. Plus, this is a luxury flight. It’s all first class. What’s on your mind?”

Cathy frowned. “Really? Where the heck are you going?”

“Santa Barabara,” answered Lyndy.

“Why? Are you with someone?”

“Uh… actually yes. A guy.”

“A guy? You met a dude and you’re flying to California? That’s major.”

“It would seem so yes.”

“Is he cute? Wait, how long have you known him?”

Cathy could hear a nervous laugh coming from Lyndy, and could picture her blushing at the man sitting beside her. “Ummm, like twenty-four hours,” whispered Lyndy.

“24 HOURS!” exclaimed Cathy. “Be honest with me. Are you being kidnapped?”

Lyndy chuckled.

“Click your tongue and say buttercup if you’re in danger.”

Lyndy chuckled again.

“Are you going senile on me? You’re too young for this. Do I need to take your credit cards away.”

“Stop it, Cath,” Lyndy cajoled, through a series of nervous chuckles.

“This is just weird. You’re gonna have to fill me in when you’re not in take-off mode. Call me tonight.”

“I might do that,” answered Lyndy. “But wait, what were you calling about?”

“Oh, almost forgot. I wanted to know Maribel’s date of birth and her middle name.”

“Sure. What for?”

“I want to request the arrest report for her supposed DUI.”

There was a pause, and Cathy wasn’t certain how Lyndy would react. Perhaps to tell her to mind her own business. “Right. That’s smart,” agreed Lyndy soberly. “Yeah. Something isn’t adding up. You’re right to be suspicious.”

“I am,” Cathy confirmed.

“Alrighty. It’s February 5th and her middle name happens to be Whitney.”

“I wasn’t anticipating that.”

“Kyle picked the name,” explained Lyndy. “He was a big Whitney Houston fan.” Lyndy paused for a beat, then asked: “Did you talk to her?”

“I did. And you were right, she’s a real delight. I’m licking my wounds.”

“What did she say?”

“Well, nothing about the arrest. But she did get in several home run zingers. Including, to my face that together you and I were the biggest floozies this side of the Rocky Mountains.” Cathy could hear Lyndy making a snort and then a belly laugh. “Thought you’d appreciate that. I didn’t know the term floozies was still a thing.”

“You have my anointed permission to slap my adult daughter.”

“Thank you. I’ve cooled down. Santa Barbara, eh? Maybe he’s a surfer.”

“Yes. That’s where he lives.”

“Okay, better call me later!”

Then Cathy heard a ding, and series of garbled announcements by a flight attendant. Soon after the call ended.

Several hours later …

Lyndy forgot what it was like, driving in Santa Barbara. The one lane, tree lined streets snaking through the hills like backroads of the Alps were better suited to mule travel than modern sports sedans. Seemed the whole town drove like speed demons, disregarding stop signs as mere suggestions. With all the blind curves, it was a miracle there weren’t constant wrecks.

But they made it back from the airport in one piece.

Fred nosed his car into an elevated gravel drive near the crest of a coastal ridge on a 90-degree bend, in the shade of twin Monterrey Pines. Evidently, he’d been renting one of those Spanish style manors—you know the trendy ones with names like “Villa Lagos” emblazoned in iron gates. He didn’t enter the garage, instead putting on the brakes out front.

Lyndy stepped out, lifting her shades to admire the scenic view. To the west, through gaps in the foliage one could spot turquoise waters of the channel. She paced away, recalling Rita once owned a summer home in Santa Barabara. They both adored it, as it was basically a party house for her and her entourage. Which meant Lyndy got to live rent free, performing her security duties. That home, if it still existed, should be in the same neighborhood. Yet things had changed dramatically in 30 years and her memory of Santa Barbara was so grainy, she’d never find it.

“Whaddaya think?” asked Fred, eagerly gathering up his things from the rental.

Lyndy only had one bag to collect, and though Fred offered to carry it, she refused. She nestled her sunglasses atop her pixie cut hair. The air was much cooler here, smelling salty and moist like the Pacific. Sometimes California wasn’t half bad.

“Amazing house!” she answered. “I mean wow.”

“My daughter wanted this one cause the main bedroom has the best ocean view.”

Lyndy observed Fred’s body language. The man appeared solemn, bracing himself on the handrail for the front steps. He paused, gazing down at his white loafers. “She suffers from a series of health challenges ever since that day. These will become apparent when you meet her. But trust me, she’s a fighter. You’ll see.” His voice choked up. “She’s gonna be thrilled to meet you. Cause, she has trouble remembering any details of her mom.”

Coming up the stairs, one had to do a one-eighty to enter the home’s main floor. Beside the staircase, an elaborate mechanical lift mechanism was a clue that someone in the home had mobility issues. The mystery was deepening. There was little time to appreciate the living room with its coffered ceilings and a boho chic décor.

Fred led the charge, beckoning her up another curved flight of stairs to the third-floor bedroom. It was the primary. Lyndy marveled at items she saw along the way, classic western memorabilia and framed movie posters—the image of John Wayne with an eye patch holding a pistol. She’d never imagined meeting a youngster more into western movies and culture. Maybe she’d met her match. They had original posters for everything from The Lone Ranger and High Noon, to Once Upon a Time in the West, Outlaw Josie Wales, No country for Old Men and even True Grit – John Wayne OG version of course.

Fred smiled coyly and with such confidence, like he couldn’t wait to reveal the surprise. The Spitfire was starting to wonder if she had a long-lost child somehow, though she scanned her memory banks and was certain she’d only been pregnant once, with one baby.

By tugging on Lyndy’s arm, he brought her to a set of double doors. He tapped lightly on the door and youngish female voice said: “Enter.” Next, he thrust both doors apart in a dramatic gesture.

The view out the bedroom windows was magnificent. But this paled in comparison to the person standing beside the bed.

Gasping, Lyndy fell against the framed entry. If a spindled railing hadn’t been behind, she might’ve risked a tumble back down the stairs. She almost blurted “Rita!”, yet the young woman couldn’t possibly be older than 20 years. And though her old friend possessed vast wealth and ambitions, she obviously could not bring herself back from the grave nor reverse the aging process. Despite having the lovely triangular face of Rita, right down to the green eyes and auburn hair, the smiling young woman appeared extremely frail.

Fred seemed smug. “Lyndy Martinez, I’m happy to introduce you to the last living heir of the Lovelace estate, my daughter, Gillian Bonnie Lovelace.”

“Holy cow,” Lyndy mouthed. “You …. you …,” she stammered, “look like your mother.”

Indeed, Gillian was among the strangest humans Lyndy ever laid eyes upon, which was saying something. Trust me, she’d met some doozeys. The most noticeable feature, after her striking face, was the way her torso had been encased in an exoskeleton, formed of metal rivets and stiff black plastic. The closest she could compare to was old Roman body armor. It was attached to cover her entire abdomen, encasing her neck and completely surrounding her back. The contraption was secured by black parachute cord which looped back and forth on the sides like a corset. In this form, the girl was alien like.

Could it be? Rita’s own child by natural birth, or a surrogate?

The parts of Gillian’s body still exposed, were noticeably delicate and burn scarred. Even for a skinny 20-year-old. She was alarmingly thin, like somebody with a liver condition. Made her think Rita’s fire curse had come full circle, manifesting in her child.

With her constricting brace Gillian moved in a mechanical way, striding forward and using the corners of a four-poster bed for extra support.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you at last!” Gillian exclaimed. She paused, sensing Lyndy’s discomfort. “Excuse me, I know how I look. Some people need a minute to process. What happened is I survived a plane crash—basically got shoved out a moving aircraft without a parachute and somehow landed in very dense brush. Then came a fireball. To say I was pretty banged up is well …. the doctors didn’t believe I could survive a month, let alone walk. Most of them claimed I would be bedridden.” She glanced at her bed, which obviously was where she spent a majority of her time. “They were almost right.”

Gillian inched forward nervously to approach Lyndy. Lyndy moved closer too, unsure where it was safe to touch this fragile being, afraid of simply crushing her. But they embraced. And the feeling of putting her arms around Gillian, however awkward, brought with it sweet relief.

“Don’t worry too much Lyndy, I’m not made of glass,” coaxed Gillian. “I’ve got bones you know!” And Lyndy squeezed her tighter. “I’m so glad you agreed to come.”

Lyndy was picturing Rita hurling her daughter out an aircraft door to save her, while in the process of crashing. Somehow it did fit within the context of a Rita escapade. Whether it was physically possible to do, she couldn’t say. Seemed farfetched.

“You have a daughter, correct?” questioned Gillian. Her hair was in a bob, the good kind and Gillian pushed the ends behind both ears like any other young lady.

“Oh yes,” answered Lyndy, grinning. “Yep. Maribel. She’s … well …” She couldn’t find the words to describe her child now, let alone her emotional state. Lyndy’s eyes were tearing up. It was a peculiar reaction. She dabbed at them with her blouse.

She felt a need to caress Gillian’s skin again, perhaps confirming the girl was not some elaborate simulation. Lyndy beat her chest with her fist, coughing a bit. Then she moved to the girl’s side, reaching out to squeeze her fingers.

“There’s so many things I want to ask,” said Gillian.

“Likewise,” replied Lyndy, shifting her weight onto her leading foot. When she touched the skin atop Gillian’s hand, it was warm and soft. Human obviously. And Gillian smiled. Lyndy nodded with eyes wide in wonderment.

Then without warning, Lyndy felt an old-fashioned grade-A panic attack closing in. She had to get out of this room. She fanned her face with both hands, then wordlessly darted for the stairs, taking them two at a time knowing Fred would try and follow. She rushed out the open front door, into the side yard where a bird bath stood, encompassed by rose bushes. Lyndy bent over, hands on her knees, panting for oxygen.

Lyndy felt a tenderness for this girl in a way she’d not expected. She hated the idea of it. This was madness! Had she slipped into a time warp sucking her back to her youth? Despite her sentiments, she had zero desire to return to that earlier age. Why should she open her heart? Miss Lovelace, who respected her autonomy so poorly had managed to continue with unfair demands. What a load of nerve!

But she liked the girl. A lot. She felt as if she’d known her already. Why hadn’t Rita said anything? Why not make her a god parent? If she’d run into unforeseen circumstances like the crash, precluding her from raising Gillian, she could’ve easily let Lyndy take over. She was already raising Maribel. How much harder would it have been to raise two girls versus one?

She turned around to see if anyone was there, but they’d let her alone. Mercifully. Lyndy snatched a wad of tissue from her purse and held it against her nose. She longed for a Newport.

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: All due respect to the late artist Prince, who was a talented musician, the hit song Delirium is super annoying and contains the most pedantic 80s beat ever. Driving with Mr. Chan this song would often play on the radio, and whenever it did I remember twisting up his stereo knob to full blast. He’d be trying to steer down the road and at the same time wrestling with me for control of the volume. I had ninja-like speed too. Good times!

Ranger Brandt was eager to listen to Lyndy’s retelling of the final call and one-sided conversation with the unknown female. The mention of a specific date, Sunday, indicated an unfolding plot. She thoughtfully observed Brand’s body language for any signs of a hidden understanding. But he revealed nothing further. Either Brandt was equally puzzled with the substance of the conversation, or he’d gotten good at faking his reactions. He said he would relay it to whomever would be put in charge next.

As for Lyndy, leaving town seemed more and more the wisest option.

All afternoon she contemplated how to soften the blow while still convincing Kyle she needed to duck out early. The field trip meant something to him, as he’d asked her to promise she’d go. That was one bind. Another, she wanted to tie up loose ends with Neil, regarding his connection to Sierra Spring. Something which would never happen if she disappeared.

Lyndy was agonizing over this decision, when a letter came sliding under the door. The envelope was embossed with the hotel logo. The person must not have lingered and no knock sounded. She eyed it a moment. Though no one besides Maribel was present in the room—Kyle stuck in meetings—Lyndy snuck guiltily to it. She saw it was another note from Neil, this time inviting her to a party in Camp-4. His message said there would be a summer-style cookout with brats, potato salad, desserts and music. And beer. Lots of beer.

Why not? Why shouldn’t she have a little fun on vacation? She gazed at Maribel, splayed out in her crib, exercising her fingers to grasp for the mobile and sucking on a binky. One problem remained. A certain social skill Lyndy had become unacquainted with, the twinge of anxiety when stepping into an avid party scene.

Well two problems. She had one outfit left, which she’d brought only in the event of a special occasion. She pulled on the short jean shorts and cloud white top that tied in the center, similar to the outfit in Dirty Dancing. It exposed a risky amount of hip action, and didn’t look right without shoes and big hair. Lyndy put a finger in her lips, gazing into the mirror and twisting at the hips to check how her butt looked. She held up the top over her body. Using her free hand, she fluffed her perm while locking eyes with Mari. “Well, you’re awful quiet now. What do you think? Cowgirl hat? Headband? Or curls?”