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Valley Girl Part-19

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-19

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: File this under odd superstitions growing up in East LA: we had to freeze in place whenever the Dodgers were on a rally. Suppose you were listening to the game live on radio or watching TV. Any sudden move could jinx the rally. No matter what you were up to, you pretty much had to stop and wait. On a September afternoon Deputy Keynes was in hot pursuit of a speeding Corvette. The driver was fleeing a traffic stop and it happened to be the bottom of the sixth inning. The Dodgers were down by two. Bases were loaded. When the next runner scored—the batter hit a line drive—Keynes was forced to pull over. Meanwhile the perp got away. Que sera sera!

Sunshine warmed her bare, itchy skin and kissed the tender cheeks of Maribel Ellis. The tiny baby seemed pale in this light, another cause for worry. Her brown eyes were slits and she blinked them lethargically. Lyndy inhaled deeply, resting her own eyes and squeezing Mari’s tiny body closer to her chest. She couldn’t let anyone take this precious thing from her. Who knew she could become so attached like this? Or love another so completely? Nurturing, let’s just say it wasn’t a trait running in the Martinez bloodline. But now she felt it—a newfound power.

They followed the park road for 15 minutes more, snaking their way deeper into the Merced canyon, not quite to the actual Yosemite Valley floor. She felt a sense of relief when the car slowed and Kristen took a sharp turn down an unmarked lane. Abruptly Kristen slammed on the brakes, throwing the shifter into neutral. The motor continued idling.

Lyndy watched in the mirror as Kristen hopped out, retrieving a whisk broom from the rear hatch. Hastily she swept pine boughs, twigs and other deadfall into the road to cover their tracks. It was a small precaution, but demonstrated care, something Lyndy appreciated.

With that task complete, they continued along the two-track dirt road til they came to a locked gate—the beefy metal ones meant to stop a truck. Lyndy had wondered if there were private inholdings within the park boundaries. This confirmed her suspicion. The gravel access road was shaded in dense new growth pines, some standing fifty feet tall. Bushes like dogwood intruded into the road, making it even narrower.

“Be right back,” Kristen remarked.

This time she undid a beefy combo padlock and was able to walk the creaky pipe-rail gate to the side. It went squeaking on rusty bearings the whole way to 90 degrees. She felt grateful for Kristen helping her. Lyndy still didn’t trust her of course, but even this respite was a game changer. Unless it was the most elaborate ploy ever, Kristen truly had gone rogue from the cult.

From here it was slow going. None of the rutted, intersecting trails had been smoothed for decades, sporting countless humps and potholes. Some of the puddles held water, and the tires splashed mud into the fender wells of the car.

The Corolla puttered deeper into the flats, where black oaks shaded a series of charming but run-down cabins. The car came to a halt near the front steps of one, with a porch screened by mosquito nets. The cabins had wood siding looking like Lincoln logs and cedar shake roofs, nearly covered in green moss. Shafts of light poked through the canopy, shining on grassy areas once used for picnicking.

Lyndy’s mind was racing, searching for evidence of a trap. Were other vehicles present, figures behind trees, or boot prints in the muck? Nothing sloppy like that existed. Pressing the car door open she stood up, clutching Mari against her body while carrying the formula with the other arm.

“Used to rent out these cabins for tourists,” explained Kristen, as she jiggled the key and kicked at the lower quarter of the cabin door to force it open. “My family would stay here from time to time when our kids were young.”

The interior of the unit was coated in dust. Dark pellets on the floor looked like rodent droppings. Filthy, hazy windows glowed white in midday sun as if they were frosted. The floors were wide plank. Though creaky, they were in decent condition, save for not having a polish in a decade or two. Though outdated, the unit had three rooms and a well-equipped kitchen.

“No electricity here,” admitted Kristen, using a match to light a storm lantern. “These used to have power. Place was nothing short of magical back then. On a summer day birds would be chirping. Kids out here playing, learnin about nature.” Kristen pointed out the kitchen window and exhaled. “Course, it was the seventies. Long time ago. I memorized the code on one of the padlocks and all this time nobody ever bothered changing it. Always had a thing with numbers.”

Kristen moved to the kitchen sink, twisting both the garden hose style knobs until a cold clear tap ran. Lyndy observed as Kristen swallowed a large pill from an amber bottle, washing it down by holding her head under the flow. “Heart failure. Wouldn’t recommend it,” she commented.

While gently rocking Maribel, Lyndy listened for others. She heard nothing out of the ordinary. Good chance the place was deserted. The potential for a trap had yet to materialize. Maribel began to murmur, so Lyndy got to work opening the formula container with her fingernails.

Meanwhile Kristen bent down, checking the lower cabinets, searching for a bottle using the lantern as her flashlight.

Lyndy frowned. “Why would you help me?”

Kristen paused, turning her head to face Lyndy. “I dunno.” She cracked a smile. “My kids are all grown, but I remember what it was like being in your shoes.” One could see Kristen’s face clearly, lit by the lantern and a silvery glow shining through the kitchen window. Weariness showed in many creases around her eyes and sagging skin on her cheeks, but in her day, Kristen must’ve been something. She continued to search the lower cupboards while Lyndy swapped out Mari’s poopy diaper.

“Heard you got tangled up in this mess on the radio,” Kristen added. “Figure with the way they been treatin me, you might need a hand.” The tone in her voice belied truth. “These days my kids don’t want nothing to do with me.” Kristen crouched down and pushed some stuff around under the sink. “Their dad turned em against me after I joined Sierra Spring.” In a burst of excitement, she set aside the lantern and fished her arm as far as it would reach to the corner. “Ha! Check this out.” She whipped around holding an antique baby bottle. The feeding bottle looked to be 40 years old, made of green tinted glass. It had those vertical ribbed sides. “I remembered this cabin number had baby stuff.”

“Perfect!” said Lyndy.

Kristen unscrewed the metal cap—with a trace rust in the lid—and rinsed it for Lyndy. Lyndy felt a wave of relief. The tip wasn’t soft anymore, but Mari would adapt.

“I couldn’t breast feed,” admitted Lyndy, readying the bottle for Maribel.

Lyndy transferred a level scoop of formula into the retro bottle. She filled the rest of the way with water and screwed on the cap, before shaking it vigorously. Technically you were supposed to boil the water, but these were desperate times and the stove was electric. Pulling out a dusty stool, she took a seat at the table, then positioned Maribel in her lap in a feeding position.

Kristen braced against the counters, seeming like she was out of breath again.

“Can I tell you a secret,” said Lyndy. “I didn’t want babies. I had given up on the idea. But I knew Kyle loves kids, so even though I felt too old, I made a decision to put myself through it. Kind of pathetic, but I think I wanted him to love me.”

“Did it work?”

“So far. But now that I have Mari, I’m falling in love with her.”

“That’s not pathetic, it’s smart,” replied Kristen, bitterness in her tone.

With the bottle tip shoved in her mouth, Maribel’s expression changed. Her eyes opened wide with surprise and she began gulping the liquid aggressively. So much so, Lyndy had to prop her up occasionally and burp her to keep her from choking.

“Holy smokes, look at her go. I’ve never seen her this thirsty,” Lyndy remarked with a chuckle. “It’s good. I just hope she doesn’t spit it up.” Lyndy wiped around Mari’s mouth, where it was dripping with milk.

“Right about now brunch at the Ahwahnee is sounding pretty enticing,” said Kristen with a wistful grin.

“Same here. Though I could honestly eat Taco Bell at this point.”

She wanted to ask Kristen many questions: the identity of Charlie. The potential a bomb was planted in the hotel—the reason she was hiding and avoiding her favorite hangout. About the purpose of the pin code. But Lyndy held back, because she could tell Kristen was nervous. She was concealing something.

Lyndy looked her in the eye, continuing to support the bottle for Mari. “Why did you run from that black car on the bridge? I saw you arguing.”

“I can’t remember,” answered Kristen, being rather cryptic.

Lyndy gazed down at Maribel, who continued to gulp formula. “This stuff is literally a life saver. Kyle was ticked at me the first few days, like I’m some kind of defective female.” She laced her fingers together as she held Mari, who was rapidly draining the bottle.

“Who is Kyle?”

“Dr. Ellis. My boyfriend. He’s here for the Silver-Pacific meetings.”

Kristen nodded. She took a seat at the table, scraping dirt from her fingernails while occasionally staring out the dirty windows to the idyllic glen. Perhaps she was recalling something, a pleasant time here with family before the estrangement.

Lyndy tried again. “Were you arguing about the quake?”

“What?”

“The earthquake prophesized in … uh … Luke?” It was a long shot, but Lyndy knew three of the four gospels mentioned something on earthquakes. She retained at least that much from catechism.

Shifting her focus to Lyndy, Kristen raised a suspicious brow as she peeled off her yellow handkerchief. “You mean Luke 21:11?”

Lyndy mimed a, “why don’t you tell me more…” face. She then inverted the bottle Maribel had already finished, preparing another helping.

“It’s about Jesus’ return to Earth. It talks of famine too.”

Lyndy frowned. “If you think about it … there is one in the central valley. An ongoing drought. The cattle are starving cause there’s not enough reliable water to grow feed. That’s one reason why they’re building the dam.”

Kristen sighed. “I was trying to explain it to Charlie. We were arguing about that very subject—which we always argue about. He thinks we need to combine our strength to fulfill these prophecies, and I was telling him they will come to pass on their own. I keep saying he should listen to us more and not the outsiders. He’s been perfectly happy taking me and my second husband’s money. Also using our car.”

“The Porsche,” thought Lyndy.

Abruptly Kristen stopped speaking, as if catching herself saying too much. “Ah look, why don’t you rest,” Kristen offered as she stood up. “There’s a set of bunks in the back of each of these units. They’re a little dirty, but you can make do. I need to re-park the car; right now it’s visible from the air. Also take care of some other chores. I’ll get food for us later.”

Lyndy nodded in agreement.

The cabin bunks had one sheet and marginal padding. But she was exhausted. As soon as Lyndy went horizontal, her eyelids became heavy. Maribel, having drank two bottles full and with a fresh diaper change, seemed happy as a clam. Lyndy fell asleep with the baby flat on her chest.

Hours later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Ever see a fifty-year-old fit dude at the beach, working out in blue jeans and no shirt. Like not even breathable modern jeans which incorporate stretchy fabric, the old-fashioned stiff ones. That’s a major character red flag.

Sarah Palmer never much cared for the Gardeners. To her they were zealots, and in the aftermath of a disagreement Kristen was prone to episodes of going AWOL. It was bad for the unity of the group. On the other hand, Charlie tolerated them. He’d welcomed them to the cause as he did anyone who expressed a sincere passion for conserving Yosemite.

The husband at least, had strong ties to the investment world. It got them access to places anyone else in the team couldn’t.

She met Kristen at the pipe-rail gate, the one the park service erected to keep people out of the closed camp. The Chevy was idling, a whiff of steam floating from the tailpipe. As Sarah puffed a cigarette, she looked back at the passengers.

This time she’d brought reinforcements. Two extra Sierra Spring members who were fresh. And her partner Chip, whose cheek was black and blue from a previous encounter with The Spitfire. He had a vendetta now. More firepower too. In the back was his assault rifle, plus their pistols were loaded.

It seemed improbable that a relatively small in stature woman could have done so much damage to the team. Irony was, Charlie wanted her treated with kid gloves. He considered the Latina something of a fragile flower, a new mom with a baby in tow. But he’d been very wrong in that assumption. Their previous attempts at capture had gone almost comically askew.

To Sarah, it wasn’t funny.

Sarah sniffed as she crushed out the cheap cigarette. She leaned an elbow on the passenger window, scowling as Kristen hobbled up. She was pointing to the spot. “See Cabin 4. She’s napping right now. Out cold. I checked on her five minutes ago.”

Sarah glared at her. “Sleeping?”

“You heard me,” confirmed Kristen. “I still want the reward. I’m the one who brought her in.”

From the driver’s seat Chip interjected, “Oh for … that’s bull! We coulda had her already if you didn’t intervene.”

Sarah agreed with the sentiment. “Kristen, you don’t need the reward anyway. Charlie should be punishing you for going rogue.”

“Figure it out later,” grumbled Jim from the back. “We’re wasting time.”

The Chevy rolled on to the middle of camp, stopping just shy of the cabin in question. With its clouded windows, Sarah was extra cautious. Stealthily, she signaled for the two in the rear seats to circle round the left and right sides of the structure. They were to watch the windows, or in case the stroller mom somehow eluded custody.

Stepping up the set of three stairs to the screened entry, Sarah tested the door lever. Behind her, Chip held the rifle stock pressed against his shoulder. He kept a finger next to the trigger.

The door was unlocked. The lever turned with light force and a squeaking noise which Sarah tried to muffle using her sleeve. In Sarah’s left hand she gripped her pistol. They both listened, as Chip joined her on the small porch by the threshold.

Pacing across the oak floors in the kitchen, Sarah felt the springiness in the planks. They creaked as she walked. Her nervous eyes fell upon the counter, where a cylindrical container of powdered formula rested. Some of the powder had spilled, a dusting of white surrounded it. By the round table, a box of diapers had been opened.

Carrying the roll of tape on her wrist like a silver bracelet, Sarah gave it a spin. She had zip ties too in case the tape didn’t work. In the vehicle, a laundry sack had been set aside for the ride to Charlie’s camp. Sarah moved past the corner, as Chip entered the cabin, looking out.

The door to the bedroom was open a crack. She could see to the lower of the bunks, a twin bed. The bed had a lump under a sheet. The sheets rustled, stirring slightly up and down in a breathing motion. They heard the sound of human breath, and the murmurs of a sleeping baby.

Chip sidestepped past Sarah, with the rifle pointed at the lumps in the bed. He advanced to the corner, separating himself by five feet. He made a sideways glance to Sarah and she did the same.

“Alright, let’s go,” barked Sarah. “Wake the F up! I’m takin you to Charlie. Until then, we’re takin your baby.” Seconds passed, with the lumps not moving. Sarah rushed forward, snagged the sheet, ripping it away.

They heard a muffled pop, feathers exploded from a pillow and she felt a stabbing pain in her foot, like someone punched an ice pick straight up through her arch. It pierced every nerve and Sarah grimaced which made Chip panic. She lifted her foot in both hands and fell backward against the wall.

Chip pulled his trigger, blasting the bunk with six rounds and popping her ears with the thump of multiple shots. The old feather pillows which had been stuffed under the sheets exploded.

“What happened?” begged Chip.

Then another snap. This time Chip bent forward. “My foot!” he exclaimed. “Someone shot me in the foot.” Red blood started squirting from his hiking boot.

Sarah, still upright, began hopping madly. She reached down to unlace her boot while blood was oozing from her sock. Chip seemed even more debilitated. He’d dropped his gun and went down to his knees, unable to tolerate the pain.

Suddenly the windows began to explode over the bed. It was the men from the back, shooting blindly into the cabin. Horrified, Sarah pleaded: “NO. NO. NO. NO! HOLD FIRE!”

Chip grabbed both his ribs and collapsed. “I’m hit.”

Sarah dove for the floorboards, inching along and searching the area under the bed. “She’s under here somewhere,” shrieked Sarah, exhaling frantically to blow feathers away from her face. “Get her.” She crawled like a dog, feeling for loose boards, open knots where she could stick one eyeball and peer down. But the area underneath was dark and she had no light.

Glancing to Chip, she could see he was incapacitated with two gunshot wounds. “She’s under the cabin, get under there!” Sarah commanded to the pair outside.

She felt something clamping onto her ankle. The strength of the person was unexpected, drawing her down like a shark. As the boards buckled, she was pulled under into the crawl space. Sarah’s eyes struggled to make anything out in the shadows. She felt herself being dragged along; she clawed using all her fingers on the dirt trying to keep from being drawn backwards. She’d lost hold of her gun somewhere.

Sarah felt the tape being wrapped around her thighs, and though she fought, more and more layers were wrapped around. She bent into a fetal position. When the chaos stopped, she felt the coldness of a pistol pressed against her temple.

“Call them off,” she heard The Spitfire say in a cold, raspy tone. “Tell your partners to run. I’ve got no reason not to squeeze this trigger.” A chill ran through Sarah’s body. For once, she wished she’d not underestimated another woman. Lyndy whispered in Sarah’s ear. “I’ve seen folks die from being shot in the foot. It’s slow, but it happens.”

“She’s got me. Get out of here!” Sarah screeched.

Valley Girl Part-18

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-18

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Don’t ask me why, but when Viagra was still pretty new Col. Rickman got the “bright idea” of saving money by purchasing it in Mexico. Whether through a combination of him not really needing Viagra to begin with, or the dose being too high, let’s just say he experienced an adverse reaction. He claimed he was miserable for two days straight, unable to put on pants, stand for long periods or do any sort of work.

“Drop the stuff,” the fellow barked.

Lyndy’s back was to both the store and the assailant, but his presence loomed. He stood over six feet and sturdy. The sound of a metallic click and a confidence in his tone indicated he had a revolver aimed at her torso. He’d have to be a lousy shot the likes of a movie storm trooper to miss from such a short distance.

Over her right shoulder the distractions continued to unfold, as a fire alarm blared and a panicked station attendant attacked the flames with the foamy fire extinguisher. Meantime the HVAC dude was attempting to get his truck rolling and out of neutral, moving it away from the hellish pool of fire. Those two were so pre-occupied by events, they’d not noticed the sideshow with Lyndy at gunpoint.

She was beginning to doubt her own plan, feeling a wave of desperation manifesting as nausea. She gazed to the woods and the river. She was thinking of Mari, now all alone in the forest. Undoubtedly, the fellow knew how capable and dangerous Lyndy Martinez could be, so he wasn’t taking chances. From her periphery Lyndy could see his companion by the suburban; it looked as though she was putting on gloves.

Thus, Lyndy did as she was asked, letting the c-store items fall to the pavement. Then raising her empty hands skyward, she slowly turned around. Sullenly she responded, “so you’re taking me to Charlie?”

The man dipped his chin in a nod, gesturing with the gun for her to step in the direction of the SUV. “Go,” he commanded. His partner was readying a roll of duct tape, peeling off a four-foot section and wrapping around her wrist, sticky side out. How comforting.

Then something shifted behind the large man, a shadow of a figure in the doorway. She tried not to squint or make any facial tics which might tip him off. She kept perfectly stoic.

Stealthily the bystander began increasing speed, using the rear steps to acquire momentum while charging at the tall man. Having no time to prepare, he took the hit to his spine in total surprise. He didn’t drop the gun, but stooped forward while wincing in pain.

The figure, a woman, bounced back and fell against the stairs. Lyndy knew it was her opening. She decided to go for broke, vaulting forward and wrapping her arms around the gunman’s neck. With her ankles, she anchored about his hips and swung her momentum hard to the right, in order to pull him to the ground. The risky take-down maneuver allowed Lyndy to topple and force him to his knees.

Recovering her footing on solid ground, Lyndy delivered a knee to his temple and then a solid punch to the base of his skull, causing the assailant to fall flat.

She witnessed Kristen rising to her feet, the same missing woman from the Ahwahnee bar and later the bridge. Their eyes met while they exchanged looks of: “It’s you!” She was in what amounted to a cheap disguise: blue jeans, a man’s flannel and a yellow handkerchief wrapped around her scalp—no makeup.

Lyndy remembered the other kidnapper, turning her attention next to the vehicle. The chainsaw woman was loading a handgun of her own, preparing to fire off a round.

Lyndy dove for the revolver. With both hands raised, elbows propped on the hard earth, she aimed back at the female assailant. Simultaneously, the red-headed woman was pointing at Lyndy. Lyndy fired off two rounds and rolled as the other shooter fired back. Lyndy wasn’t sure if she hit her mark or not, but the woman reeled back, then scurried around the edge of her SUV. She had a healthy fear of Lyndy’s aim.

“I have a car,” said Kristen, jangling keys. “I was waiting for you. But so were they.”

“You have excellent timing,” replied Lyndy, hastily gathering up the baby supplies.

Lyndy scrambled up a steep embankment coated in pine needles and moss, pushing Kristen as well, leading up to the shoulder of the park road. This was where Kristen had left a getaway car.

“Wait, I have to grab Mari!” Lyndy explained, clawing her way through the undergrowth back to the hiding spot. Scooping up the baby in one arm, she ski-d with her feet down the hill and across the road. Lyndy stuffed Maribel into the footwell by the passenger seat, nestling her in with the supplies.

Kristen positioned herself behind the wheel of the compact car. It was a decade old Toyota Carolla, silver in color with rust stains and torn seat fabric.

“Drive!” said Lyndy, not to be rude but letting her know she was eager to escape.

Kristen shoved glasses over her face as she revved the motor and jammed the shifter into first. “I’m sorry for how I acted the other day. I was very drunk …. and … I get that way.” She said this as the little car strained on the mountain grade, getting to a mere 45 mph.

Something about Kristen had changed. It was eerily how Miss Lovelace would act, the day after they’d been in a drunken fight. Like they were suddenly on your team again.

“Kristen, all is forgiven if you can get us out of here,” Lyndy pleaded.

Lyndy had her head out the window, focused on the turn-out leading to the gas station. Thick smoke billowed from the woods and more vehicles—official green trucks driven by park rangers—were pulling in to help contain the fire.

Lyndy watched closely until the view was blocked by trees. She hadn’t seen the Suburban. Though hoping for the best, she knew most likely they would regroup. Probably as soon as the tall man recovered from his whomping.

Lyndy leaned back in the seat and sighed, squeezing her shoulder where it was tender. “Really aches after that move,” she thought to herself, knowing adrenaline was wearing off.

With one crisis averted her thoughts shifted to other dilemmas.

The car was a dump, in the way of someone whose car is a reflection of their approach to life. Lyndy reached down, smoothing Mari’s hair and checking her vitals. Mari was stinking, her diaper was crusty and she needed water.

Lyndy lifted and held the baby tight to her chest.

Kristen’s car squeaked and rattled as they rounded tight bends, appearing to be stolen and on its last legs. At least it moved. Kristen drove at top speed, near 60 on the flats, with huge sunglasses like a movie star. Lyndy didn’t know where they were going or if she could trust Kristen. But it felt good to be traveling so quickly again. Hiking was fun, but being on foot and on the run was another thing entirely.

“You have a pretty baby,” Kristen remarked. “I didn’t know you were a mom.”

“Thanks. I need to feed her,” said Lyndy. “Any chance you got a bottle?”

Kristen made a face as she thought. “No, but I have an idea.”

Lyndy kept checking the mirrors, figuring that SUV would be pursuing them. Probably the park service too. Nervously, Lyndy touched Maribel’s forehead and cheeks, combing her hair back. It felt good to have that burst of energy, to overpower and grapple a much larger man to the ground. She was proud of herself. Now it was they who feared her. Yet this fight by no means was over. At best, you might call it half-time.

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: For Christmas one year I presented Mr. Chan an elaborately decorated red box with ribbon bows, the whole nine yards. Inside was a gift certificate for the Anger Management Institute. He became upset and started yelling at me. I responded with: “you see what I mean?”

Ever wonder who the F still uses a pager? The answer was Rhonda Thurgood, and it was the only surefire way to get in touch with her. In reality, it operated more as a messaging service. One dialed the anonymous number, nobody answered, and you were left with a single option: leave a brief message and hang up. If you were deemed worthy, you might receive a text message reply with a place to be, typically nothing more than the intersection of two county roads.

This time, when the text reply came to Lyndy it read: “Miss Thurgood has acknowledged your request. Wahweap Marina. Tomorrow. 10:00 AM.” That’s it. But oh, such an honor to be acknowledged!

It was one of those glorious days in the painted desert, when puffy clouds floated like pearls across an azure sky. One could almost forget the woes of the modern world, listening to oldies, imagining it was the eighties, Miami Vice was on TV and she was young again. A stack of AAA maps shoved against the dash vents and the windscreen, added to this effect. She’d set out early, piloting the Ford on byways north and east to the region where Utah and Arizona come together. This was the landscape of artists and poets.

She was thinking about Rhonda the whole drive.

During her formative years, Miss Thurgood spent much of her time in a cramped, boxcar like office behind an I-40 motel. It was the same cheap, dreary one she grew up in, later managing when her sister passed away—like being raised in a prison cell.

In truth, hotel management was more of a side hustle for Rhonda. True crime ran in her veins. She had a fondness for unsolved and missing persons cases. It surpassed passion stage when she was a teenager, later bordering on obsession. Her desk was walled by stacks of fax bulletins, including missing persons and wanted posters from Navajoland, ones issued by the FBI or Marshals service. Amid this pre-internet era, were magazines like American Cowboy and Soldier of Fortune. It was there, with Rhonda staring at one of the early iMac computers, she and The Spitfire had been introduced. They were destined to hit it off, as Rhonda valued the experience of a legend like Lyndy Matinez. You couldn’t pick up those skills in a classroom. Lyndy on the other hand, needed the dough, since her pension from The Lovelace Corp was under-sized.

Over time Rhonda’s business empire expanded, and visiting her became more of a chore. These days she pulled up stakes more often than a traveling circus, and to Lyndy’s knowledge did not maintain a permanent address. She claimed to be Navajo, but even that status Lyndy wondered about. Judging only from appearances, she had the look, but so did half the residents in this county. Hell, her first name might not be Rhonda. Could be an alias.

Would’ve been more convenient to call on Rhonda any other time, but apparently it was fishing season on the lake and she’d launched a house boat. Thus, her request to meet at the marina. Lyndy had never seen Rhonda fish, but she’d never seen her do a lot of things.

At Wahweep, Lyndy paced about the landing for half an hour, not sure where to stand exactly in this vast open space, or who would be waiting for her. The lake was choppy, yet people were busy launching speedboats, loading up igloo coolers and generally not wearing enough sunscreen.

Lyndy remembered to bring a gift: a Trader Joe’s grocery sack containing her best homegrown zucchini peppers, squash and corn, plus two pints of goat’s milk. Obviously if she waited too long in the sun, the milk would spoil.

At half past ten she witnessed a sharp-dressed man coming on a b-line course from far across the lake, riding a wave-runner at high speed. Those were the bigger, powerful type of jet ski which can seat three people in series or tow a handful of inner tubes. He circled near to the boat slips, trying not to make a wake, while waving for Lyndy to come down. Once she knew this was her guy, Lyndy darted forward to meet him.

“Miss Martinez,” he said in greeting, with a deep voice like the actor Ving Rhames and dip of his forehead.

She nodded yes in answer.

“Any firearms or other weapons in your possession?”

“Of course not,” Lyndy replied, patting her purse. “Just old lady stuff in here. And this sack of food from my garden.” She held up her bag with one fist.

He grinned as she held out the food proudly for him to inspect.

The fellow pointed to the long, soft-padded seat saying, “You’ll have to hold onto me.” Lifting up the seat, he revealed the inner storage area for cold drinks. This was perfectly sized to stash her gifts. After securing the cargo, he took a seat at the handle bars.

He wasn’t kidding. Lyndy straddled the seat, wedging both feet on the plastic rail. She hardly had time to throw her arms around his rib cage, before they were accelerating up to speed for a fifteen-minute steady ride to the house boat. Wind and water were slapping her cheeks and blowing her hair out every which way.

Minutes later …

She first spotted Rhonda fishing from the bow, in her bathing suit, consisting of a rash guard top and black bikini bottoms. Her exposed skin was deeply tan, and her brown hair was done up in a true beehive making it tower seven inches over her head—that was a very expensive hairdo at the salon. Forget about swimming with that hair.

Amusingly, the name printed on the stern of the vessel read: “LITTLE BIGHORN”. They were anchored in one of the deeper coves, no other boats around.

Rhonda was in the act of reeling, her body straining with a trophy bass style rod. At her side stood another guard, this one armed with a rifle on his back and net in his hands. She must’ve had something heavy on the line, as she fought bravely, the seven foot rod bending into a half circle arc as Rhonda kept being drawn toward the rail. She maintained her balance, with strong calves on her bare feet. She side-stepped on the deck like a skillful dancer, avoiding a knock in the head from other stowed equipment. As she worked, her tan back and arm muscles flexed—visible even from a distance. But just as suddenly, the rod snapped back and the line went dead. In fact, it had severed.

The fight was over. Rhonda and her male companion shook their heads and shrugged. Lyndy envied Rhonda, remembering being thirty-something, still with a fit, strong body.

As they pulled alongside the house boat, Rhonda had already secured her rod and come to greet her excitedly. She was speaking Navajo to her bodyguard, a soothing and rhythmic tongue.

“Miss Martinez!” she said switching to English, clapping her hands gleefully. She sounded like a literal Valley Girl when she did this. “What a surprise.”

“Just out here checking fishing licenses,” joked Lyndy.

Rhonda giggled at that.

“Trying out the new bikini angling trend?” asked Lyndy, as she stepped carefully from the rocking wave-runner onto the stable deck.

Rhonda smiled. “Welcome aboard,” she said.

“You look fabulous.” Lyndy took a moment to twirl around. “Now this, I can say with certainty, should be called a yacht.” She put her hands on hips. She was rarely jealous of anyone’s living arrangements, as she didn’t care for mansions. But this boat, a floating palace comprising two stories, this thing was pure badass.

Grabbing onto Lyndy’s arm, Rhonda added, “You ain’t seen nothing. Come with me.” She led her through a folding according door to the interior living room and kitchen. The kitchen space was larger than any one Lyndy ever owned on land, containing one of those full-size metallic fridges. There, Rhonda peeled off her rash guard and exchanged it for an open stitch crocheted wrap. She knotted the waist strap to secure it. Her feet were still bare and sopping wet from the deck.

Opening the fridge, Rhonda asked: “White claw?”

“Sure.” Why not!

“Oh, I brought some gifts!” said Lyndy, as the man on the wave runner walked through the living room.

Hastily, Rhonda rolled up a stack of blueprints which were spread across her coffee table, with pencil marks where she’d made notes and little sketches.

Lyndy placed her presents atop open space. “What’s that stuff?” she asked.

“Oh this?” Rhonda stuffed her papers into a tighter roll. “You know those big giant gas stations that have like a hundred gas pumps?”

“Yeah.”

Rhonda reclined on the sofa, casually thumbing through social media. “We’re building one off I-40.” Lyndy couldn’t guess how much it cost, or who the “we” meant. She’d stated it in the way of someone who was putting a shed behind their suburban bungalow. “Everything okay?” asked Rhonda.

Now that was a first—Rhonda caring how she was doing.

“Why do you ask?” said Lyndy, squeezing her arms over her chest and trying to find a comfortable position in her chair.

Rhonda smiled, with a gleam in her eye. “Nobody comes to see me when life is smooth sailing.”

Valley Girl Part-17

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-17

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One of many life issues me and Rita differed on were the benefits of talk therapy. I tried to convince her to go numerous times, knowing it would be healthy for her. Her chief argument against going, was she’d been a few times but the therapist always ended up seeing she was right, then siding with her in matters—according to her. Every time I recall that BS argument I laugh. That was Rita for you.

She spotted the fast moving sedan on the access road as she was picking bell peppers in her garden. Technically it was Thor who noticed first, doing that floppy ear twitch thing. Lifting his nose toward the eastern ridgeline, he continued chewing cud while he fixed a watchful hazel eye on the silhouette of the oncoming vehicle.

She’d been looking forward to this time in her garden. People said money doesn’t grow on trees and factually she couldn’t disagree. In Lyndy’s world it grew on vines. On her knees in the soil with the clippers, she liked to preserve about an inch of stem length. She only selected the juiciest and most photogenic peppers for her basket, which she planned to sell—a ripe one could go for 3 dollars or more to the right kind of buyer. Lyndy polished one with her thumb to make sure it had a brilliant green hue and smelled lovely. Otherwise, it went to the goats. Ravens and somehow deer had taken their cut of the harvest as well. Though she rarely saw a deer near the trailer.

Holding the ideal pepper in her grip, she checked the road again, where a moon was rising behind the haze. The car she recognized by its bluish running lights and abnormally high rate of speed. Maribel knew every twist and bump in the road. She preferred those low-slung imports with their tight handling and stiff ride. It was a Maribel thing.

Lyndy smiled, knowing her daughter’s love of cars came from the Martinez side. The fact her girl was driving, meant things must’ve gone okay in the court system. She resolved not to bring it up.

With twilight setting in, Lyndy dusted off and tallied her afternoon’s labor: Two large baskets, weighing twenty-five pounds apiece. Probably sixty dollars’ worth. With a section of burlap, she covered them both, looping a string along the rim to protect them from hungry critters.

In the time it took to secure her harvest, Mari arrived, pulling into the turning circle near the airstream trailer. Lyndy came out front to meet her, holding one of the baskets against her hip. She lifted her glasses, folding and hanging them on the collar of her blouse.

The two faced each other, neither knowing what words to say. Mari paused with the car door half open, while her mother lingered by the garden fence. Thor came up behind The Spitfire and nudged her hands, wondering why the cold greeting.

The tension wasn’t about their weeks apart or the false arrest. It ran deeper. Lyndy could feel when Mari was upset. Right now, her daughter was shaking inside like a frightened doe, very unlike her. She was still dressed in a server uniform and wearing full makeup—her outfit consisting of a button-down charcoal blouse, stockings and a modest gray skirt. Mari’s lustrous black hair appeared windblown, tangled from serving drinks outdoors at the riding club.

Moths were circling round the windows of the trailer, where yellow light shown at the edges of the curtains.

Lyndy set down the basket near her steps. “You look like you had a tough day. Wanna come inside,” she offered. Lyndy took off her hat, flicking it like a frisbee onto her outdoor table, then unbuttoning the front of her sweater.

Behind her she felt a whoosh.

Rushing forward, Maribel wrapped both arms around her mother while she was still crouching by the stoop. With her height and long limbs, she swallowed her mom in a tight embrace. She breathed heavily, a hair short of sobbing. “Sorry,” whispered Maribel.

“Yeah. Sure,” replied Lyndy. “What the heck’s wrong with you?” she was thinking.

“Can you sit with me on the bed? Like when I was little after a nightmare.”

“Okay,” offered Lyndy with a shrug, removing her sweater and brushing some straw from her hair. “For the record, I’m not mad at you about this DUI debacle. I’m not mad at all. Cathy filled me in on some of the peculiar details.”

Mari’s eyes were shut and tears were leaking out. “Sorry I lied.”

Lyndy sighed. “It didn’t make any sense. Nobody believed it.”

Mari tailed her mom down the corridor to the rear of the trailer, where the bed took up the breadth side to side. She jumped on and went into a legs-crossed position. Lyndy climbed on too, reaching for a hair brush from the nightstand drawer. This brush rarely got used. She never needed one for her own hair, these days it was at most two inches long.

Soothingly Lyndy began brushing out Mari’s tangled locks, while her daughter built up the courage to explain.

“I spoke to dad last night,” began Mari. “He told me he setup a financial trust for all his children. When we turn 30, we can transfer the funds to our own accounts if we wish. It’s not a ton, but he said if we really need money now and it’s a desperate situation, he can show us how to access it. There’s a way. But he wants us to wait until we’re established on our own.”

“That sounds like Kyle,” replied Lyndy, looping a hand under and continuing to straighten Mari’s hair. It felt so good just to be needed again.

“I know right.”

“Why were you guys talking about money?” questioned Lyndy.

Mari began tearing up as her voice cracked again. “I don’t want you to worry.”

“Sheesh. Too late for that.”

“I got a call on my I-phone. I didn’t tell dad about this. It was from a man who said you were in trouble and needed money.”

“What?” Lyndy’s eyebrows narrowed.

“Yeah. Unknown caller too. I don’t know why I picked up. The man said you were in the process of signing some type of court documents, an affidavit he called it. It would be life changing for us.”

“Wait. How did this person obtain your number?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only had the phone two months. They found me even though we don’t have the same last name. He knows a lot about you.”

Lyndy sniffed and frowned. “Hmmm. That’s … troubling.”

“The caller said if I wanted to be a double-digit millionaire then I needed to remind you to sign that document ASAP. And if you were having second thoughts at all, I needed to convince you to do it.”

“Or …. or else what?”

“Or else they knew where you and I live. He’d be paying us another visit.”

Lyndy exhaled, setting aside the brush. “How original.” She repositioned on the bed, resting on her stomach and cradling her chin in her hands like a teenager.

“That’s why I’m worried.” Mari used her shirt sleeves to dry her cheeks. “I’m sorry they got to me. Normally, I shrug this stuff off. I think its cause you and I were having a spat, I didn’t want to lose you. I can’t lose my mom.”

“This man used those exact words? That he knows where we live?”

“Mmm Hmm. Yes.” Mari sat up, peeking nervously through the blinds.

“Mari, it’s okay. No one’s out there,” Lyndy assured. “I’ve been in the garden all day. Thor would notice a twig snapping from fifty yards.

“I told him he was a dumbass to make a threat against Lyndy Martinez.”

“Yeah, that’s good.” Lyndy chuckled. Chan would’ve told someone like that: “you should go pick out a coffin today.” Course, she was 125 pounds and all muscle back then.

“Are you okay, mom?” Mari pleaded.

“Just disappointed. This thing took the one turn I didn’t want it to.”

“Are you trying to get money for something? Or are we inheriting money?”

“Nah. I didn’t tell you about it, cause I wasn’t sure if I was gonna accept it. This stemmed from a feud involving me and Rita Lovelace. I have residual anger and it makes me want to spite her, but uh …. well … when someone’s deceased what good is taking their money? We don’t need any money. You and I are doing just fine like always. We have people that love us. Money doesn’t just fall out of the sky in a FedEx envelope.”

“What are you gonna do? I don’t want you to fight. You’re too old,” Mari pleaded.

“You’re right, I’m not planning to fight.”

Lyndy glanced down at the nightstand where her phone was charging.

Lyndy wasn’t thinking about a confrontation at all. Gillian and Fred had crossed the one line in the sand she never allowed anyone to. She’d been planning to work with them. All she asked for was time, so she talk to her accountant. They couldn’t even wait that long. Why were they so impatient? Now, they had gone and upset Maribel Ellis. For Lyndy, this was unforgivable.

Outside the moon was rising, bathing the countryside in a whitish glow. Thor gazed at the front screen door a long time, before finally giving up and loping off to join the herd in nightly rest.

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: We caught up with a young fugitive near state line, literally crouching in the murky shallows of the Colorado River. He had 5 warrants for GTA, stealing Mercedes-Benz coupes off dealer lots. I remember Mr. Chan told him when we arrested him, a real man is not measured by the brand of car he drives. He is measured by how he provides for his family. I know that young dude didn’t appreciate it, but I thought it was wise.

Her heart ached for Maribel. Earlier the baby had been restless, doing the three fingers in her mouth thing and crying. Now she’d ceased any unnecessary motions. At the river’s edge, Lyndy had taken a long drink by cupping her hands. She tried to use her finger to dribble fresh water in Mari’s mouth, but it wasn’t what she wanted. She tried wringing drops from her dress, but the sweet baby kept turning her head, acting like she was choking on the water.

The baby books didn’t mention anything about this scenario, presuming you would never be without a baby bottle.

In addition to her obvious hunger, Mari had been developing a troubling diaper rash, splotchy red patches on both her buttocks. Though lethargic, she reacted with squinting eyes and whimpers if you touched her anywhere on her lower backside. Lyndy’s own rash from the bee stings was bothering her too. That at least was tolerable, yet it felt unbearable knowing Maribel was suffering.

If Charlie kept sending these lumberjack goons one at a time Lyndy knew she’d be alright. One-on-one, they were no match. Of course, they’d soon wise up, recognizing this was no ordinary soccer mom they were sparring with. She kept in the woods by the river, on a grade lower than the roadway, picking her way east into the park.

Hitching a ride west and downhill would be easier, but they said they were checking vehicles at the exits. Doubtless her and Kristin Gardener were the targets. That wouldn’t solve it, rather she needed the code. Then she needed to get a message to Ranger Brandt, discretely. She’d been puzzling over that one.

Minutes later …

Lyndy rested on her stomach in a bed of pokey pine needles—Mari under one arm—watching the comings and goings at the only mini-mart gas station on this mountain road. The place was constructed in an old-timey cabin style to match the park, selling tchotchke souvenirs and postcards alongside the normal fare. It stood in the shadows of hundred-foot pine trees, providing a damp cool environment.

The station had four pumps total, two Chevron units with a nozzle on each end. These must have been slow as it took 10 minutes filling per vehicle. Most tourists—minivan driving dads we’ll say—gassed up outside the park entrance, saving 75 cents a gallon or more on the price.

Only the desperate and a handful of locals filled up here.

On the other hand, places like this nearly always sold infant formula, alongside the Lay’s potato chips and Snickers bars. One often had to dust off the cartons, but it was there, tantalizingly close.

Without money, she felt like a mama bear, watching from the understory as somebody took out their weekly trash. But already, she could tell it wouldn’t be that easy to score. A suburban SUV, the kind from the late 70s, had been parked there the whole time.

Lyndy hadn’t been able to recognize anyone inside. When the passenger door opened a female, about five and a half feet tall, in an oversized hoody sweatshirt exited. Though she’d not seen the face well, the stance of the person reminded her of the woman with the chainsaw from the previous night. There was no logical reason for anyone to be parked here this long. A second individual, reclining in profile, waited in the car. This was a stake out. They were waiting for the stroller mom.

The woman wearing the hoodie and blue jeans, paced near the tailgate while having her rot-gut brand smoke break. In time she leaned on the tailgate, with her head facing the exit of the C-store, watching. The individual in the car was browsing a newspaper, but even he occasionally raised his head to check the parking lot. Seeing as how this was the only game for dozens of miles, that all made sense.

Lyndy looked down at Mari and exhaled. “Yeah, I know, I’m famished. I could eat anything at this point,” she whispered. “But they have guns.” She was kicking herself mentally for having done away with the pistol. Not to mention how disheveled she looked. The Spitfire’s trademark curly hair had taken on a Bride-of-Frankenstein appearance.

She needed a disguise to get in there. But how?

That’s when she observed the chubby AC man stumbling out of his import truck. He’d had country music playing, which she could hear all the way to her vantage. She watched him fiddle with the screw cap on his tank, then fit the fuel nozzle, depressing the tab so the gas continued to flow. He was wearing overalls and a plus-size t-shirt, maybe size 44 pants. In a moment he yawned, beginning to swivel his head toward the C-store. Not to be judgy, but if he didn’t wander inside to get doughnuts, her faith in the behavior of HVAC servicing guys would be shaken.

“Wait here,” she said, with a finger over lips at Mari.

She waited for the next break in traffic, then stepped gingerly across the road trying to avoid being spotted. She picked a line with a view masked by the pumps.

After the door slammed, The Spitfire began creeping up behind the vehicle. He had some discarded copper tubing, two-foot lengths, coiled in his truck bed. Lyndy snatched one of these.

Edging cautiously around the side of the truck, she kept her head down lower than the fenders. Then touching onto the pump nozzle, she reached for the pump. With both hands, she looped the copper line through the handle, then tightened by bending it on itself. This kept the tab depressed.

“Sorry about this environment,” Lyndy whispered.

The gas began to flow out like a garden hose on high, splashing and forming a puddle underneath the truck. No one noticed at first. Lyndy waited expecting bedlam, but no one stirred. The woman behind the suburban hadn’t moved. The driver of the truck hadn’t exited the store.

With worrisome speed, the puddle began to grow and expand into the flat area under the truck, then began running downhill.

Reaching into her bra, Lyndy retrieved first the pack of cigarettes and then the matchbook. She shook out a Maverick and scratched one match. “Time for a smoke,” she mouthed, standing beneath a bold sign with a red slash indicating the exact opposite. It took a few puffs to get the lousy cigarette lit, and she had to inhale a few times. Her puffs were followed by a coughing bout, which she had to keep as quiet as she could. Once it was lit, she took the pinched cigarette and shoved it end up, into a crack in the asphalt, which was two inches down from the flowing gas.

“Ruh-roh,” she whispered, then dashed for the north side of the store where nobody was parked. She hid behind a corner, out of view from the patrons but a spot where she could see the action at the pumps.

As soon as the gas vapors touched the lit cigarette, it made a FWOOSH noise and glowed bright orange like one of those wintertime yule logs. The flames spread rapidly under the truck and started to smoke some.

Even then it was surprising how many seconds elapsed before anyone noticed. Felt like 15 or more. But then she heard shouting and alarm. The woman in the hoodie yelled and pointed at the flames, but didn’t remove the cigarette from her own lips. The driver of the suburban was roused from his nap and his head swiveled as he searched the scene.

A second later, the driver of the truck and presumably the station clerk came bursting out of the front. The clerk was swinging a medium sized fire extinguisher. At least it was the foamy kind meant for gasoline. The AC guy just stood in panic, bopping his hands on his head and dancing his legs, worrying about his precious truck.

An alarm started blaring, indicating a pump emergency. From the corner of her eye, she witnessed the chubby lady running for the shutoff button, which was smart—more than she’d have given her credit for.

With all eyes on the chaos, Lyndy side-stepped around the corner, back against the wall and slipped in past the screen door. She ducked down when she entered, lower than the displays and waddled along the aisles checking for supplies. Lyndy shuffled all the way down one aisle, looping around the end where the refrigerators were and then looped back. At first she couldn’t see it; a bout of hopelessness came on. Then while frantically shoving aside some ramen noodles packages, the gods smiled down and there were two cans of the dry Similac powder. Next to this was one dusty package of diapers.

This powdered milk was definitely not Mari’s first choice, but Lyndy gathered it up in her arms, as well as some beef sticks and Doritos. Lacking a shopping bag, she wrapped all this loot in a newspaper from the stack, carrying it out as a big ball.

Noticing an exit meant for employees, Lyndy changed course for the back door which she kicked with her foot.

As she raced down the stairs, back to the cover of the trees she heard a man call out: “Freeze. Don’t move an inch.” For Mari’s sake, Lyndy couldn’t bring herself to let go of the goods. But she halted in place.

Valley Girl Part-16

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: The north-eastern outskirts of Barstow were home to a popular nudist resort and every year they held a contest called: “Mister and Miss Nude”. It was a beauty pageant you might say, except obviously no evening wear—or any wear. You can’t make this up; it really happened. As a joke someone suggested Deputy Keynes should enter the contest and he said he’d only agree to do it on the sole condition I, Lyndy E. Martinez, participate in the female category. I politely declined. In retrospect, one of The Spitfire’s wisest life choices.

In any conflict where one is outnumbered and outgunned, Mr. Chan used to advise, whomever is more frightened is the one who is losing. Over time, she’d come to internalize this saying as one of his finest commentaries. Except by this measure, Lyndy Martinez was actually losing the battle. No point in ignoring reality.

On the other hand, she intended to flip that script. Age and lack of consistent training had made her muscles tight. She had to account for the fact her kicks packed less force behind them, as did her punches.

Lyndy’s opponent, six-foot man dressed as a lumberjack with two days beard growth, kept a watchful eye while pacing a half circle. A sneer curled on his lips, when he witnessed her discarding the pistol cartridges. He exhaled from his nose.

Calmly, he wiped his bloodied palm on the front of his blue jeans, applying pressure as if his open wound bothered him. He refused to look down, instead raising his fists in the manner of boxer. Using his knuckles he wiped his eyes, all while continuing his arc-like pattern of movement, sizing her up.

Lyndy clenched her fists, but kept them posed nearer to her sides. “At least someone is taking me seriously,” she thought. She shifted to her right, placing more weight on the ball of her foot, maintaining a loose stance.

The rush of the swelling river filled the auditory environment to the point of squashing all background, including traffic on the busy road. She welcomed the sound which helped to filter pain and center her thoughts. Without it, the pounding headache from the bee stings would’ve been far too distracting.

“I ought to warn you, I used to box in prison,” the man proclaimed loud enough to overcome the roaring river. “Don’t test me.”

“Great. A 130-pound new mom should be a breeze,” replied Lyndy. “Why don’t you come over here and subdue me,” she challenged. “Dare you,” she thought.

He gazed at her with a mix of amusement and caution. The man was keeping a healthy distance of twenty feet, almost the whole width of the flat rock.

Lyndy felt her heart pounding, but she consciously steadied her breathing. Now was not the time for panic. With her feet free of the boots, she let her toes find the best footing—the grip surprisingly firm on the granite top and far preferable to the leaf covered slopes.

Her opponent raised his fists to protect and cover his chin, so high they almost blocked his eyes. Kind of an old school style as he started closing in. He was wearing big waffle stomper type boots, the black ones.

He had decent reach in his arms, evident as he threw a test punch. Then leading with his shoulder, he threw a much more forceful blow, which Lyndy side-stepped. Bending at the hips, the punch swooshed past her cheek.

He’d come so close she caught a glimpse of his blue eyes.

The attacker quickly recovered, pivoted to his left, ducked and fired off an uppercut. Again, she felt the whoosh of air, as she dodged out of the way. This time, facing away from him, she bent at the waist and scissor kicked. The ball of her foot impacted his rib, and it felt like she’d impacted one of those leather bags in the gym. The strike sent shock waves through her bones. His body was hard and heavy.

Completing the turn, she faced the man again. He backed up, having felt the impact in a way that stunned him.

She’d earned his respect.

“That was a solid hit,” he grunted. The fellow glanced over one shoulder, as if hoping for one of his buddies to show up. But no one did.

He thumbed his brow, where sweat was accumulating and then started bouncing his knees again. Lyndy maintained concentration, the noise of the wild river helping her. Inside her heart she could feel Maribel, knowing the baby was safe in hiding.

Abruptly the radio crackled to life with static. Both their eyes were drawn to it. “Tommy, you there? Tommy you there? Check in.” The voice was a female, met by silence.

The attacker, whose name she presumed was Tommy, shifted his gaze between the radio lying uselessly on the rock, and Lyndy. After twenty seconds of dead air the voice returned: “…checkpoints are active at all 3 Park entrances. No one’s seen Kristen or the stroller mom.”

“Stroller mom?” thought Lyndy. That’s all they got?

The radio went dead again.

Tommy seemed to have regained composure, now on the opposite side of the flat stone. This time Lyndy’s back was toward the river. The fellow began advancing again, working a small arc but throwing out a test jab or two. Probably wanted to get to the radio.

In a flurry of punches, he came at her again, hoping to overpower The Spitfire. This time she dove under his arms, and while crouching, pivoted to sweep out his calves. His momentum carried him forward while she moved her core to the side. The force of her kick caused him to pitch onto one knee, but he quickly recovered. Meanwhile Lyndy jumped back up in a blink, turning to face him. He threw another punch which landed on Lyndy’s shoulder, so quick and forceful she’d not had time to move.

With his left arm, he tried to hook onto her waist.

Lyndy squirmed out of his grip, twisted his fingers and forced him back. The good part was, now the man faced the river again.

Only a foot or two separated the pair, and Tommy thew his upper body onto her with the intention of wrapping himself around her arms. This being the one move she’d hoped for, Lyndy extended her arms, caught the fellow’s grip and used every ounce of strength to swing him. He was exceptionally heavy. The move strained her shoulders, but she worked with his momentum. Then jumping up, she kicked with both feet against the man’s chest.

Landing on her tailbone, Lyndy caught a glimpse of his shocked expression—a this can’t be real look—as Tommy was hurled backwards off the side of the slab. He kicked his feet, but with only a split second in air, he plunged into the icy river. The angry Merced swallowed him like a vortex. His mouth opened, but no words escaped that Lyndy could hear, as he was whisked like a floppy scarecrow into the swirling current. His head disappeared soon after, caught in an undertow by the churning eddies.

Extending her fingers, Lyndy rubbed her lower back. “Ouch,” she grumbled, as she sat up. She snapped at the straps of her VS bra; one had come loose in the fight, falling across her left shoulder. “Damn, I hate this push-up bra. It’s so uncomfortable,” she complained. Leaping to her feet, she took a peek over the side, gazing into the mesmerizing liquid.

Floating atop the water—the only item of note—was a single bluebird tail feather. It floated past in a series of figure eights, then catching the main flow zipped away with astonishing haste. Remembering where and who she was, Lyndy darted back to the spot she’d hidden Maribel, praying to God nothing happened to the gift she treasured more than anything in the world.

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: At a late-night family dinner Dr. Kyle Ellis—with the table lit by candles—was challenged to name all six of his children’s eye colors solely from memory. The only one he knew for sure was Maribel, who has brown eyes same as me. Apparently, his wife was greatly annoyed by this.

The aroma from the Lucha-Libre taco truck could attract crowds like a pied piper. Its fame spread across the land the old-fashioned way, word of mouth with a tailwind of modern social media. If not this, its colorful displays of Mexican wrestlers locking arms in a ring, wearing masks, made it stand out from the highway like a parade float.

Lyndy could attest to their food being delicious, possessing a smoky flavor.

Standing in a twenty-person queue, Lyndy experimented with her glasses, trying them at distances of 15, 12 and 6 inches away from her nose. She even tested various angles of pitch. Yet none enabled her to focus enough to decipher the specials on the chalkboard. Using an elbow she nudged Catherine, who seemed entertained by this comedy act.

Clearing her throat, Blondie read the handwritten specials aloud, saving Lyndy further embarrassment. She had to shout, overcoming their blaring Ranchera tunes. Eventually Lyndy settled on her favorite, carne asada.

All the best picnic tables were taken as usual, so the pair paced a few more blocks to a playground located behind a church. This prime spot was shaded by mature birch trees and presently free of children. On the way they passed century old mansions of the pueblo and craftsman style, all custom and well above the million-dollar mark.

Lyndy tested out the empty swing set, making sure it would hold weight and the seat seemed comfy enough. Catherine took the swing alongside, but being among the world’s quickest eaters, she was finished with her quesadilla already.

“Wanna ride to Costco later? I have a list of stuff I need for my new place.”

“I’m in,” replied Lyndy, with a mouthful of food. They’d already been discussing various excuses to get together once Cathy got settled in her home. “I’ll even drive.” She knew her friend hated to drive.

Exhaling a bored sigh, Catherine thumbed through selfie images on her phone. “Lyn, I never expected this day to come,” she lamented. “But I look like an older Peg from Married with Children.”

Lyndy chuckled. “Count your blessings. Peggy was a babe.”

Not needing to read anymore, The Spitfire shoved her trifocals atop her head. The outside world returned to a relaxing fuzz she’d been accustomed to—like one of those movies where they smother Vaseline on the lens. Straightening her elbows, she pressed against the swing set chains to exercise her grip. “Al was just haunted by his own poor choices,” added Lyndy.

Cathy made one of her snort laughs. “True,” she muttered.

Lyndy dribbled red salsa onto her tacos before taking another bite.

“Other day I thought this guy was flirting with me. I was proud of myself, until it turned out he was trying to pitch me on a timeshare membership.” Reaching for her soda cup, Catherine snapped her phone case shut, shoving it in the outer pocket of her purse. “Which reminds me, who’s this dude you flew on a private jet to see in Santa Barbara?”

Salsa juices were dripping down Lyndy’s chin on both sides, like a messy vampire after feeding. She quickly wiped with a napkin, but her mouth was full.

Catherine sipped diet coke from a foam cup excessively, causing her to burp like a trucker. She tapped her watch at Lyndy, while her expression continued to ask: “You gonna answer me, or no?”

Lyndy continued to grin. “Look, serious question. Given your experience with Maribel to date, do ya think she bears any resemblance to her mom and dad?”

Cathy frowned. “Are you joking or something?”

Lyndy shook her head sternly as she swallowed. “I need to know.”

“Oh my god, of course! It’s obvious,” Cathy exclaimed. “From the moment we met. She’s the perfect blending of you two creeps.” Lyndy smiled at the insult, while Cathy continued, “She’s got your same passion, toughness and well, how to put it … sex appeal. This combined with Kyle’s cautious and inquisitive nature. She’s got some Spitfire in there.”

Rather than reply with words, Lyndy replied with an utterance: “Mmmm.”

“On the other hand, I have a big issue with your daughter’s taste in men. But that’s for another day. We should talk about it though.”

Lyndy nodded. “We’re in agreement. It’s hard for me to judge. My credibility and all.”

“And the tattoos. The piglet tattoo?” Cathy rolled her eyes.

“Mari has a tattoo?” Lyndy pretended to be surprised, but Catherine saw through the sarcasm.

In the distance, wild sunflowers had taken over a vacant lot where a Victorian mansion once stood. Cathy sipped from her foam cup while staring at the view. “Why are you asking if Maribel bears a family resemblance?”

Lyndy bobbed her head side to side, while taking another bite which included those spicy pickled carrots that make one salivate. “I happened to meet up with Rita’s … uhm … daughter. Self-proclaimed, mind you. Her name is Gillian Lovelace.”

Catherine blinked her eyes, using her arms to twist the swing so it faced Lyndy’s in a melodramatic gesture. “WHAT?” Miss Cookson pretended to turn up the volume on a set of imaginary hearing aids.

“I know. Shocking, right? Hard to believe. It’s like Rita brought herself back to life just to haunt and embarrass me. That’s why I was in Santa Barbara.”

“What’s she like? Does she look like her mom?”

“In some ways, yes. She’s about the weirdest human you’ll ever see. I’m talking weird with a capital W!”

“You and Rita were besties,” Catherine remarked in a mocking tone. “As far as I know, Rita only had one friend. That was you. Why did you two spit up? What was the tipping point?”

“I call it our breakup.” Lyndy turned to meet with Cathy’s stare. “You really don’t know do you?”

Cathy shook her head.

“Admittedly, we were in the throes of alcoholism. Shit bar that was five miles from Rita’s ranch shoulda had a plaque with us two on it for saving their lease.”

Catherine covered her mouth to chuckle discretely.

“No, it’s alright. You’re allowed to laugh at that.” After patting Catherine on the back, she continued. “Separating was the best thing for us. We were healthier for it.”

“The throes of anything are never good.”

“Yeah. Very true. The final straw, you might say, occurred at a lavish outdoor wedding where I was in charge of security. Almost the entire Lovelace company was in attendance. Everyone witnessed her screaming at me that day.”

“Geez, what the heck did you do? Seduce the groom?”

Lyndy shook her head, refusing to fill in the details.

“I don’t think Rita ever mentioned wanting kids,” added Cathy. “Ya know what I mean? Specifically, wanting kids.” Then she started swinging, extending her feet so she could gain amplitude like a little kid. She got going so fast, the wind caught and blew her dress up some, exposing the spanx on her thighs.

Lyndy pondered telling her friend about the big inheritance money, but she knew Catherine wouldn’t understand. The waitress would advise not to take it—cause like her father, she wasn’t motivated by money. A part of Lyndy believed that answer. That part was her gut.

Valley Girl Part 15

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Wonderful Roberts chrome. Excellent print quality and contrast. Maybe 1969? Would sell this one. -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Unlike so-called snowbirds, Rita spent most of the year in Tucson, Arizona, a quirky frontier town she famously described as inserting your head into a pottery kiln. But consider this, two-thirds of her sports cars didn’t possess any type of factory AC. Nor did my ride, the white Mustang. If a car you wanted to drive had leather upholstery, you literally had to put down beach towels to avoid second degree burns. God forbid you forgot the towels, wearing a bathing suit or a tank top. Just the sweat beading atop your skin made you stick to the seats like an octopus tentacle.

Lyndy awoke to a quiet, sickening feeling. It wasn’t hunger.

Mari was crying less, resisting less, her vocals reduced to whimpers. She knew it meant the baby was fatigued and growing weaker.

Humming her pretend lullaby, Just One Look, The Spitfire changed out the icky diaper for her one spare. This time the catchy tune felt grim, as did the moment.

Squeezing pressure on her eye sockets with her fingers, Lyndy contemplated her next moves. She inhaled a steady, deep breath. Putting aside the grumbles of an empty stomach and the immediate hazards, something bold was evolving inside: a powerful shift between mother and baby.

Tendrils of an eternal bond were reaching through the black void to merge. Where they met, they began to pulse with energy, intertwine and strengthen.

Holding Mari up, she kissed her sweetly on her little nose. Then Lyndy brushed her soft curls against Mari’s cheeks, eyes squinted shut, on purpose to stimulate the baby. Mari gurgled in response. She could feel Mari’s breath and heartbeat, but also her emotional state. An invisible link. Lyndy opened her brown eyes, gazing deep into Mari’s. “I feel you,” she mouthed. “I can feel you now,” she repeated in elation.

It was the tiny victory she sought from day one, back in the place where waters from Yosemite and all the other unnamed falls merged into a torrent.

The baby rotated her head to one side. “Mommy is coming back,” Lyndy spoke softly into Mari’s ear, her lips an inch away. “I promise.” Then she snuggled her up in the ruined dress like a baby blanket.

The Spitfire slid backwards, feet first from her bear’s den hiding spot into the frosty morning. Long shadows stretched across the gorge and one could smell drifting smoke from a chimney or two. Due to adrenaline in her veins, she hardly experienced the cold. As Lyndy was sliding, she sneakily palmed a jagged rock. Twisting her hips until she faced up, Lyndy tucked her feet under, then with three fingers pressed herself to a standing position.

Gradually lifting her chin, her gaze fell upon the lone gunman. In one hand he gripped a pistol, wrist twitching nervously because he was young. She raised both arms in submission. A smug look indicated he was proud for having discovered her. The man with longish hair, had a walkie-talkie clipped on the tactical belt at his hip. He must’ve warned his buddies but The Spitfire didn’t care, as it would make it easier to find them too.

With her arms raised, Lyndy still had her fingers clenched tightly on the stone.

“Put that down,” he said firmly, lifting the pistol at his hip to aim at her torso. “You and the baby don’t have to get hurt. We need to bring you to Charlie. That’s all.” He pushed his greasy hair back using his free hand. “Charlie will explain.”

Lyndy closed her eyes, knowing she’d only get one shot at this. She hadn’t been the best at softball, but she prided herself on uncommon abilities with ski-ball and those pop-a-shot arcade games.

“Let it go,” reiterated the gunman.

With a hard flick of her wrist, she hurled the rock skyward on a trajectory impacting the beehive. As she did so, Lyndy dove for the earth, expecting he would squeeze his trigger. The slope was steep and covered in slippery leaves. She began sliding downward on a course for the assailant.

Puzzled, the man with the pistol gazed upward, wondering what Lyndy had hit.

In the blur of a hot few seconds, came a nerve-wracking intermission. Luckily, the rock penetrated the hive like a missile, cracking the lower section and causing a portion of it to dislodge. Gooey honey dripped out, raining upon them. As it was pre-dawn, most inhabitants had been sleeping. But the interlude was short-lived. With astonishing ferocity, the winged insects began swarming their damaged home.

The standing assailant started swatting with his free hand, naturally the worst way one could react. All around the air was filled with loud buzzing. Lyndy did nothing in response to the bees, accepting that stings were inevitable. And now he was sidetracked.

Rising up, Lyndy pivoted on a heel, kicking with her toe to smack loose the pistol. Her intention had been to impact the man’s wrist, but this tested the limits of her reach at a disadvantaged angle—thus her toes only brushed the muzzle. It was enough to throw off his aim. His finger slipped the trigger. He made a motion as if to fire but nothing happened, as he’d not applied adequate force.

Lyndy touched her heart, pressing her fingers on her chest as if to feel for an invisible entry wound. His attention turned back to the fight and he re-acquired his grip, as well as his aim. In the meantime, The Spitfire went back into a spin kick posture, this time executing it on firmer footing. She landed the outside edge of her bare foot on his elbow, sending the gun flying. Next, she changed up her stance, finding a thin ledge from which to make a front kick.

The man continued to swat the bees. This time Lyndy executed a full front kick to his chin, though it hurt her big toe. The knock—worthy of the “All Valley”—caused the man to fall to his knees in a daze, while Lyndy was sent into a tumble. She lost balance completely, catching herself on her left wrist, unfortunately the injured one. Her body collapsed under the strain and she rolled.

By now the bees were everywhere, a cloud of constant attacks, slamming into their faces and eyes. She was even questioning her own judgement. The man rose up, knowing Lyndy was down and trying to win the upper hand. He managed to kick Lyndy in the ribs, sending her further away down the slope. Scrambling back to higher ground, he tried to locate his gun in fallen leaves. This task was near impossible, as the man kept having to slap at his bare arms and neck where bees were stinging by the dozens.

He cursed loudly.

Lyndy could feel them landing on her back and thighs too; the stings were maddening. But she scrambled to her feet, climbing higher to meet the attacker head on. Charging him with a head butt to the stomach, she rammed him into rocks. As he attempted to block her and push back, Lyndy extended her arms, pushing his fists away, then with her good arm knocked him in the chin. Lastly, she kicked off a rock, jumped up and brought her elbow down with max force on the base of his skull. He went down hard, not unconscious but close.

On the ground the fellow rubbed a hand wildly over his swelling face, scraping angry bees away from his eyelids. He knew he’d lost and seemed acquiescent. “The bees …” he muttered, grimacing and catching glimpses of Lyndy’s face.

Lyndy caught her breath, standing in the glow of the rising sun.

“The b-b-b-bees …” the man stuttered, rolling onto his back as if to die.

“I’ve noticed them. So what?” asked Lyndy.

“They’re … they’re stinging you too.”

“Where are your partners?” Lyndy demanded.

The fellow winced. “I dunno …. close … the river’s edge.”

“Good.” Lyndy squinted her eyes, brushing a dozen stingers from her bare neck and chest. She spotted the barrel of the gun, sticking out from a tuft of green moss. “If you survive, I want you to give a message to Charlie.” Lyndy stooped under a tree limb to retrieve it.

“What?” asked the man, gasping for air.

“Tell him he has a choice. Leave me alone and never speak of this.”

“Or?”

She leaned over to rescue the gun from the dirt, blowing on it to remove the moss. The bees were still swarming, but their stings were bothering her less. “Or, if he truly wishes to see me, then keep fighting and I’ll come for him. I’m The Spitfire.”

The fellow only chuckled, in the way of someone who believed her. Then he lowered his chin as a man preparing to die.

Minutes later …

The Merced River, undammed here and swollen with April thaw, thundered over and around boulders with the force of big waves crashing upon a rocky shore.

This allowed The Spitfire to slip through the tangle of willows and oaks lining the shore, unnoticed. The nearby park road, busy with tourist traffic, made it harder to be stealthy, as scant margin separated the road’s edge and the course of the river. It was the kind of narrow mountain highway which flooded often, but being a natural point of entry it’d been constructed nonetheless.

With each step her feet were sinking to the ankle bone in marshy soil, a spongey muck threatening to swallow Kyle’s boots. She wasn’t at her best. Lyndy’s vision was clouding at the periphery and her balance was off too, no doubt a result of the bee stings. Yet she felt stronger in a way she couldn’t quantify.

She recognized the second attacker by his jacket from the night before, crouching upon an enormous granite boulder with a flat top. This remnant of a decades old landslide jutted into the main channel, making the river flow deeper and more treacherous.

By his stiff stance and lumberjack attire, anyone would know the man was not a tourist. She observed him like a cautious animal for a few minutes. She had the baby on her chest, but Mari was playing possum now, entirely mute. Only the slow rhythmic breathing let Lyndy know the baby was alive.

This fellow was bigger than the last. Compared to the previous fellow, he looked like was pushing 43. So, of similar age. Standing tall, he repeatedly paced the square rock, moving near the edge then coming closer to the shore. As she watched, he brought his radio to his mouth, asking for someone to check in. No responses came.

Having flicked between 75 and 100 stingers off her skin, The Spitfire knew she looked like she’d marched straight out of a zombie apocalypse. Her expensive dress was absolutely in shambles. Still, this was no fashion show.

Bending down, Lyndy laced together a few long twigs, forming a crude and misshapen basket. Atop this she put down leaves and pine boughs, then rested Mari in this makeshift crib. She worked swiftly, putting a finger to her lips, mouthing: “Quiet.”

With a load off Lyndy climbed over the rocks into the daylight.

He caught her moving from a distance of 20 yards, lowering his radio to his feet. He was fumbling, reaching to his hip for his holster.

Lyndy raised her right hand to waist level, holding the gun from before, a smallish 32 caliber R51. The taller man’s demeanor changed, seemingly judging whether she had any chance of tagging him at such a distance. He tilted his head, then raised his hands to about shoulder level.

“This Charlie fellow, he’s some kind of conservationist? Am I correct?” demanded Lyndy, loud enough to be heard above the river.

The lone man took a couple of steps back, nearer to the water’s edge. Making sure he wasn’t about to fall off, he kept checking behind. He nodded as he did so.

“Why does Charlie need the code so bad?”

An amused smile formed on her opponent’s face. He reached for his waistband, but Lyndy squeezed her trigger first. Her gun made a pop and a rip opened in the fellow’s jeans, blasting his piece out of his waistband. The weapon he’d been concealing flew back off the edge, into the water. The fellow collapsed to one knee, putting a hand over his thigh.

“ARRRRGH. Son of a … you hit my hip,” he groaned. Raising his hand, he saw blood.

“Why does he need this code?” repeated Lyndy. “Are more of you coming?”

The fellow was wincing, staring at his radio. He wanted to call for help.

“Just answer me!” she demanded. She began closing in, stepping gingerly up and over a series of boulders. She kept her gun aimed at the opponent.

“Gloria got picked up by the Feds,” groaned the fellow, throwing his head back. “She was supposed to supply a four-digit code to Kristen.” Grimacing, he forced himself into a standing position, facing Lyndy.

He was one tough dude she’d give him that.

Lyndy paused to think. “What is the code for? Does it arm the device?”

The fellow shrugged. “Not sure,” he answered through gritted teeth. “I guaranty more are coming. Maybe lots more. He wants that number.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s a price on your head. 75K to the one who brings you in.”

“Eeesh! He’s acting like a terrorist, not a man who cares about the Earth.” Lyndy scrambled up one side and then down a tent-shaped rock. She weaved round a jammed log, then sprang over a crack with gushing whitewater below. She never let go of the pistol. “Where is the second device?” questioned Lyndy, pushing her body up onto the flattish stone the man occupied. This placed the two roughly fifteen paces apart.

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“Two models of the dam were made. One is in the hotel. Where is the other?”

Judging by his pained expression, it seemed genuine he didn’t know.

“I’ve got one more thing to say to you.”

“What?”

Casually, Lyndy popped the magazine, then pulled the slide on the gun spilling all the bullets on the ground. She casually tossed it into the deepest part of the river. Getting into a fighting stance, she added: “Sorry you won’t be collecting your reward.”

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

She’d not ridden in a car with heated seats for as long as she could remember. When the Range Rover pulled around, a rear door flung open. Gillian was riding shotgun. Fred helped Lyndy up, then scooted in beside. Once inside he commanded the driver to “Punch it,” knowing he didn’t want to get into a spat with SB PD. The suspension was plush but modern, and the SUV glided with precision over primitive country roads.

Hastily, Lyndy checked that she had everything, including her purse. Then she balled up her sweater pushing it against the windows and the door jam. Her skull was starting to pound and her ears were hot, like lava was sloshing about inside.

No one said anything in the car, but Lyndy knew Gillian and Fred were keeping a close eye on her. And why wouldn’t they? She was their meal ticket to a bigger payday than the average Joe would see in about twenty lifetimes.

She recalled a Rita memory from the eighties, which for some reason hadn’t surfaced yet. Perhaps the reposado had shaken it loose.

A magazine came to interview Miss Lovelace for a western lifestyle piece. They’d expended several rolls of film that day, at the Tucson ranch in its heyday. Like action shots of Rita brushing a horse’s mane, or throwing a saddle atop a mare.

Later they interviewed Rita as she relaxed poolside, a breeze blowing through her long dark hair—it extended to her hips in those days. Her knees were drawn to her chest and Rita was smoking as the setting desert sun flirted with the horizon. Lyndy was working as her bodyguard, seated in the shade of the porch, across the railing and away from the pool. Lyndy was dressed in men’s attire, including a flannel shirt and wide-brimmed hat, cause she didn’t like to draw attention on days like this. She was probably drinking beer, though this fact she couldn’t remember.

The question asked by the interviewer: “What about kids? Do you feel your life would be more meaningful and complete with a family?”

Rita came as close to blushing as she ever did. A shy smile molded on her face, and she remained quiet for half a minute. Inside she was fretting at how to answer, and she glanced to Lyndy with the same sly smile and a twinkling in her green eyes. She even tapped some of her ashes into a planter, extending the meaningful gap in conversation.

“Well, I certainly haven’t met that special someone. And not for lack of trying.” Rita inhaled deeply, whisking her long hair behind her in a move she made about a hundred times a day, which became annoying once you noticed it. “I’ve been told I can be a tad high energy.” She looked to Lyndy again, who kept her mouth zipped, as she exhaled a puff of smoke. Rather than simply high energy—also true— the words coming to Lyndy’s mind were: willful, selfish and often demanding.

The writer was scribbling shorthand notes, and for redundancy had one of those reel-to-reel tape recorders running.

Rita stood up. “But one day when I’m expecting, I think I’d like—well, I hope for—it to be at the same time as my best friend. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this. I want to experience motherhood together, so we can share the adventure.” Rita paced into the shade of the porch. “We’ve talked about it. I know she would be an excellent mom.”

“Who would you say is your best friend?” The reporter seemed confused, knowing Rita wasn’t seen with many women friends. She was known as a tomboy.

Rita placed her fingers atop Lyndy’s shoulders. “This lady right here.”

Lyndy winced bitterly as the embarrassing scene replayed on a projector in her mind. What a complete joke. Miss Lovelace wanted to be pregnant at the same time? Oh yeah, right! Another broken promise from the queen of broken promises. The hairs on her arms began to stand.

The Spitfire touched the top of Fred’s hand, causing him to look at her. “What happens to that money? You were saying it reverts back to Arizona if we don’t act?”

“That’s right.”

Lyndy nodded and exhaled. “After all I did. She called me her best friend, then cast me off like a wad of used toilet paper. She owes me more than a cheap stack of Costco prints. This is beyond insulting.”

“So, you’ll sign the affidavit?” questioned Gillian eagerly, from the front passenger seat.

Lyndy gazed at the smart phone she didn’t know how to use. It indicated the time and that she had no new messages. “Yeah, I’ll do it. I’ll sign the documents and I only have two conditions.”

“Okay? Sure, what is it?” asked Fred, touching Lyndy’s shoulder.

“I need to consult a tax accountant first.” Lyndy paused. “I know. Shocking. I have an accountant. He’s an H&R Block guy who used to do my taxes and knows a lot more than I do. Probably knew me when I was still cute, which is why he’s nice to me.”

Fred chuckled. “Make sense,” he answered. “I mean, the first part, about getting the tax advice. But what’s the other thing?”

Lyndy grinned. “You sir, owe me a taillight repair on my Mustang.

Fred snapped his finger and thumb together. “Dang! You’re right. I almost forgot about that.”

“Well, I haven’t,” replied Lyndy. She half expected him to answer, just pay somebody now that we’re going to be rich. But he didn’t.

Valley Girl Part-13

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Question: How can we make our motel more memorable? Answer: make the sign totally illegible from the road using an ink blot style font. That way folks can’t even tell what the name is.

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-13

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: When Costco was kind of a new fad, Kyle brought me and eight-year-old Maribel there for the first time. Back then they sold a ton of hardcover books—the whole middle section was book bins—and Mari Ellis found a picture book all about birdhouses. It came packaged with a small kit to build a simple wooden birdhouse. She excitedly put it in the cart. Later at home, Kyle helped her put together the birdhouse on the kitchen island and they painted it. It was about the cutest moment I ever saw.

By some miracle tensions had cooled between her and Dr. Ellis—aka The World’s Most Forgiving Man.

Without thinking, he’d lovingly reached for Lyndy’s hand and now both were resting atop the armrest—his fingers cupping hers. Her head was propped on his shoulder and she was happy she’d not attempted to straighten her curls that day. He loved her hair in its natural state—and not all guys appreciated the tangled curly mess Lyndy’s hair could become.

At the same time Maribel was putting on a show for Kyle. Her eyes were delighted as she reached out for the giraffe toy with both arms and he squeezed it for her. Maribel looked so cute and lady-like in her pink crocheted cap, with her brown wisps sticking out the sides. It was funny to think they were sharing him in a way. His two favorite ladies.

On the way she’d been enjoying views of the mountains, riding back to the park. As they passed the entry station, the pines became tall and the woods dark again. The earlier fog had lifted and now it was a pleasant summer evening. She looked forward to a leisurely dinner in the Ahwahnee dining room, some champagne and falling asleep. That is, after she secretly inspected the model for any foul play.

Her eyelids were drooping when she witnessed what looked like flashlights shining in the woods. Her first thought was kids playing hide and seek. Then again, why would there be kids in the lonely backcountry of the park miles from an established campground? They were fifteen minutes out from the valley floor. Why would anyone be here at all?

The vans began coasting, then after a hairpin turn, came to a complete halt.

Lyndy sat up, sniffing and rubbing her eyes, feeling more alert. She swiveled her head. Up ahead, through the windshield she spotted a curious scene. A massive pine tree blocked the park road in both directions. The tour vans were among the first to arrive on scene, apart from two SUVs and a white pickup. A group of three men and one woman were on foot.

The men, wearing jeans, black shirts and boots were facing the vans, standing in front of the fallen tree like it was a barricade. The woman milling about near the roots of the tree appeared to be working a chainsaw, carving a narrow pass-through on the downhill side of the highway. The men had flashlights. It was they who’d been shining into the woods.

It didn’t make sense from an odds perspective. A tree fell and they were the first to arrive? The dam tour? Her heart began to pound. Along with it came a burst of adrenaline. As her motions became more animated, Kyle sensed Lyndy’s unease.

“What is it?” he questioned anxiously.

Her eyes fell upon Maribel. “Crap,” whispered Lyndy. She didn’t want to alarm everyone in the car.

Kyle looked into her eyes again, squeezing her shoulders. “What?”

“It’s me. They want me,” answered Lyndy.

“Why?”

“They think I know something,” said Lyndy, throwing off his grip. “Be quiet, I need to think.” His imagined response played in her head: “Tell them you don’t know.” She answered without him asking: “It doesn’t matter. They’ll assume it’s a lie.”

The low beams on the small white truck were on. Logically, the keys were there.

The trio of men began approaching the vans on the left side. One, who’s jacket blew open by chance, had a metallic object in a holster—a nice modern pistol.

While undoing her seatbelt Lyndy poked Kyle. “Trade shoes with me.”

Kyle began untying his laces in the most comically ineffective fashion. Lyndy flipped off her heels. “Shit. Hurry it up, Kyle. Rip em off!”

After the scolding he worked more swiftly, bending his foot and yanking off his new REI hiking boots. They were the kind with webbing on the sides to help keep your feet cool.

Lyndy reached behind her, snatching the baby sling. She flipped the straps out and was contemplating whether to bring Maribel. It was a tough call. If she left her with Kyle, the baby might be in danger. They could use her child as a bargaining chip. That would work, as she knew she’d do most anything for Maribel—whether bonded or not. If she took the baby with her, the danger was certain and they might both die on the run. It would be geometrically more difficult to evade capture with a baby weighing her down.

On the other hand, they might hesitate to shoot with a baby on her chest. Depended on how committed they were to their cause.

She wasn’t open to reasoning with this group. She had a feeling they weren’t here to reason anyway. The other four passengers in the van had initially been unsuspecting, but were now uneasy.

The Spitfire tugged on the boots, not bothering to lace them. Kyle’s foot was about a size larger, but she didn’t care. She just stuffed all the laces down the side.

“Unlock the door,” Lyndy commanded the driver.

“Pretty sure this goes against all baby-care logic,” thought Lyndy. She secured the straps and stuffed Mari into the kangaroo-like pouch, except facing her. With her free hand, Lyndy supported the sling. Mari was so caught off guard, she just made an “oof” sound, but hadn’t started crying.

“Are you nuts? Where are you going?” Kyle demanded.

“Shut up,” said Lyndy. “If I’m not back by Saturday night, then … get everyone out of that hotel. Pull the fire alarm if necessary.”

“What?”

“No time. Trust me. It’s a cult the Gardeners were involved in. They’re trying to disrupt the Silver Pacific meeting. I have to get us away from here,” Lyndy said, as she threw the door wide and kicked it to prevent it bouncing back. The opening faced the downhill side. She jumped, landing on her feet but barely, using her good hand to brace herself.

The chill of the mountain air hit for the first time all day. So did the smell of fir, freshly cut. Acting on instinct, she wanted the vans as cover when she darted for the base of the large tree, where Lyndy had spotted the lady and the white truck. She heard shouting and someone honked. It was chaos.

Knowing the men were onto her, Lyndy felt her senses and focus sharpening. A fox on the run. She dashed horizontally along the downward slope of the mountain, parallel with shoulder of the road. She kept her head low. The soils were soft and she had to concentrate to keep from sliding further.

She heard more shouting.

It was twenty yards to the tree and when she got there, the woman with the chainsaw had whipped around. She was heavyset. Near the rear of the truck, she charged Lyndy, still clutching the chainsaw with two hands above her head.

“Don’t run,” said another voice to her left.

The angry female revved the sputtering motor, continuing to threaten Lyndy. Glancing to her left, Lyndy could see the men closing in.

The Spitfire knew she needed that vehicle. She dodged the attacking woman, who made a diagonal swooshing motion like a katana. If it landed, it would’ve sliced her and the baby diagonally. But chainsaws were heavy, and the laws of physics meant one could only make this move with a relatively slow and deliberate action. Lyndy reeled, shifting weight to her back right heel and arching her spine to avoid the blade.

Then with the woman bending at the hips and off balance, Lyndy lifted her foot and pivoted, landing a boot lug in the woman’s back and forcing her toward the male voice. Proceeding from there, she swept the woman’s legs out from under her. With the female on her side, falling against the limbs of the tree, Lyndy ripped the chainsaw from her grip and hurled it at the man.

“Hold your fire!” he shouted. “She has a kid.”

Next Lyndy turned her attention to the trio of males, the nearest, about six feet and with long hair had ducked to avoid being hit by the saw. He was reaching to grab her clothing. “Don’t run,” he warned. “We just need to talk to you.” His voice sounded reassuring.

“Not falling for that,” thought Lyndy.

Lyndy flipped the handle on the door to the Ford. Bracing against the truck bed to gain leverage, she side kicked the door at the attacker nailing him in the chest. Part of it had hit him in the hand. He backed up, clutching his wrist on his chest as he started reaching for his waist band with the other. Didn’t take long to go from we just want to talk, to prepare to die.

Lyndy didn’t wait to find out what type of firearm he had, instead she stomped on the clutch while twisting the key. She didn’t bother closing the door or even to climb all the way inside the truck. She only had half her butt positioned on the vinyl seat.

The tiny four-cylinder motor growled to life and the vehicle began to shake. She shoved the shifter and it screeched and squealed into first. Meantime the long-haired man hadn’t drawn a gun. Instead, he was reaching into the cab through the door. Lyndy fought with him by pushing on the door, then clawing his wrist with her nails. When that didn’t work, she stomped on the gas making the truck lurched forward.

The aggressor was knocked off balance. His shoulder was conked by the mirror and he twisted away, falling. The other two fellows blocked her path and aimed guns at her through the windshield.

“Ay caramba, this is not how I hoped it would go,” mouthed Lyndy.

Maribel was wailing. Lyndy flopped on her side like a dead fish, straining with her hand to keep the gas pedal pushed down. She peeked over the dash, needing to steer so she didn’t crash into the mountain on the other side. Sensing flashes of tree trunks, she wrenched the wheel a half-turn to the left.

The two men must’ve moved out of her way, as she felt nothing lumpy roll under the car. Then came rapid gunfire: a POP-POP-POP-POP. They were each emptying a magazine. The back window shattered, raining shards over everything. Instinctively, she squinted her eyes while ducking again. She tried to steer straight and could feel the road sloping, accelerating as fast she could.

Popping up like a meerkat, she needed to steer. In a split-second Lyndy jerked the wheel to the right, avoiding going straight over the side of the grade.

They had two spare SUVs. So, they’d be following, but at least she was on the move and she had a head start.

“What am I doing?” Lyndy voiced, trying to catch her breath.

She looked down at Mari, who was crying. She tried to think. She pushed back her bangs as she glanced at the dash. Her relief was short lived. The gas gauge was low and falling. The brake light was on. They must’ve struck the tank and damaged the brake line. “Wonderful!” At least it wasn’t the tires. Well, might be those too.

She nudged the shifter into second, picking up speed and using the sloping road to gain momentum. She wanted to go as fast as this rig could move and gravity would help.

“Shush, Vanilla Bean,” said Lyndy, trying to sound soothing.

Lyndy pounded on the plasticky dash and glove box. She peeled down the sunshade and a new pack of cigarettes fell in her lap. A Bic lighter was stuck in the door pocket. She continued to steer back and forth, using the brake as little as possible. The needle on the speedometer crossed fifty.

Lyndy read the label: “Maverick brand? Gross! Who buys this shit?” It was the most rotgut brand ever. Still, Lyndy crumpled the pack, plunging it into her dress. She did the same with the lighter. “Just save these for later.”

Lyndy glanced down into Mari’s unhappy face.

“Oh, don’t do it. Don’t you dare judge me,” scolded Lyndy aloud. “I carried you around for nine months. I sacrificed a whole dress size for you! Which I’m not getting back. Means nothing now, but one day you’ll understand.”

Lyndy needed to steer. The tires screeched for mercy as they negotiated a tight curve at twice the recommended speed. She looked down at Mari’s face. The look in her eyes was pure terror. As the wheel jerked back the other direction, they slid off the edge of the road and into a lumpy dirt ravine. Lyndy corrected at the last possible instant, saving them from certain doom.

Maribel squinted and screamed.

“Look Mari, you’re my kid. You’ll have to get used to some close calls.” With her teeth, Lyndy peeled off her gloves. She felt ridiculous in the fancy dress. “I know I’m not the kind of mom you would’ve signed up for. Believe me, I wouldn’t have picked my own mother. Yer grandma the redhead is one cold-hearted b-word. But ya know, let’s face facts. You’re like 75 percent mine. In case you didn’t know, Kyle doesn’t do much in the child rearing department.”

An oncoming station wagon honked. They were tourists frightened at her speeding and erratic driving behavior. Another car honked.

“Brakes are fading now,” Lyndy lamented, while feathering the pedal. “Time to pray.”

She continued to jerk the wheel and tried to keep from accelerating more. She glanced down to the fuel needle, which hovered on the orange E. She needed to get somewhere she could swap cars. She thought about hijacking somebody at random, but that would turn this into a felony. Plus, she didn’t have a weapon to threaten with. Just her fists, which frankly wouldn’t be scary coming from a woman in a dress with a baby Bjorn.

So then maybe the dark woods were the best chance to hide? She needed to find a dirt trail—anything, leading away from the park main road.

She checked the rearview on a long straightaway. Sure enough, a black SUV was gaining—one of those Mercedes brand imitation Jeep things. If only they had been the ones with the lights on, she could’ve stolen that.

Lyndy felt under the seat, hoping for anymore goodies. She only found one empty coke bottle, McDonald’s wrappers and a fistful of Doritos.

Lyndy locked eyes with her baby. Mari let out a great big: “WAAAHHH!”

“Same,” Lyndy agreed. “We need to get to the river. It’s better than the woods. Why you ask? Okay Lesson-1. The river is loud. It will negate the use of sound to find us. If we walk it, it will erase our tracks.”

At last, a narrow-paved road intersected the park highway from the right. It must be the one leading to Foresta camp. A good bet. She jerked the wheel right and they skidded into the new road. The truck fish-tailed around an outside curve, kicking up loose rocks.

The grade into Foresta was even steeper than expected, causing The Spitfire some regret. At the bottom of the hill was a hairpin curve to the right and she knew it would be too much. Desperately she tried to arrest their momentum, mashing the brake pedal to the floor, shifting to lower gear and wobbling the steering.

Sure enough, at the bottom they couldn’t manage. The truck bounced, went airborne and landed hard. Lyndy swerved to avoid a tree, which they would’ve hit head on. Lyndy tried her best to cradle the back of Mari’s head, lessening the jarring. She jerked the wheel and the white truck blew through a berm, catching air again and tipping at 45 degrees into a downward trajectory.

The little Ford went onto two wheels, nearly rolling headlong, but by the skin of its teeth flopped back down and they veered off into the heavy brush. Lyndy ducked and the car was slowed by increasingly thick trunks of manzanita and baby trees.

Thankfully, they came to a complete stop. When she sat up, she found a fresh tree branch had impaled the steering wheel through the middle. A ringer! Course, it would’ve been her scalp had she not stooped to the floor.

Lyndy pushed open the door, which had never fully latched.

From the outside, she caught a glimpse of the truck. Was a wonder it made it thus far. Bullet holes marred the tailgate like it’d been used for target practice. She scouted around, desperately thrashing her way to the road. She was trying to get her bearings while catching her breath.

The land was too exposed here. Even the woods weren’t deep enough. She’d be too easy to find in the night.

High above, she could see the grade of Big Oak Flat. That was where the sharp turnoff had been. On the steeper Foresta road she could see headlights of twin SUVs speeding down. They were coming right for her, having witnessed the wreck.

With the sun now dipping below the horizon, night was setting in quickly. She tried to remember what phase the moon had been, waxing or waning, but couldn’t recall. Either way, she needed to move. But to get to the Merced, they needed to lose another six-hundred-feet or so of elevation.

At last, she spotted the faintest hint of a game trail on the right. She jogged toward it while the baby screamed again: “WAAAAAAH!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” replied Lyndy, in a motherly tone. “We’re not gonna die or anything. Though I suggest you use those baby fingers of yours to hold onto my dress. On a scree slope, Lyndy quit running and began to glide on her feet and partly her back. The good news, they were dropping fast, on their way presumably to the water’s edge. If she could get there, there were cabins, roadside motels and other settlements. They’d be close to supplies, baby formula perhaps. Plus, there’d be better hiding places.

[Disclaimer: Please don’t go writing in claiming Lyndy Martinez is being irresponsible. Just generally do not imitate anything Lyndy does. You’ll be okay. –ASC]

Valley Girl Part-12

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In my opinion this is one of the riskiest things you can do on a horse or a mule. In that moment, the animal seems to know exactly what you’re doing and they’ll take full advantage. -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: One balmy August night at the VP myself, Rita, Catherine, Rochelle Bishop and Debbie K. were occupying one of the tight booths, drinking beer. It’s probably the only time I remember us all being in one place. A table runner passes by with a tray of banana splits and I said something like, “you can leave those here.” Rita casually let slip this gem: “You know I never tasted a banana. Are they good?” It was like one of those record scratch moments. The roadhouse goes silent and the four of us chant at once: “YOU’VE NEVER EATEN A BANANA???”

The next morning Yosemite Valley was enveloped in fog so thick it dripped from the building eaves, and a mist of water beads coated every painted surface. It was also the day of the dam tour, an event Lyndy dreaded, but felt obligation to attend. If only to show solidarity with Dr. Ellis, a man who’d put up with so much. Now, after the events at Camp-4, she felt even more guilty. Deep down, he probably didn’t want to go either.

Rented vans were idling for them in the covered lobby entry. Her injured shoulder was throbbing so bellhops helped Lyndy load up Maribel’s buggy, along with a satchel of baby supplies. She pitied the unfortunates who might endure a ride with her, as they’d be trapped in a white tour van for a gurgling, babbling scream fest.

Boxes containing croissants were passed around, to substitute for breakfast.

The atmosphere in the car couldn’t have been more awkward if somebody died and they were on their way to a funeral parlor—with the body in the car. Nobody wanted to make small-talk, especially not Kyle. Mari continued to whine, but gradually dozed off as the van got up to speed.

What wasn’t being said, is what made it uncomfortable: How Dr. Ellis lectured her the night before, catching her red-handed at a climber party. His bitter words: “Why did I think you would change once you had a baby? What’s wrong with me that I assumed you were growing up? Did I have some outdated notion, when a free spirit is responsible for a child, they’ll adapt?”

Her comebacks were tepid and she hardly defended her actions. Lyndy already knew the answers. Saying aloud, “I require constant validation and it makes me prone to emotional cheating,” would’ve been pouring gasoline on a fire. She kept the truth to herself.

They’d gotten little sleep. She stared out the window in silence, keeping peace.

The drive down from the mountains, toward the central valley was a study in contrasts. Deputy Keynes used to say you could feel the weight of a long drought. The land itself smelled different. As he described it, even the trees were visibly wilting. Like a thirsty houseplant.

Where up high, winter snowpack and heavy spring storms nurtured the lush meadows and pine forests, this rapidly gave way to parched conditions. The hillsides below were dotted with a few evergreens, but most nurtured scrubland and grass prairies. The ecosystem had long been thrown out of whack by fire, invasive plant species and ranching.

After a while, she glanced over to see what Kyle was up to. He was dozing, and she contemplated touching his fingers. Hoping to improve her situation, Lyndy had worn a black and white dress, fancy gloves and a fashionable wide brimmed hat—something the Ellis family termed garden or tennis match attire. Kyle preferred it when she dressed her age and like one of his family.

Sadly, the quiet interlude didn’t last. The annoying woman seated next to her, a civil engineer’s spouse, couldn’t possibly hold it in. She began regaling Lyndy with a tale about New York City shopping, lunch in Bloomingdale’s and bumping into someone famous, Liza Minelli maybe—Lyndy cared so little she didn’t catch the name—in a night club. Crazy. The Spitfire only feigned interest in these topics, while avoiding solid eye contact. Even the perpetual whimpering from Maribel didn’t seem to faze this lady. Fortunately, the twisty turns of the mountain road soon made the woman queasy, then she held her tongue.

The weather cleared as they exited the park boundary, beginning a steeper descent. With this transition the temperature rose, and in place of clouds, a layer of smog clung to the adjoining foothills. The sky was literally a shade of grayish-brown by the time the caravan neared the flats, reminding her of a summer day in LA. It was a jarring transition in such a short time. The park and the Sierras truly felt like an oasis.

A half-hour later they exited the highway, took a sharp right and bounced down a dirt road. The outside air became hot. She could feel it through cracks in the windows. The convoy of vans followed the dusty trail into a sprawling ranch, where oaks clumped in patches, interspersed with rolling cow pastures. The seasonal grasses had cured to golden brown, while the trees, mostly the evergreen variety had taken on a bluish green hue. Here and there, cattle wallowed in muddy ponds to escape the oppressive sun.

Lyndy retrieved her sunglasses from their pouch, slipping them over the bridge of her nose, protecting from the glare. She expected the day’s activities to include boring speeches, a walking tour, drinks in those clear plastic cups they use at weddings and maybe a tray of chocolate cookies. What she hadn’t been anticipating were protestors.

A chain of twenty folks blocked the farm road.

The driver in front honked their way through, dispersing the line of people holding signs. The group parted, but continued chanting as each van passed. She watched, reading a few of the picket boards as they moved slowly by. One said: “Stop Bleeding Farmland Dry” another “Save the Salmon” and another “No Dam, Use Less Water.”

That last one made sense.

Seconds later the tour parked in a circle at an overlook, where one could see across a grass valley terrain. It spanned perhaps ten to fifteen miles until the visibility lessened and the hills faded to featureless outlines.

Lyndy squinted at the scene, envisioning another of those eyesores: an earthen clay dam rising 300 feet, like a landfill in profile, backing up the wild river and forming a ponderously big lake. Probably a muddy reservoir with murky waters the shade of a schoolyard puddle. A far cry from the model she’d seen on display at the hotel. She tried to make sense of it all, but some things weren’t there to look pretty.

They fashioned a makeshift podium, with the Silver-Pacific logo on a banner pinned to the front. Publicity photos were taken, which Lyndy declined to be in. Kyle held binoculars, listening politely to the speakers, going with the flow on the rest of the tour. Yards away, The Spitfire fanned her face, pushing Mari’s buggy back and forth and keeping a bottle of water on her lips. She wished she’d brought a book.

After the chief engineer spoke, he gave an opportunity for questions. No one raised a finger, knowing it was a formality. Who would even bother? But Lyndy did, holding up her good arm. Because they were ignoring her, she cleared her throat, tilted back her hat and lifted her glove a bit higher. She even rose onto her toes for extended reach.

The fellow in a business suit and cowboy hat put his palm up to shade his eyes. He was looking over the crowd to see who made the sound.

“Yes?” he said, spotting her at last. He braced with both hands on the podium, and a gruff, skeptical look came over him. After all, it was only a female, someone’s spouse—or so he thought—asking a question. Probably expected something silly, like “when does the food arrive.”

Instead, Lyndy shouted, “Who built the scale model you have on display in the library at the hotel?”

The engineer hadn’t anticipated the question, evidenced in the way he grinned and rocked back. One of his eager assistants stepped up to intervene. But the chief waved the youngster away. “No. No, I can answer,” he declared. “Happy to answer.” He began folding up and putting away some notes to prevent his papers flying away. While doing this he hunched to speak into the microphone and replied: “we contracted with a small firm in San Francisco. Their artists construct miniatures for the motion picture industry.” He shifted his gaze back to the crowd with a smug expression. “They built two of those beauties.”

“Then where is the second model?” Lyndy asked.

But the man didn’t respond. He pretended not to hear, switching off the microphone and strutting away.

Lyndy glanced to Kyle with a raised brow. He was shaking his head with his hands in his pockets, distancing himself. With the speeches ending, Kyle got caught again in conversation, this time with representatives from the state water agency.

Meantime Lyndy took Maribel for a short stroll, keeping her shaded and fanning her face. Her cheeks were turning red and she didn’t want the poor infant to faint while simply trying to entertain her. Lyndy stayed within sight of the group.

Minutes later …

The protesters couldn’t be kept away indefinitely. They snuck in to interrupt the meal and generally make a nuisance. Lyndy watched with amusement, from the shade of a tree and next to an abandoned barn structure. She was busy pushing and pulling the stroller, when she felt the presence of another soul following her.

It was a tall, fiftyish woman, with tangled hair and a crazed look her in her eye. She had the hippie vibe but lacked any sort of friendliness. On one shoulder she had a hemp backpack and on the other, she carried a sign.

Lyndy pulled the stroller near, tensing up.

“Oh, I didn’t see you sweetie,” hissed the lady, with a squeaky voice. “Look at you.”

Lyndy maintained eye contact, but spoke nothing and tried not to express any emotion. She was assessing one of two possibilities: this strange woman was just an ordinary harmless protestor, or the latter, this woman was fresh out of a halfway house and off her meds. While the first option was more likely, she felt she needed to stay on guard, in case it was the latter.

“Look at you,” the woman repeated in disgust. “Still got your looks. That’s nice. Got your boutique summer dress. And your two-thousand-dollar baby stroller. Your husband’s down there, trying to close another deal. Sell our water to some city 300 miles away, where the homes cost half million a pop and us farmers have to pay more. I know you. You’re the Valley Girl.”

She knew it would shock this woman to find out Lyndy was an old-fashioned east L.A. girl. Back in the day Aunt Rose would’ve been offended if anyone accused her of being from “The Valley.” Heaven forbid! They couldn’t rightly be considered Angelinos to her aunt. Still, it was hard to argue with the larger points.

Lyndy tilted her head. “You all don’t know me,” she argued, though she didn’t elaborate. She wasn’t sure why, except there was nothing to explain. It’s not as though the Martinez family had any part in this boondoggle. If any Martinez’s were involved, they would’ve been the ones getting hoodwinked out of their farm water.

“Charlie thinks you’re the one who answered the call.”

“What call?” Lyndy countered. “And he’s not my husband.”

“Oh. You wanna talk now?” said the woman facetiously. She circled gradually to one side, continuing to eye her, like a witch preparing to cast a hex. “The call was meant for Kristen Gardner. Charlie thinks it was you though, impersonating Kristen. He thinks you got the code.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you folks need to find a new hobby,” Lyndy admonished. “I’m serious. The state decided the outcome of this dam situation, not some holding company. Nobody here made the decisions and it won’t benefit me one dime.” Lyndy paused, took a breath and put her fists on her hips. “Stay away from my baby.”

The woman seemed confused. She kept staring her down, but once in a while her eyes shifted to the baby. Although it got under Lyndy’s skin, she kept her cool. Pretending to be unruffled, Lyndy reached down to stroke the hair away from Maribel’s forehead. She felt better as Kyle came charging their way, having noticed the protester. “Hey, you! You need to rejoin your people,” he scolded, meaning the protestors.

The crazy woman gave one last look and said, “Charlie wants to know what you heard. He wants to meet you. He’s coming.”

Lyndy rolled her eyes and made a face, to say, “I have no idea what you’re ranting about.”

Then the woman scampered off, trying to avoid Kyle.

“You alright?” asked Kyle, as he arrived out of breath.

“Fine,” replied Lyndy.

“I didn’t think there’d be so many of em here—they aren’t even farmers. They’re from the city, San Jose mainly. The dang tour wasn’t announced until the last minute.” He took a hold of the stroller and began pushing it. “You look great by the way. I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep it up.”

Lyndy laughed, playing with the ribbons that were meant to keep her hat in place.

By now Maribel was napping hard. Perhaps it was the heat taking effect. “Between you and me, I’m having doubts about this project.” Kyle whispered to her as he kissed Maribel’s forehead. “There’s an active fault crossing the valley right here. The dam will be straddling it diagonally, which I’m not totally comfortable with. I might be changing my mind.” He shook his head, sounding disillusioned. “My business partners aren’t going to like this.”

After the tour was over, they ate a picnic lunch, but it was far away from the podium where they wouldn’t be bothered. She couldn’t stop thinking about the model. When she got back the first thing Lyndy wanted to do was peek underneath. Ninety-eight percent chance it was nothing but white foam and plywood. Two percent chance, Charlie had planted a bomb.

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

Lyndy followed the narrow, sloping drives until she arrived in the flats of downtown, a gridded maze of streets lined with boutique shopping. It was a brisk walk with pleasant weather. And while much had changed in the presidio, at least a few things were familiar—basically any building over a hundred years of age!

She located a nice bar, open to the busy sidewalk and with seating available. The joint was loud, with constant sounds of glasses clinking, young people laughing.

The hip saloon had Herradura Blanco on their top shelf, the real deal. She would’ve known if they tried to pass off the horseshoe-stamped bottle with a lesser substitute. Even the smell brought back sweet memories.

The bartender was a young, dark-haired man. She motioned for the tequilas, miming a horseshoe shape with her two pointer fingers, then miming a shot. Wait no. Two shots.

The bartender grinned kindly, setting out two shot glasses in front of her.

Her head was filled with recollections of Rita. She thought of those color prints Fred had given her, still in her purse. Around her spot at the bar, fencing the shot glasses, she set a few of them out: A fashion shoot. A trip to Santa Fe. The Grand Canyon with a race car. A bucking horse. A night club, both of them wearing party dresses. She wasn’t sure who’d taken that one. A snapshot of Rita holding a magazine, pointing to herself on the cover, big smile on her face. That one was pretty cool, at a grocery store checkout line. The next, in the not-so-cool category, was Rickman slow dancing—quite embarrassingly—with Lyndy his date making a silly face. Rita had taken that.

Presently, Rickman was resting six feet underground at the National Cemetery.

Lyndy tilted her chin back, downing the liquor and wiping her lips. She slammed down the glasses. These feelings were suffocating. Like ropes binding her arms and chest, they were cutting off circulation. She held her cheeks in her palms. She could feel sands of the desert swallowing her toes. She could feel the grit of the dust. She could sense the hair of the horse’s mane, strong and soft at the same time, brushing upon her cheeks. The wind whipping it so it tickled her nose at full gallop.

You know, maybe she deserved a share of that money? Fred Simmons had a point.

And she heard a gruff, angry male voice: “Hey, are you Lyndy Martinez?”

Lyndy lifted her head, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

It was a man with a shaven head, fifty years of age and macho looking. That cliché scene from a Western movie, except lacking the bullet vests and the holsters. In some ways scarier. He was dressed as a biker.

She wasn’t sure what came over her, but she answered, “yes”, meekly.

The fellow clenched a fist in front of her and said: “My brother went to jail for life cause of you.”

“Huh?” Lyndy reached for the other shot glass and made sure none of the colorless liquid remained. She’d drained both, asking “hit me please,” in the direction of the bartender.

“When did this occur?” asked Lyndy. “How?”

“In the late nineties. You turned him in to the Feds.”

“I did?” The cogs started turning. She recalled her life raising young Maribel in Lake Arrowhead, wearing those silly dresses and hats for Kyle Ellis. The Spitfire laughed. It seemed like a dream sequence or one of those fifties’ era TV shows: Donna Reed. It wasn’t timely, but she couldn’t help laughing.

“What’s funny about that?”

Lyndy downed another fresh shot and wiped her lips. “I wasn’t even … I mean … I didn’t do anything resembling my old work from 1995 until the year 2011. Literally. I was a stay-at-home mom. Not a good one, mind you. My kid’s kind of messed up like me. I reminded her every day she’s an Ellis, not a Martinez, but I can see it in her. I can see the Martinez blood in her. Makes me sad.”

“What are you saying? I’m a liar?”

By this time, the bar crowd had turned their attention to the weird exchange with the angry dude. Anyone under 40 had probably not heard of Lyndy Martinez, especially not if they stayed out of the desert.

“Yes, I think you are a liar,” Lyndy echoed confidently.

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-9

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Coconino County AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santa Barabara,” answered Lyndy.

“Why? Are you with someone?”

“Uh… actually yes. A guy.”

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

“It would seem so yes.”

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

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

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

Lyndy chuckled.

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

Lyndy chuckled again.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. What for?”

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

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

“I am,” Cathy confirmed.

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

“I wasn’t anticipating that.”

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

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

“What did she say?”

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

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

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

“Yes. That’s where he lives.”

“Okay, better call me later!”

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

Several hours later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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????

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Tag Archives: historical-fiction

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Valley Girl Part-6

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