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Valley Girl Part-14

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-14

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Kyle noticed a part-time opening at his company and a light bulb flipped on over his head. Arguing this would be a great way to get me out of the house and help dip my toes back in the workforce, he encouraged me to apply. Translation: he figured this job would keep me out of trouble in Lake Arrowhead. But the catch was, you had to pass a typing test to be an admin. I practiced for a week. They actually place a box over the keyboard so you can’t see your hands while you’re taking the test. That evening, he inquired how it went and I answered confidently: “I did great, probably like a B or B minus.” I was wrong. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job offer and Kyle grumbled that I might’ve “flunked the test on purpose”.

The rugged terrain folded sharply beyond the plateau at Foresta, having been carved to a V by the river over millennia, and in places, ancient glaciers.

Her knees were starting to wobble with fatigue, compelling Lyndy to rest when she didn’t want to. Bending into a squat position, balancing on her toes, she squeezed at the joint by her thigh muscles, hoping to ease the spasms and increase circulation.

Mostly the soreness was concentrated in her knees. But reaching up with her right arm, she pinched on her bad shoulder. It felt tender to the touch. She tried, but couldn’t raise it past 90 degrees to her core, or the aching became unbearable.

Age was catching up to her. Having a baby weighing her down wasn’t helping the situation. Meantime, The Spitfire’s heart continued pounding, but some of that was fear. A good kind of primal fear, making one more aware of their surroundings.

Beneath the sounds of her own huffing, and Mari’s whimpering, Lyndy could hear distant cars traveling the road in the canyon bottom. In addition, she perceived a thunderous roar from the rush of spring meltwater. The sound of that river in her ears was welcome, encouraging her.

With a jolt of knee pain, she pushed off rising to standing position. She wanted to keep moving, and so commenced weaving her way through the tangle of oak branches.

The slopes were lined in layers of exposed granite. The boulders here weren’t smooth like in the valley, but had a rough texture not conducive to climbing. In between boulders, where one could skirt past, the ground was composed of scree or coated in a slippery layer of deadfall leaves, bark and moss—all at an angle of 45 degrees or greater. In the tightest of sections, she lowered herself using opposition, placing her feet firmly on one rock while bracing her back on the other side. She’d taken several fresh falls and her hands had new scrapes to show.

Another discouraging problem: the sun had dipped below the horizon 30 minutes prior, meaning she only had ten or so minutes of workable light.

Lyndy assumed they would find the wreck, split up and send someone to the lower road. At least one man from above, and likely two from below, to close in on her. But the driving distance was substantial. Without studying a topo map, they wouldn’t be able to judge precisely where she’d emerge—she was counting on that. And the slow bushwhacking meant it would be harder for those in pursuit as well.

Mari’s diaper was beginning to stink. She had one spare jammed in a pocket, but she was saving it for when they bedded down. She possessed no formula. No water. No baby bottle.

Would she be getting an award? Mother of the year? Surely not. She felt like a fox on the run again. The hunters, she prayed, were inexperienced.

10 minutes later …

Crickets were chirping.

Battered and exhausted, Lyndy arrived upon the narrow, flat strip of El Portal Road, as a line of motorcycles buzzed past. She could see their red taillights vanishing into the trees, smell their exhaust. But they hadn’t spotted her, or if they witnessed anything, it would’ve been two eyes reflecting. That’s how dark it was.

She quivered in fear, thinking each low sound was an approaching auto, or each twig snap someone sneaking around in the undergrowth. The river did thunder here, which was good. But she needed a hiding spot, at least until moonrise. With a crescent moon she might be able to carry on. But rest seemed vital.

She worked her way upslope, bushwhacking west along the canyon wall. The going was difficult and slow. She prayed for a solution, as twilight faded and she began to stumble. She scrambled between layers of rock, sliding back a step with each two of progress. When a small stone let loose and went tumbling, she froze, fearing somehow the invisible chasers would spot her. Then she saw the cleft in the rock.

It wasn’t what she’d hoped for—an abandoned mineshaft would’ve been ideal—but it was something. Ordinarily, she’d have poked into the crevice with caution, using a long stick to probe for any wild critters. Mainly it was serpents she feared.

There was no time for caution. She clawed at the ground with both hands, pulling rocks free like a dog trying desperately to burrow under a fence. On both knees she continued to scrape until she made an opening large enough for her and her baby Bjorn to crawl through without Mari being crushed. She could reach a forearm into the hole, knowing there was an air gap there. She had to continue to push through a tangle of roots.

A humbling experience for sure, especially for The Spitfire. She wormed her way in, kicking with her toes and bending her back. She pushed upward with her palms; in the same motion one uses in yoga class. Then Lyndy tucked her knees, so her whole body drew inside the cavity.

Once in the confined space, she flicked the lighter, hoping she’d not entered a raccoon’s den or worse, a porcupine!

The soft flame bathed the tiny cave in a flickering orange glow. The space was smaller than an average Labrador doghouse. At first, she saw only unremarkable rock in front of her face. A few dead bugs, but no mean looking spiders. On the lower half, where some knobby crystals formed a sharp edge, she observed a tuft of brown fur. Unmistakable which species left this piece of their hide behind—the previous tenant. How humiliating!

“Oh God, it finally happened,” lamented Lyndy, breathing heavy. “I’m a bear.”

It felt good to be secure, if even in a false sense. Mari was cranky and stinky. Lyndy unhooked her baby sling. She knew those men would be probing every inch of this canyon.

She cradled Mari in her arms, gazing into her eyes. “You’re hungry I know. Thirsty I assume.” Lyndy rubbed her palm across her face as she caught her breath.

She felt shameful. Bunching up her dress, she eased it over her head. The move was tricky, with the tight quarters and one shoulder that wouldn’t bend. She twisted her elbow to squirm out of the dress.

“I’m sorry I can’t do it,” Lyndy whispered, setting the dress aside. “I can’t do it Vanilla Bean. You know I can’t.”

The baby books and one twenty-something nurse, attempting to make her feel better, explained some women her age simply weren’t able to lactate. There was nothing to be ashamed of. Replaying this scene felt unbearable, when she was tired and the pregnancy had been so difficult. They called it geriatric for God’s sake.

Abruptly Lyndy balled up a fist, punching her own head. She did this repeatedly, in a rage until she couldn’t feel. Then, taking a breath, she clutched Mari against her chest with her eyes shut. Maribel kicked her legs in a baby protest, but Lyndy held firm.

Hours later …

That night, the air temperature in the canyon dipped to near freezing. The shelter of the bear den was a marginal refuge. She held Maribel close, through fits of shivering.

Sleep came in only brief doses, a few Zs at a time.

It was against her better judgement, but she couldn’t help it. Not knowing what time of night it was, she had an unstoppable urge to look out. Gently she set down Mari, wrapping her in her dress and snugging it around her neck. The baby girl was sleeping. Then sliding backwards, Lyndy emerged from her hiding place.

She gazed first at the clear mountain sky overhead. The milky way arched above in a heavenly fashion, bursting with twinkling stars.

Nature was calling in other ways. She needed to pee, but even that act she feared might reveal her whereabouts. Lyndy scrambled a little higher, to where an oak tree clung to the cliffs like a climber. Once there, she heaved her bare stomach over the largest branch and ascended into the canopy. From this vantage, she could look down over the cliffs, seeing part of the river gleaming and a bend in the road.

Something was off. An unnerving hum permeated the area, so faint she hadn’t noticed it at first. Like the sound of electricity, when one listens closely on a peaceful night. Lyndy strained with her heightened senses to locate the source, scooting higher along the branch. As she climbed higher, she could smell it.

At last, there it was in front of her eyes. She’d been looking too far away. At an angle of 30 degrees to the oak, attached to a pine bough, hung a classic acorn silhouette. The ball of energy was anxiety inducing, a beehive like ones in a Winnie the Pooh cartoon. The humming was from a few guards at the entrance, while thousands of others must be inside sleeping.

Lyndy exhaled relief. She inched back, using gravity to slide lower to the ground. Then came a yellow flash, like a beacon.

She froze with fear. Beneath her, The Spitfire witnessed two flashlights searching—the big Maglite variety. They hadn’t given up. The distance, hard to judge, might be a range of twenty-five yards—if she were lucky. She clung to the tree, flattening her back to help her blend in.

Listening carefully, she could hear them talking to one another. Saying things like, “In there, under that bush. Poke in with the hiking stick.” The cones of light shifted, occasionally scanning over the slopes with the menace of searchlights in a war zone.

Her heart started thumping and eyes started watering. She really needed a miracle. She prayed Mari wouldn’t start with her crying.

As delicately as she could, Lyndy backed off the tree branch. She crept down slope, trying not to rustle leaves or make even the faintest noise, working back to the crevice. She squirmed into the cave. Right on cue, the baby started gurgling. Lyndy brought Maribel to her chest. She closed her eyes, pressing the baby’s ear onto her heart. If ever there were a time for the primal bond, it was now. She needed to achieve the equivalent of baby nirvana.

Santa Barbara, CA

Lyndy Life Observation: Mr. Chan used to say, as a rule anyone who utters the phrase in a confrontation: “Hey buddy, you’re messing with the wrong guy!”, is almost a hundred percent of the time, unequivocally not the “wrong guy”.

The aggressor with a mostly balding head, ironically had a bushy chin-strap beard. This dense beard was his distinguishing trait. He stomped closer to her stool, continuing to go on about his brother being wrongfully imprisoned.

Her ears were ringing, in part from the tequila shots, and in part from her boisterous surroundings.

Lyndy held her purse closely tucked between her thighs, a habit she’d developed from many years in bars. She felt for the taser with her fingertips. Once she touched its rough plastic texture, her fingers moved until she sensed the button to arm it.

With her other hand, she reached out, downing another shot.

“Sir, you need to calm the F down,” scolded the bartender. He’d been threatening to call the police.

Lyndy stacked the pictures neatly, shoving them back in the envelope.

“Look man, you need to understand,” Lyndy began. “People have been making claims in the name of Lyndy Martinez for decades. It doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have a legacy as a certified badass. But I couldn’t have done one-tenth of the things attributed to me. Fact is, over the years, I’ve lost track of what’s real and what’s not. I have memories of things that probably never happened.”

“Don’t give me that bull,” countered the man, grabbing onto her arm. “You know what you did Spitfire.”

Lyndy cringed, as the fellow had the grip of an iron worker. But rather than go along, with her left she pressed the nose of the taser into his ribs and squeezed the trigger.

It made a loud BRZZZT sound, jerking the biker backward, as if he’d been shocked by a set of defibrillator panels. He seemed more aggravated than anything. After a brief respite and a shrugging of his shoulder muscles, his strength returned as did his hot mouth.

Lyndy backed off the stool, but kept the taser out and pointed at the attacker. A bystander stood up, clutching the biker’s jacket. “Hey man, cool it,” he said. 

“Take it outside,” another fellow remarked.

The angry man continued to stare at her, with malice in his eyes.

“I warned you. Leave me be,” argued Lyndy. “I don’t know or care who you are. I’m sorry yer dad went to prison. It wasn’t my fault. I’m too old and I’m not in the mood. Nowadays I just wanna be left alone.”

One of the bartenders was on the phone and security arrived with astonishing speed.

But Lyndy felt someone reach around from behind, grabbing her hips and yanking her backwards. Tensing up, she could barely fight them.

“It’s me,” whispered the voice of Fred Simmons.

Pivoting her frame, her eyes fell upon a figure with a shawl covering their face, who was propped in the back corner. Once she’d seen that Lyndy was being pulled away, the ghost like figure turned the corner and hobbled down the street. By the way the person moved, in a mechanical fashion, she knew it was Gillian Lovelace. Or was it her real name?

Valley Girl Part-11

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Coconino County Az, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: I’m watching a video on YouTube called “Three hours of nothing but Curly” from The Three Stooges. Excellent use of time.

As the trite phrase goes, they didn’t let just anyone in here.

Used to be “salt-of-the-earth” Arizonans with a blue-collar job could scrape together enough cash to join the riding club, on a month-to-month membership. Nowadays it was downtown yuppie village, inhabited by cardiologists, partners in law firms and so-called finance bros. The only ordinary earthlings were gardeners, servers, people who mucked out stalls and the weekly pool guy.

Of course, the club had a poolside restaurant, serving avocado topped black bean burgers in addition to the usual fare of Caesar salads, sandwiches and wraps. The bar had craft beers and trendy mocktails too. When not shouting into a phone about business loans, one could listen to the calming rhythm of canned Jimmy Buffet tunes, or watch the show ponies trot in nearby corrals. Lot of neighing action that way.

Cathy kept her sunglasses on, Liz Taylor style and tried to blend in. Steps away from the grill were cabana chairs, where housewives would lay out and tan while their teenagers did whatever you do on a horse; practice for polo matches or eventing. Some of these people had Arabians too, competing in far off lands like Dubai.

But Catherine wasn’t paying attention to any of that showy stuff. Lyndy had given her a lead on this place, as a prime spot to surprise the elusive Mari Ellis. She’d chosen a seat in the corner where she could keep one eye on the kitchen exit, sipping a diet coke as twenty-something servers came and went.

She recognized the Spitfire-clone easily. Mari was the tallest, and the only cowgirl with the same hair as Lyndy Martinez—dark with natural curls. A perfect smile. Brown eyes. She was wearing one of those neck chokers, shiny silver with a locket. She moved skillfully, whisking a tray of cocktails and beers high above her head. Her halter shirt was sized for a shorter torso, revealing much of her tan back and portions of her colorful tattoos.

Cathy clasped her hands, waiting like a cat ready to pounce on a gopher hole.

On the adjacent table she’d set out a trap: three one-hundred-dollar bills oriented like a peace sign. A handsome tip, from the man who’d been seated here previously. Except that bloke hadn’t left a cash tip, just some scribbles on his receipt. She gazed into the green coke bottle, making the view to the steeplechase like a kaleidoscope.

It was on the return tour, having delivered her many drinks poolside, when the maiden deviated from her bee-line path. Without so much as a passing glance, Mari reached out a hand to claw the money as she zipped by. She hadn’t paid any attention to the aunt-like figure leaning against the rail.

“When is your next court date?” cracked Cathy, knowing she’d surprised the brat.

Mari looked up at her with serious eyes, letting go of the cash and yanking her left hand back.

“I read the arrest report,” added Cathy, her voice lowered so no one would overhear.

“Hi Miss Cookson,” said Maribel, shy and lacking emotion. “Didn’t see you over …”

Deep inside, Catherine was consumed by envy once again. A stabbing feeling in the gut. Some things one never knows they desire in life, until they see a close friend with it. It was that way with Lyndy’s girl. It filled her with regret.

Cathy cleared her throat, then asked: “Did you know my dad was a preacher?”

Maribel nodded with a little “mmm-hmm” setting down her tray. She tilted her head. “Miss Cookson, I’m uh … not too interested in a pep talk today. I don’t know what to say.” She reached up to loosen her collar. Her necklace seemed to be bothering her as well, and she began to roll it between her finger and thumb. “I’m sorry for being rude to you the other morning at the trailer park. You caught me at a bad time.”

“It’s alright,” replied Cathy.

This youngster oozed with the arrogance of her mother at the same age. The way she thought she knew the world forward and back. And yet, Catherine still adored her. She took a breath, pressing down all emotion.

“It’s not okay,” admitted Maribel. “I was being disrespectful.” Mari scooted back the empty stool next to Cathy to rest her arms upon. A moment passed, with no words spoken, just the background of the kitchen and the interminable boat music at the bar.

Cathy tried again. “My dad used to preach, if there was a million dollars in cash on the table—stacked in hundred-dollar bills like a pyramid—he wouldn’t touch it. He wouldn’t take it if it meant he had to tell a lie.”

Mari blinked, exhaling a deep sigh.

“He wouldn’t take it cause it would turn his soul black.”

“Bet my mom would take it, if she could,” countered Mari with a frown.

Cathy shook her head. “I don’t believe it. No way.”

Mari turned to lock eyes. “How do you know? My mom is kind of a schemer.”

“She isn’t motivated by money.”

Maribel sniffed and shrugged. “Everyone needs money.”

“Except this kind of lying isn’t worth it. When you lie, your soul slowly begins turning gray. Every time you do, more and more of it rots til it’s all black. At a certain point, there’s no coming back.”

Mari looked down at the table and the trio of hundred-dollar bills. “Feels like people are always lying and cheating to get what they want. It’s not even a big deal. It’s normalized.”

“Your mom’s closest friend was a billionaire. Your dad is one of the wealthiest businessmen in Lake Arrowhead. Lyndy could’ve finagled anything she wanted from either of those people, because they loved her. Don’t ya think Rita owed her a living?” Cathy gazed out at the tree lined hills. “Don’t go spreading this around. It might cause hurt feelings. But you’re definitely Kyle’s favorite kid.”

Mari chuckled. “What makes you think that? I’m not exactly a success story.”

“Your mom was his favorite partner.”

“Ewww,” muttered Mari under her breath.

“You weren’t the one driving the car, right?”

Mari shook her head.

“It’s funny. When I first met you, I was so jealous of your mom. I had this belief that I would never come to like you—I would never let Lyndy win, by loving her kid. But I was wrong. I came here to give you this noble lecture about lying and all that. But it doesn’t feel right, even to me.” Cathy took another sip of coke, then sniffed. “I started thinking while I was watching you serve drinks; how smart you are. I’ve seen you work on a computer—doing stuff I couldn’t dream of—and fixing those import cars. I started thinking how much you look like your mom. And it made me really mad. Cause why the hell are you riding in a goddamn SUV being driven by drunk people?” Cathy raised her voice. “If that truck overturned at speed, and you were ejected and crushed.” Cathy shrugged. “Maybe it would hurt for only a moment or two. But your mom and dad would have to live the rest of their lives without the most precious thing they created. Can you even fathom that?”

Mari reached down to her waist, retrieving a black bar towel. She began dabbing the edges of her eyes. “You’re messing up my eye makeup.” She hung her head, flicking open her phone. She used the front facing camera as a mirror.

“Then you need to come clean!”

“It’s too late Miss Cookson. There’s not much I can do. The part that stings, was seeing how dad looked at me, so disappointed. I’ve never felt that before.”

“Duh. You’re his favorite. He has no reason to be disappointed. You weren’t driving, you goof. It’s not your DUI. It’s your worthless boyfriend’s arrest. You know what you need to do right?”

“What?”

“Go to the court hearing obviously. And when you’re called, you look up at that bench and tell the judge the truth about what happened.”

“What if he doesn’t believe me?”

Catherine smiled. “Show him the arrest report.” She unfolded the photocopy, smoothing it flat on the table. She pointed to where the cop had written in the notes: “Female passenger insisting she was the driver. Male occupant, clearly intoxicated, had switched seats. Female passenger refusing to acknowledge. Fact.”

Santa Barbara, CA

Lyndy Life Observation: At one point in the eighties Mr. Potts, manager of The Vanishing Point instituted random drug screening. The first week we lost five longtime, valuable employees. The kitchen was closed for three days and the roadhouse had to shutter. After that, they still did drug testing, but the bank insisted all employees be given a 3 week notice prior to any tests. From then on, failures were almost unheard of.

Balancing on a cane for support, Gillian rose wobbily to her feet.

Sensing discomfort, Lyndy added. “I don’t mean to ruin any pristine image you have of your mother. She had many admirable traits. Vitality perhaps. She lived every day to the fullest. One of her nicknames, given by her dad was Rita-The-Rocket. When she had a goal, Rita attacked it relentlessly until she got what she wanted and no man, woman or what-have-you stood in the way.”

The young girl exhaled loudly, meeting eyes again with Fred Simmons. “Dad, it’s time to show her,” announced Gillian sternly. “She should know why we brought her here.”

“Oh?” Lyndy remarked. “Then, there is a hidden motive?”

Fred grinned sheepishly. “My daughter is correct. Why don’t you come into the kitchen. Have some wine,” he suggested. “I’ll boot up my laptop. We’ll talk.”

Lyndy nodded, taking a breath and rising. She stuffed her tissues in her purse, then ambled beside Gillian to the back door steps. She kept her arms ready in case Gillian suffered an unexpected tumble, but Gillian was more skillful at balancing than she appeared.

At the ground level kitchen, Mr. Simmons unfolded a newish Apple laptop. It was resting on a heavy marble island, where there was enough room for three stools, facing the stove and backsplash area. Lyndy waited with amusement, thumbing clean her glasses and wondering what these two were up to.

Once Fred was finished typing in a half-dozen passwords, he angled his screen so Lyndy could see better. He then circled to the back of the island, retrieving a wine bottle and cork remover.

The display was swirling with financial data, matrix-like, from a website with poor organization and tiny font. Lyndy shoved her trifocals in place, attempting to focus on the total line, where he’d placed his mouse pointer. She had to move the glasses out by an inch, to achieve optimal clarity.

Working to uncork a bottle of pinot, Fred had a foxlike grin, and when she glanced behind, Gillian seemed to have an eager smile also.

The mouse-print number started with a “9” followed by 8 more digits.

Pinching two fingers on the rim of her glasses she held them steady, while staring at the total again. Murmuring, Lyndy recounted the digits, sliding her left pinky more carefully along this time, but she arrived at the same value: a little over 900 million.

“Wait. Rita had nine-hundred million dollars in an investment account?”

“Technically this is spread over thirty-some-odd accounts, but yes,” Fred explained. He deposited wine in two glasses, in several big glugs from the bottle. “These accounts were set aside for Lovelace heirs, 25 years back. It started at roughly 100 million, which would’ve been a large chunk back in the year 1996. They’ve been multiplying steadily ever since.”

“What were they invested in?”

“Mostly silver and other precious metals.”

Lyndy looked to Fred’s face, then to Gillian, then back over to the screen. “Seriously?”

“Yes. It’s held in trust. However, the money is rightfully owed to Gillian, and you as well. For all your years of faithful service.” Fred tilted his head, sounding more sympathetic. “I understand she put you through a lot.”

“That’s an understatement,” agreed Lyndy.

“As I said, these accounts are in probate, bound in the Lovelace family trust,” he detailed with bitterness. “You see, together we were planning to amend the will. It was a priority on our to-do list. But we had a whole bunch of other priorities that first year of our marriage. It was such a whirlwind, what with her being pregnant. It got away from us.” He shut his eyes, as he uttered the last sentence. “And then more time passed, and … tragically my wife passed away before we could amend the will.”

Lyndy let that part breathe a moment. Fred shoved one of the wine glasses to Lyndy and she caught the base with three fingers. Lifting it by the stem, she took a sip as Fred did the same, standing across from her.

“Oh man, I know this is gonna come across sounding loco. But I wouldn’t want anything to do with that money.” Now it was making more sense, why Fred had been seeking her out. He’d come with a purpose. He wanted to get his paws on Rita’s fortune. “I’ll have to pass. I feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.”

Setting down his glass, Fred’s expression revealed he expected some reluctance. Coming around to meet her, Fred put his hand tenderly on Lyndy’s shoulder. “Think about what this money could do for you and your daughter. I’m sure it could change her life. Your daughter needs money right? She’s probably out there working the same crap jobs we all do when we’re twenty. If we don’t claim these accounts soon, it all goes to the state of Arizona.”

Lyndy stared at the screen. It had been hard. She thought about it every day, how she’d lived post Kyle split. “Umm. Money was Rita’s thing. Not mine. It makes me anxious thinking about it.”

She watched Gillian and Fred, a quizzical look forming on both their faces. Fred appeared pale, as if someone stating, “money isn’t their thing” was the same as saying “breathing air isn’t their thing.” Neither could conceive of such a declaration.

“Wait. Why is the money stuck in probate?” Lyndy eyed Gillian with scrutiny.

“They need proof,” answered Fred. “I don’t have access to Gillian’s birth certificate.”

“So, get a copy from the county. It’s easy.”

Fred tilted his head, acknowledging the logic. “Well, I would do that, if the hospital had any records. We don’t have those either. Maricopa County has no proof of her birth.”

“Alrighty,” said Lyndy, removing her glasses. Her radar was up.

“You know how Rita was. She wanted Gillian to be a secret.”

“You’re a lawyer. Why would you agree to that? That isn’t very smart.”

Fred shook his head. “I know.”

Lyndy shrugged. Placing hands on her knees, she rose from the chair and paced to the door. She felt the ocean breeze on her face. The slider faced the gardens. She gazed outside to the gardens, shaded in meticulously trimmed oaks. “It’s surprising to me Rita would’ve chosen this place to settle down.” She was thinking about the rental house Rita once loved.

“Why do you say that?” asked Gillian.

Lyndy turned back. “I don’t see a pool here. Rita’s favorite—and really only form of exercise was swimming. She loved to swim.” Lyndy paused, then added, “she also liked to show off her body. There was that.”

Gillian squinted at the yard, almost as though she was becoming skeptical too.

“I dunno. Aren’t there shadowy internet characters who forge documents? I’ve seen that in movies. Just hire one of those freaks and leave me out of your scheme.”

“I can’t do that,” stated Fred firmly.

There was an awkward exchange of glances between Fred and Gillian. “Yeah, we tried that idea,” said Gillian, with irritation. “It didn’t work.”

Lyndy held up her hands. “Not my problem.”

Fred Simmons exhaled. “Let’s take a moment to cool off here. I’m not asking you to keep money you don’t want. You don’t think I understand, but I do.”

“Then spit it out. What do you want me to do?”

Gillian inched forward while her green eyes betrayed something sinister. Through them one could see her real soul. “Had she been wrong about this girl?” Lyndy pondered. Because in all her years with Rita, Rita had never once given her a look like that. Rita’s eyes shone with determination, mischief on occasion, but never with pure evil.

“Miss Martinez, it’s simple,” Gillian argued. “We’re not asking you to mis-appropriate or steal anything. Nothing is wrong about it. All you have to do is sign an affidavit stating that I am the living heir of the Lovelace estate.”

Lyndy shook her head, shrugging on her cardigan and looping one of two buttons in the front. She tried to recall the last time she took her blood pressure pill. “Whelp, I’m not much for wine. Tequila is more my style. And I’m in a beach town. It’s been decades since I’ve visited Santa Barbara. I think I’ll make my way to a bar,” she announced. “Any good Tiki bars around?” Meantime she fisted a hexagonal pill and slipped it in her mouth, dry swallowing.

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-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?”