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Valley Girl Part-6

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

This was odd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mari looked up and nodded, remaining on mute.

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

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

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

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

Lyndy had said it would be hard.

“Did my mom send you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wanna know what my mom thinks about you?”

“Uh, not right now,” answered Cathy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not far away, near Ash Fork …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had a daughter too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty minutes later …

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

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

Fred nodded in agreement.

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

“Come again?” he asked innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. She left you that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-5

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And before?”

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

“Like a security guard?” asked Ruby.

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

“Why did you leave your job? Pregnancy?”

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

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

Ruby chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neil seemed embarrassed but also starry-eyed.

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

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

Everyone roared with laughter.

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

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

“Beverly Hills? Pacific Palisades?”

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

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

“Romance of course,” answered Lyndy.

“High five, girl,” said Erica.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

“Just have him explain.”

Later that afternoon …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many people were there?”

“Six, not including me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did,” answered Kyle.

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

“And what?”

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

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

Valley Girl Part-4

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

She slept a lot these days.

Ten minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t respond, still assessing.

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

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

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

“How much you want for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That seemed farfetched.

“Course that’s up in Santa Barbara.”

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

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

“I’ll be damned. Is that so?”

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

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

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

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

“Fat chance,” thought Lyndy.

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

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

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

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

He grinned at this.

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

Yosemite CA, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you staying here by yourself?”

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

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

The men exchanged glances.

“For the Silver-Pacific construction?”

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

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

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

“Any crime?” prodded Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy blinked and inhaled a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

Amusement shined in Brandt’s eyes.

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

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

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

“Is there another place we can speak privately?”

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

Valley Girl Part-2

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

She adjusted her reading specs, nudging Kyle with her elbow. “Dude, this place has no prices on the menu,” she whispered. Mr. Chan, cheapskate that he was, only ever brought her places with pictures of food on the menu. Even Rita Lovelace, who owned in excess of 50 cars, hated restaurants that wouldn’t list a clear dollar amount.

“Don’t worry,” he answered shifting in his chair, patting his jacket pocket. “We’re good for it.” He encouraged her to get whatever she desired.

The patio of The Ahwahnee dining room was about the most romantic spot to have dinner in the lower 48. The architecture of the historic hotel was a stunning sight, towering from a meadow on the east end of the valley, mimicking a grandiose Northwestern lodge. The style, a blending of river rock and fir logs, matched the surroundings and somehow felt right.

Candles had been lit, casting a soft amber glow for their meal.

Behind her Mari was snoring, a fuzzy blanket pulled up over her tiny abdomen, and her head tilted to one side. Across the meadow, Lyndy could see flickering campfires at the perimeter of a dark pine woods. The sun was setting and silver-orange light reflected, shining upon the smooth cliffs. The air was chilly, but it made the dining experience cozier.

She’d have been on cloud nine, if it wasn’t for Kyle’s elitist business partners.

Lyndy tilted a champagne flute to her lips, taking a quick sip. Plucking off her readers, she slipped them into a delicate metal case as someone uttered the phrase: “Reagan was the most effective president this country has ever had. I stand by that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Pete sake,” Lyndy muttered slowly under her breath. “Quite a group of raconteurs we got here.”

“Babe, shush,” scolded Kyle.

She wasn’t allowed to interject in any political conversations, Kyle forbade it. Those were habits of the old unmannered Spitfire.

“Your order Mrs. Ellis?”

Her ears perked. She recognized the manly voice and it made her jump. Glancing up, she knew him as the tall climber she’d encountered by the waterfall trail. He had a nametag now, which read Neil. He was dressed in a plum-colored hotel uniform with a bow tie. His messy hair was now combed and nicely gelled. He seemed to enjoy the element of surprise.

“Oh, holy cow,” she grinned nervously, holding up an empty ring finger. “He’s not. We’re not. This is my boyfriend, Dr. Ellis.”

Neil nodded, hiding any evidence of emotion.

“Lyndy Martinez is such a delight. You should marry her! Look at how good she is for you.” The woman, wife to one of Kyle’s partners, pointed at Mari’s buggy. “And look at what gorgeous babies you make.”

That ship is sailing, thought Lyndy.

Kyle smiled shyly. 

Neil had been patient this entire time. “Glad to see the little one napping.”

“We all are,” agreed Lyndy. She folded up her heavy leather-bound menu. “I’ll uh, have the swordfish fillet. With a baked potato, no butter please. And an iced tea.” Lyndy shifted her gaze, surveying the table. “As Rita would say, I’m working on my summer bod.” Everyone chuckled.

“Very well,” said Neil. He’d taken her order first which must mean something. He looked handsome all dressed up, though so did Kyle.

Once orders were taken, the conversation turned to company stock performance, the financial “woes” of vineyard ownership and the new 49-ers quarterback. Neil hastened back across the dining room and she watched him disappear behind a series of screens, blocking a view of the kitchen.

At some point a lady with bifocals on a beaded chain, leaned across the table to make friendly conversation. “So, what do you do for a living?” the woman asked.

Lyndy put a hand on her chest, then responded: “You mean like work, work? A job?”

The lady confirmed with a nod.

“Oh, I don’t mess around with that,” answered Lyndy gleefully.

The woman leaned back, cocking her head, processing the answer. She said no more, as though it made sense in context.

Lyndy fixated on the meadow and those campfires. Higher up on the cliffs, tiny lights were blinking also, evidence of climbers. She pressed her fingers onto Mari’s back, rubbing them up and down. She loved to caress their baby, feeling her backbone through her wool onesie. She recalled the experience of seeing the pregnancy test turn positive for the first time. And the joy in Kyle’s eyes when she showed him, her initial fears evaporating.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Lyndy whispered in Kyle’s ear. Under the table, he squeezed her thigh, then wrapped his fingers around her hands. His hands were warm. He smiled back saying, “It’s good to be here with you.”

Two hours later ….

Lyndy Life Observation: Living with Kyle, he had no idea what anything should cost. So, one time he purchased a commercial blender for $900, which I later explained to him was outrageous for our kitchen or any normal home. That stupid thing had only 4 speed settings: Low, Medium, High and lastly, hurl the contents into a 360-degree nuclear explosion painting every surface in your kitchen. I learned that the hard way.

After the meal, Kyle was standing, conversing in a circle with his colleagues. At their backs, a 20-foot table with an elaborate model display: the Silver-Pacific dam project on the Tuolumne River. The project was a capstone to a new housing development, and the reason Kyle’s company had been brought in to consult.

Lyndy circled the colorful model, ignoring their words while dabbing on her favorite shade of violet lipstick—her heels clicking on the floors. She smacked her lips together as she capped the gold-colored container. Four can lights had been directed on the scene, and she was enthralled at the level of intricacy on this thing—some artist spent hundreds of hours crafting it. The shaded contours of the rocky foothills matched every twist and turn of the river, and every side gulch. Even the trees were modeled, not just a spray of green foam, but literally hundreds of toothpick size pine and oak trees blanketed the hills.

How do you win approval to construct four thousand new houses in Walnut Creek, one of the driest municipalities in the bay without water? Answer: throw in a dam for free. 2-million-acre feet. It’s not like Californians were eager to share water, or part with their precious swimming pools and lawns.

Lyndy paused and sighed, resting her fingers upon the table’s edge. She twisted her arm to adjust her gold bracelets. Peeking through the doorway, she began watching the bar.

How Kyle’s associates could fritter away so much time debating the geology—aka rocks—business and not get bored into a coma was beyond her understanding. The bar looked fun though. A more relaxed space, sharp dressed bartenders and a classy 1920s art-deco style. A man was playing a piano—it had to be good. One high-backed leather stool was open. A beer sounded nice. Just one.

She drifted that direction in a curious mood.

As she came near to the entry, she sensed a commotion overtaking the otherwise sophisticated atmosphere. A bellicose drunk kept arguing with the bartenders, ranting over something to do with fault lines, virtue and her money not being green enough. The staff were threatening to call security. Everyone seemed to know this entitled blonde lady, who’d worn out her welcome.

“Sir this is America! Are you suggesting I can’t speak about God or righteousness in a bar anymore?” complained the overdressed woman, pacing back and forth. “We’ll see what THE LAW has to say about this.” She emphasized “The Law” as though it would transcend any rotten behavior and rain down punishment on a couple of low wage bartenders.

Lyndy focused her gaze on the baby buggy next to Kyle, confirming Mari was still asleep. He had a hand resting on the rubber grips, and was rolling it gently back and forth the way she’d taught him.

She hoped Kyle was prudent enough not to exit the meeting room without their baby in tow. It wasn’t guaranteed for any man, but at least he had common sense. They didn’t give just anyone a PhD.

Feeling confident, Lyndy strolled to the doorway, listening as the blonde lady continued arguing. She warned the patrons of an impending “Big One” earthquake, some sort of catastrophic judgement day. As in, “God created the San Andreas fault for good reason. Remember that.” While this distraction carried on, Lyndy slipped in, unnoticed. She cinched the cross-body strap on her purse, halting abruptly in front of the drunk.

Immediately she realized this lady was taller in stature and heavier, up to 170 pounds, a lot of excess weight to throw around. Forty more than herself. But the woman was older too, in her early fifties. To compensate, she’d dolled-up with expensive makeup, including fake lashes—becoming an angrier, chubbier version of Cathy.

“Time for you to jet,” Lyndy announced.

With benefit of heels, Lyndy stood near eye-level. A tattoo of a Norse symbol, a shield perhaps, emerged from the sleeve on the drunk woman’s wrist and a tiny gold crucifix hung just below her collar.

“Why’re you here?” her opponent replied, slurring words. “I know my rights! These people need to learn how to listen.” Her face with was flush with red, as the blonde poked a stiff finger in Lyndy’s upper chest. The plump finger narrowly missed some sensitive areas, causing her to backpedal. “What’re you gonna do, hoe?” she challenged.

Lyndy felt a rush of adrenaline. “What am I gonna do? Make you leave for one.”

“How will you do that … Old Navy shopper?” Her intoxicated mind had been searching for an insult, but with nothing clever falling into place, she’d settled on that zinger. Then she balled up a fist. Lyndy easily dodged a sloppy punch, then pushed her palm into the other lady’s gut. Deftly she latched onto her thrown wrist, pivoting a foot, coming up behind. Lyndy wrestled the opponent’s arm behind her back—bouncer style—until the woman began squealing in pain. The Spitfire tensed her muscles, pressing on the blonde lady’s knees, forcing a surrender. They moved together, twisting around, kicking and stumbling toward the exit door. 

“This dress is from JC Penny,” corrected Lyndy through gritted teeth.

“Okay, made yer point.” The lady panted, catching her breath. “I underestimated you, but I honestly wasn’t bothering anybody.” She paused to inhale, while pinching her crucifix. “I was telling them about the fault line. Loosen up.” She was gurgling a bit, out of breath from a mere five seconds of struggle.

Lyndy tightened her grip, pushing her rival further to the door. “I don’t think anyone wants to hear your doom spiel right now.” The blonde lady strained against her. Even with superior size in the other woman’s favor, Lyndy held firm. She was tougher and she knew it. Yet Lyndy felt empathy for anyone in this position. Wasn’t much of a stretch to picture herself with no friends, drunk and ranting in a bar at 50 years of age. Hell, it might happen later tonight—probably not about quakes, but the old days and what a shit job working for Rita was. “Go sleep it off or somethin.”

“Fine. Made yer point.” The blonde repeated, then started coughing. “They say my credit card won’t go through.”

“Maybe it’s a sign from God to hit the road. I’ve been in your shoes.” She still didn’t loosen up. “Will you leave now, peacefully?”

“Yes. I’m done.”

As Lyndy loosened her grip, the lady bent at the hips, bracing on the frame of the double doors. She grabbed for her chest, like one of those middle-aged guys who have pacemakers, muttering something indiscernible. Then she clawed for a fur parka—the fashionable ones worn in Manhattan. From the inside pocket, the woman removed a hundred-dollar bill, clipped to the back of a Motorola cellular phone. She gave everyone a dirty look, then slapped the money onto the hostess stand. “There, last of my cash. Big One is coming though.”

In those days, there used to be bearded, gray haired guys on street corners, in both LA and San Francisco, holding up signs that read essentially the same. People were numb to it.

“Kristen, if you don’t clean up your act, you’re gonna get banned from staying here. Yer husband won’t like that one bit,” warned a bartender.

“Oh, screw it,” scoffed the lady, stomping out the door. “God knows he did the same to me.” She attempted to slam it for a more dramatic exit, but the little stops were in place on the double French doors. Instead, the blonde wandered out into the lobby in the direction of the back lawn.

Lyndy realized all eyes were on her now, probably thirty-five people. A lot of those folks were well-dressed, men in blazers.

Lyndy sniffed for dramatic effect. She rotated in the direction of the bar, straightening her black dress around the thighs. “Martini please, … shaken, not stirred.”

Everyone in the room chuckled, which was more about a sense of relief than humor. Still people were smiling at her. Lyndy buttoned her cardigan across her chest, pacing forward to the empty stool. She set down a designer handbag—another gift from Kyle—then said, “I’m kidding. I hate martinis.”

“Miss, whatever you want is on me,” said a gentleman next to her.

“California could use a good earthquake,” thought Lyndy.

Several hours later …

She awoke from a vivid dream, brought on by heavy food, champagne, a shot of tequila and three IPAs. Kyle was elbowing her. Mari was screeching again, loud enough to wake any hotel guest on the entire fourth floor.

She squinted at the red LED clock, 02:00. In the morning. Lyndy groaned. Kyle elbowed her again. Rolling onto her side, she forced herself upright by climbing hand over fist on the headboard, exhaling. “I know. I know,” she muttered.

In her twenties and thirties, a shot, three beers and two flutes of champagne would’ve been considered an afternoon hydration session at the VP. She’d drink that much and go out dancing too. Now it was a punch to the head. A headache radiated through her cheekbones, into her eye sockets. Even her ears were ringing.

Hopefully Maribel simply needed her bottle.

Lyndy was wearing candy cane striped pajamas, paired with a sleeping shirt that said mama bear on it and had a picture of a female grizzly. A fierce one.

She checked Mari’s ears, on the off chance it would be the same problem, but they still looked okay. She moved Mari up to the nightstand, which she’d setup as a makeshift changing station. She went through the motions, putting on a fresh diaper with the rash powder. Then Lyndy warmed up a bottle, offering it to Mari. Predictably, Mari pushed it away with her tiny arms. She continued to wail.

“We gotta make her stop soon,” muttered Kyle, as he sat up. “People are gonna dial the front desk.” His hair was all messed up and his eyes were just slits.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I’M DOING!!?” shouted Lyndy. It came out as a top of her lungs rage, though she hadn’t meant it to. The neighbors would’ve heard that loud and clear. She hadn’t realized how upset she was. She’d delivered a Shatner-esqe performance, raging about Khan.

“I’m doing the best I can,” she clarified at a more sensible volume.

Kyle stared at her while yawning.

Lyndy sighed. She lifted Mari into her arms, trying to rock her.

“Lyn, when you got in the car today, by the waterfall, were you crying? Your makeup was streaked and you looked like you’d been crying. A lot.”

Lyndy rubbed her eyes. “I dunno. Dust in the air?”

“Okay,” said Kyle. “Though he didn’t seem to believe her.”

Lyndy carried Mari, who was screaming, over to the buggy. “I’m gonna try taking her for a walk.” She shrugged on a fur-lined winter coat, faux of course, bought from REI. The garment extended to her knees but really held in the heat, especially when one was burdened with having to wear a dress.

“It’s two in the morning,” argued Kyle, checking the clock by tilting it toward him.

“What are our other options?” Lyndy took a few breaths, watching Mari, same look of pain on her face. “This is normal. Anxiety is normal. You would know if you took a moment to crack open any one of the goddamn books I gave you. But no. You don’t have any time. You have time for…,” she gestured to the outside. “… fishing boats, but not this. I get it. I have to learn everything and do everything.”

Kyle sat there listening. He rubbed his own eyes again. “Lyn, I love you. Everyone who meets you loves you. And I know this is hard to hear, but like, you’re a mom now.” He added, almost under his breath: “It’s on your shirt.”

Lyndy glanced at her chest. She held back a hasty, dry retort, knowing she’d regret her words. It was hard to be angry at a man who paid every child rearing expense. Kyle was like a walking ATM in her life. But she knew he loved her too. That’s why this situation was such a mess. It was a mess before they had a baby.

Valley Girl Part-1

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

In early spring the same precious Sierra snowmelt feeding taps of tech billionaires in San Francisco, nourished the wild streams in Yosemite National Park. Tumbling over rocks in canyons carved out over millennia, most of them met an unceremonious end, pooling in ugly reservoirs behind monstrous concrete dams. Stagnating. But where fortunate waters encountered the granite cliffs of a world-famous valley, they kissed the sky in a flourish of power and beauty unsurpassed by man.

On this April afternoon the waterfalls were at full capacity, chutes of white soaring in free fall, forming glorious arcs and delicate rainbow veils—wowing onlookers. The woods were fragrant, dotted with dogwood blossoms, bedded with spongy pine needles. The roar of the falls thundered from cliffs across the glacier carved valley, while the river below murmured serenely over rounded stones with a robust current. Here and there, clusters of deer were grazing in each meadow, surrounded in wildflowers.

She should have been taking it all in, as a trip to Yosemite was a once in a lifetime experience, but not for Lyndy. The problem? Maribel Ellis was crying incessantly. Not one of her cute whimpers or whines; she was making a goddamn scene.

Nothing was working. Other moms of young babies were judging her. Tourists who didn’t speak English were pointing, conversing in their native tongue. “Look everybody, an incompetent 40-year-old American mom.”

Well, obviously they didn’t know how old Lyndy was, but she imagined that’s what they were thinking. A bungling mother with a stroller that cost $650 and about $1000 more in baby supplies and accessories, but none to make a kid stop wailing. Whatever primal forces were necessary to tap into and bond with this baby, simply weren’t present. No bonding meant no communication, no control.

Lucky YouTube hadn’t been invented or some idiot would be filming her.

Still, Lyndy was going through all the motions, rolling the high-tech buggy back and forth in a soothing manner. She tried her organic baby bottle and her pacifier, but Maribel pushed those away. She rubbed her belly, while twisting this goofy mobile with colorful paper birds. Mari continued to wail. Lyndy danced a foam giraffe on her chest. Made the Elmo voice. Checked her diaper. And she was so hopelessly out of ideas Lyndy sat down on a flat rock and started crying too.

Her clothes were caked in baby food Mari kept spitting out and crusty stains from god knows what else. And Lyndy had to pee, but couldn’t handle all this chaos by herself, or any more judgement if she attempted to enter a line for the commodes. Plus, those things stank to high heaven.

Lyndy pushed up her sunglasses, wiping the corners of her eyes with her thumb. A teardrop pooled, escaping her touch and sliding down her cheek. Then another. She wanted a cigarette, but Kyle would know. She slipped off one heel, squeezing the middle of her arch to relieve tension.

This rough patch was normal right? A trace of post-partum anxiety. Normal.

She’d read nine books and countless magazines on modern parenting. They formed a pyramid structure on her side of the bed. In the end it still felt like guesswork. This sense of hopelessness began spreading, taking root, a fact she’d been afraid to acknowledge or reveal. Most importantly to Kyle. Because being a new mom and live-in girlfriend to Dr. Ellis was a difficult transition, very different from her old life. All his Lake Arrowhead pals had kids at a more typical age, so theirs were teenagers.

Speaking to other parents, she learned there were such things as “easy kids”. In theory, easy kiddos just lay there all day smiling at the world. Like condors in the wild—those existed too. But she’d never spotted one. Admitting to any kind of struggle, mental or otherwise was bad for one’s image. Especially for Lyndy Martinez. The Spitfire was too cool for this. She was known for her wisecracking nature.

Lyndy gazed up at the granite walls where a red-tailed hawk rode the air currents in spiraling loops. The closer she looked, the more she noticed water splashing down in teeny tiny waterfalls, passing grottos blanketed in ferns, trickles so inconsequential people rarely spoke their names—light playing with water. Little flowers too, yellow and violet hugging the shaded streambanks. And the incessant crying continued.

Knowing Maribel was perpetually like this she began to wonder if she herself had been insufferable as a baby. Perhaps it explained a mystery, the reason Lyndy’s mother abandoned her at one year of age, dropping—or more accurately dumping—her off with Aunt Rose. Then disappearing for good. Because of this and the drama which followed, Lyndy resolved she couldn’t let the same happen to Mari. She would never give up. But how to weather this storm? She was still learning—at forty—how to be a freaking adult. Hopeless, overwhelmed, words of the day. This was normal right?

That’s when the tall stranger emerged from a maze of nearby boulders; Lyndy was weary of strangers. She tracked him with her eyes, discretely, to avoid making eye contact.

He was a clean-shaven fellow with a thin frame and long limbs, not fully handsome on first impression. He had a friendly, some might say goofy demeanor, but also a ruggedness. The soul of a mountain man. He pointed to the “active mom” style buggy. 

“Oh sorry,” muttered Lyndy. “She’s annoying, I get it. Sorry.”

He tilted his head in curiosity. “Uh, I wonder if her ears are plugged. Lot of pollen in the air today and we’re at higher elevation. Babies can’t stand the pressure. Try pinching her nose a sec.” 

Lyndy raised an eyebrow. She felt like saying, “Have at it, mountain dude. Think you know something I don’t? That demon baby is never gonna stop for love or money.”

“I’m serious,” said the tall man, conscious of her distrust. He set down a plastic tub of camping gear he’d been schlepping.

Lyndy sniffed and stood up, leaning over her cute but impossible-to-please daughter. She pinched Mari’s nose, making the child writhe in discomfort. Ordinarily she wouldn’t strain at that. Curious.

“Got any cotton swabs?”

Lyndy nodded. She hadn’t seen which direction the mountain man came from, but it seemed like Camp 4, the climber’s zone. The rambling type too. She guessed he was 38, with streaks of gray hair overtaking an otherwise dirty blonde mop.

Mari continued to cry. Lyndy let go of her nose, reaching for a small zippered accessory pouch. Inside was a baggy full of ear swabs. 

“Since we don’t have a rubber bulb, let’s try gently inserting this in her ear.”

“I’m pretty sure baby books say never do this, but I’m desperate, so okay. We gotta try something.” She’d give him one chance, cause she liked problem solvers. That quality was attractive in a person. Versus the other 75 percent of the populous who stood by passively watching any crisis unfold.

Lyndy positioned Mari on her side, gently cleansing her left ear. She did it as calmly as she could. Meantime the stranger made funny faces and distracted the baby. He was good at this silliness. Once she’d finished with the left, she rolled Mari to the other side, doing the same for her right.

And like magic, Maribel stopped crying. Her constant grimace melted away. Her eyes began to clear up and shine. A moment later, Mari grinned and giggled. Unseen angels began to sing. Lyndy started humming for the baby.

She glanced up in awe at the tall stranger. There’s something in the gaze of a capable man, even for a new mother. It was a wonderful, private moment between them. She smiled back, repositioning her head band and smoothing her messy hair as the breeze caught the loose ends. Hopefully this would distract from the stains on her blouse.

Lyndy cleared her throat. “Well, I’d say I was the worst mom ever. But then I remember my mother exists. So that’s not possible.” Lyndy removed Maribel from the buggy, cradling her in her arms and rocking her.

The stranger sat down beside her.

Lyndy continued, not knowing how to break the ice. “I spent most of my life doing what I want, living for me. I’d already given up on motherhood. But suddenly by some miracle I found out I was pregnant with Mari … I started to realize it’s time to maybe grow up. Not so easy.” Lyndy exhaled a sigh.

He laughed. “Trust me. I uh, know the sentiment well.” He rubbed his palms together, gazing at her baby. “For the record you still look young to me.”

Lyndy ruffled Mari’s wisps of deep brown locks, the same color and amount of curl as her mom. “Well, that is something every woman wants to hear. But I don’t believe you.”

Shifting her stance, Lyndy scooped Mari into her baby sling.

Lyndy straightened her stance, then walked a tight circle, bending her knees in a musical rhythm. Her mental state gradually recovered. Her eyes set upon the peaceful scenes—even with tourists all around—and she witnessed for the first time the power of Yosemite Falls. Even noticed a cool spray of mist against her cheek. She saw toddlers splashing, playing in a little ribbon of Yosemite creek. She pulled her cardigan sweater tighter. Her heartbeat slowed.

A black Range Rover whipped around a corner, then aligned to the nearby curb without scraping a wheel. WHOOSH! The window lowered with a buzz and it was Kyle. “Hey, Mari stopped crying?”

“Yeah. Finally!” cheered Lyndy excitedly, throwing a fist in the air.

“Awesome!” He eyed the stranger who seemed out of place and uncomfortable. “I think I got it all sorted.” Kyle fanned a stack of papers on the dash. “There was a mix-up with our original reservation. But now they’re offering us a nicer room,” he stated proudly.

Lyndy gave him a thumbs up sign. Kyle pressed the button to raise the back hatch, and together they loaded in the baby stroller. Lyndy held Mari close to her body, using the sling. Before stepping up to the passenger seat, she glanced to the helpful man who was reaching for his camping gear.

“Uh, thanks for everything,” said Lyndy waving to the man.

He stood there staring at the car as they peeled away, and she noticed for the first time he’d been wearing approach shoes and carrying a coiled rope strapped diagonally across his chest. A man with that kind of look on his face could only be thinking one thing: “Damn. There goes a rich girl.” He was wrong about that.

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One fateful New Year’s Eve myself and Mr. Chan were alone, making resolutions in his office: Chan to quit smoking cigars, me to quit drinking. A week or so later, someone gifted a box of real Cubanos to Mr. Chan, thanking him for bailing them out at a desperate time. That evening the V-P bar had a special “ladies’ night” event, and all single gals got two free import beers of their choosing. The resolutions were never mentioned again.

“Care for some goat’s milk in your coffee,” offered Lyndy, as black S-bucks dribbled from a cardboard carafe into their twin Styrofoam cups. “It’s from this morning. Chilled on ice.”

Her blonde friend blinked but said nothing.

“Beats that fake Coffee-Mate gunk by a country mile. You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve tasted it,” added Lyndy. She shook a glass bottle, halfway full with the whitish unpasteurized liquid. Bubbles had formed near the top, thick and heavy like cream.

“Did you milk a goat with your bare hands?” asked Catherine.

“Yes, with hands. How else you goof?”

“Then hell no,” answered Cathy.

Lyndy snickered, knowing she’d only said it to get this reaction out of her old rival. She’d been pushing Cathy’s buttons for decades, having reached expert status. Yet she really did top off her coffee with the milk from her goats.

“More for me,” she whispered.

Coffees in hand, Lyndy waited, as Catherine Cookson took her precious time wriggling her feet into high heel sandals, then positioning her sun hat on her head at the ideal slant. Between this and the flowy pink dress, she looked like one of those ladies who try too hard on a Real Housewives show. The Spitfire no longer bothered with impractical fashion, having wholly switched to jeans and cowboy boots long ago, much better for the toes. And her silver hair was perennially in a pixie cut style now. She’d mostly given up on appearances, but still applied the occasional lipstick and blush. The two of them side-by-side looked like an old lesbian couple.

“You ever gonna quit wearing dresses?”

“Nope,” Cathy replied proudly.

As soon as she was “put together”, they resumed meandering the aisles in one of the last free places in America, the Ash Fork cars and coffee. Each Sunday after church, the event held in the expansive parking lot of a ceramic tile store drew dozens of vintage autos.

With a scrunching of her nose, Cathy winced at a Z-28 Camaro. “Isn’t it funny, how cars you and I hated in the eighties and nineties, are cool now?”

“Ugh. I know right. Same happened with men,” commented Lyndy.

Cathy nodded in agreement, while exhaling loudly. They paused to drool over a mint 57 Chevy, owned by a bald guy pushing 90. Cathy ran her fingers over the two-tone paint, generally a no-no, but the fellow was charmed by her. He stood near the splendid tailfin, smiling, propped up on his walker, which was only missing the green tennis balls to complete the ensemble.

In her defense, Catherine had been making a cornucopia of positive changes in her life. She’d quit drinking, then retired from her longtime waitressing gig. She sold her dad’s old place in Barstow, and with this modest sum purchased a tiny home in Ash Fork, not far from Lyndy’s abode. Lastly, she filed for social security. It was such an about face that Lyndy, somewhat dumbfounded, welcomed her with open arms. Lyndy had yet to see the new house, but later that day Catherine had offered her a tour. All she asked was a little help unpacking the kitchen utensils.

Oh, Cathy was on new meds too, which seemed to have curtailed her bipolar depression, but done nothing to affect her outspokenness.

“If I were a breakfast cereal my tagline would be: Fun, satisfying and a great start to the day,” joked Cathy with a grin. The old man smiled again at her, loving her stupid jokes.

“If you were a breakfast cereal, you’d be Sugar-O’s,” replied Lyndy. “Nothing in em and you’re hungry forty-five minutes later.”

Catherine covered her mouth, disguising an impolite snort. She paused to fluff her hair and reposition the hat. “Hey, seriously, how’s Maribel doing?” she asked innocently.

Lyndy frowned, feeling the gut wrench of not having spoken aloud her present dilemma. It was the wedge driving them apart, even though she loved her daughter more than life itself.

By the sudden silence, Cathy knew something was up. She pivoted mid-stride, meeting Lyndy in the eye. “Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay.”

Lyndy had her fingers shoved in her back pockets. “Yeah. Well, this is fun. Mari got a DUI three weeks ago.” She tilted her chin down in shame.

Cathy’s eyes went wide. “Damn, really?”

“I’m afraid so. Not exactly something to brag about in the family newsletter. Kyle is livid by the way. I assume he blames me—like I gave her alcoholism genes.” Lyndy shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like her though.”

“I was just about to say that,” Catherine agreed, reaching out a hand to squeeze Lyndy’s right arm. “She’s such a sweet kid. No wonder you’re distant.”

Lyndy sniffed, wiping at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. “Mari says she doesn’t wanna talk about it with me or tell me what’s really going on.” She breathed deep, gazing off toward the San Francisco Peaks to calm her nerves. “We used to talk about everything.”

“Hey, lean in girl,” Cathy demanded. Reaching with her other arm, she wrapped it around Lyndy’s shoulder, pulling her in for a tight hug. The hug felt pretty good and lasted for twenty seconds. Strange how life twisted and turned. She’d never imagined this day would come, when a hug from your nemesis felt this way. “We’ll get through it. Maybe I should talk to her? Cause ya know, I’m like a neutral third party, not a parent.”

In any other timeline, Lyndy would’ve laughed off the idea. Blondie doling out life advice. But now, with her and Catherine neighbors and all life in opposite land, it made sense. In a Cathy way. Lyndy squeezed her cheeks. “I should warn you, Mari is just as stubborn as me, if not more so. Can you picture trying to convince twenty-year-old me of anything?”