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Valley Girl Part-22

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-22

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

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lyndy snorted. “My makeup case?”

“Yeah, that thing,” he replied.

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

How could she leave like this?

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

“What are you scheming?” Kyle questioned.

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

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

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

“Miss Martinez?”

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

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

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

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

“Not sure. Minutes if we’re lucky.”

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

Brandt sniffed. “That I can believe.”

Minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less time than she hoped for.

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

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

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

“What’s a matter?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh right.” That’ll be 5-8-5-3.

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yavapai County, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They hung their helmets on their handlebars.

Mari sat up in her chair.

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

“Howdy,” said Mari cheerily.

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

Mari shook her head emphatically.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll show you.”

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

“Follow me,” said Mari.

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

Valley Girl Part-21

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If you’re enjoying this story, and it’s not too much trouble, hit the “Like” so Lyndy knows you’re there. TIA! -ASC

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-21

Yosemite National Park, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: If Aunt Rose had a superpower, it was the ability to be in a sour mood nonstop for days on end. Rose Martinez hardly ever smiled, rarely spoke an encouraging word and possessed few other likable qualities. On the other hand, her tortillas were extraordinary. I could eat ten of those in one sitting as a teenager. And I can’t say I ever ate a homemade or restaurant style tortilla which could match hers for fluffiness, texture or overall taste.

No part of Lyndy’s body wanted to do a hike—not even her hair. Her skin was itchy. Her stomach grumbled for real food. Her shoulders ached, and every now and then pinched so that her whole neck contorted into a painful clench. She just wanted to crawl into bed. Given a choice of going on a strenuous hike or balancing her checkbook, she’d choose the latter.

Unfortunately, Neil had taken Mari hostage.

“You are the toughest woman I’ve ever met,” he encouraged, but Lyndy continued to grumble without responding. She folded her arms, dragging her feet as she moved.

The trail climbed a steep ridge beyond the sawmill, into a forest of new growth conifers. Ponderosa and Jeffrey pines, hardy incense cedar and some red firs populated the landscape. The understory was a mix of shrubs, huckleberry and heather. Bluebirds flitted from the lower branches, leading them away from their spring nesting sites.

In time, the clouds lifted and sunlight began to poke through, a vibrant yellow in the late afternoon. Beads of water glistened where they adhered to pine boughs and cones, reflecting the natural world into twisted spheres, making the trees sparkle as if they had tiny crystal ornaments attached. And though she wasn’t exactly thrilled, Lyndy began dwelling less on her misery, seeing things she’d not anticipated. Even the blades of grass and petals of a daisy held fresh dew.

The trees began to sway as a breeze picked up. She felt the chill of high altitude and it gave the skin on her arms goosebumps. It must have been a mile and a half in, judging by the passing of time, when they paused for a break.

There, Neil offered up baby Maribel.

At the time Lyndy was busy catching her breath, her palms flat upon her thighs.

“I’ll give you her, if you promise to keep walking behind me,” Neil warned.

Lyndy looked up to meet his piercing gaze. In reality, it wasn’t much of a choice. If she tried to flee, he could easily outrun her. He had longer legs, was better rested and knew the terrain. She’d never be able to outpace him back to the staging area. Exhaling, Lyndy reached out her arms, taking back her baby. Mari squirmed and Lyndy tucked her into the baby Bjorn, like a kangaroo pouch. The baby felt restless, not liking the motion and probably wanting to be fed.

Neil didn’t pause much longer. He turned to scramble higher.

After a few more minutes of trekking the slope began leveling off, and they reached a mesa-like flat zone. Here there was an opening in the canopy, fewer trees overall. She’d been watching her feet, concentrating on not stumbling, but when Lyndy next lifted her gaze, she was overcome by a child-like wonder. A rush of pure delight made her forget her troubles. Across a small stream stood a tree-trunk as big around as a grain silo.

The orangish bark with massive ridges and roots like elephant trunks, helped it seem even more fairy tale like. The settlers would’ve had a heck of a time describing this to their cousins back home. Sure, sure, just one tree branch as big around as a piano!

Lyndy leaned back to take in the scale, straining to spot the crown of the colossal tree. As she twisted her body, she noticed there were more giants towering in the distance. By a quick counting they numbered in the dozens. All she could do was marvel at the sight.

“That’s a sequoia!” she exclaimed, stating the obvious.

Mari’s eyes were doing that googly-eyed baby thing, trying to make sense of her surroundings. But Lyndy would’ve sworn the girl had a smile. In all her days, she’d not seen anything as wondrous. Lyndy looked to Neil. “How old are these trees?”

“This one? Easily, over 3000 years.”

Lyndy remembered the sawmill. “Wait, why would they leave these?”

“Two reasons. Firstly, the wood tends to be brittle for this species, and isn’t as good for building as you might think. But the other reason, is they recognized how special these trees are. They’ve been growing here since the last ice age. The men knew if they felled all the giant sequoias there would be none left for future generations to be in awe of, like us. They wisely set these aside, while logging the lesser trees.”

Neil beckoned Lyndy to hop the creek and make their way into the grove.

Twenty yards deep into the clearing he dropped to a seated position, like someone enjoying a picnic. Patting the soft grasses and pine needles, he pointed out the small wild daisies.

Hesitating, Lyndy paced a circle, afraid to sit down. But after a while, seeing how comfy he looked and that he wasn’t sinking into mud, she settled on a spot to take a rest. She folded her legs in a meditative pose. She glanced to Neil Conner, not deviating from her pouting seriousness. He gazed back making apologetic eyes. She wasn’t falling for that. She couldn’t shake her apprehensive thoughts, what might be happening in the valley.

After the exchange of looks, lacking words to express themselves they leaned back, resting their heads flat on a bed of pine needles. They gazed skyward together—baby and all—to the blueness and the unknown. Listening to the creaking of the upper canopy in the wind, watching the sky with its hints of high cirrus, breathing the cool air, Lyndy lost herself.  She felt Maribel gazing up too.

“You know what I was thinking about,” said Lyndy. “On the hike up.”

“What?”

“I was thinkin bout my mom. How I wasted so much time and energy being angry at her for abandoning me and my brother, leaving us with Aunt Rose and disappearing.” Lyndy sniffed. “Lately it occurs to me, she was what, 23 or 24 years old when she did that? What the heck did she know about life or parenting, or commitment? I didn’t have a kid til I was 40, and look at me. I don’t really know what I’m doing do I?”

Neil chuckled.

“You were right about something,” Lyndy managed.

“Bout what?”

“This is a nice spot,” Lyndy agreed. She sighed, contemplating for a good minute or two the sounds of nature—letting her heart soar.

She wasn’t sure whether she dozed off or not, but she’d been lost in a daydream when the sounds of twigs snapping, and the approach of heavy footsteps jostled them both to alertness. She sat up in a blink.

“DON’T MOVE AN INCH!” someone commanded. Gazing to the direction of the noise, she saw the profile of Ranger Brandt. He had his revolver trained on Neil.

Gradually, Neil raised both his hands, showing he wasn’t clutching a weapon.

Brandt’s eyes darted, seemingly aware of a partner nearby, covering him. It was Ruby, emerging from behind one of the enormous tree trunks. He’d been tracking too.

“Lyndy!” Neil complained, like a little kid who’d been caught stealing candy. He eyed her angrily. “How could you?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she argued.

“You didn’t lead them here?” Neil accused.

“No, I didn’t, I swear.” Should have thought of that though, she reasoned. Not like this little walk in the park was going to turn her onto his cause anyway.

“She didn’t lead us here,” Brandt confirmed. “We had a tracker on Kristen’s sedan.” Sheriff Ruby removed a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Get down on your stomach Mr. Conner,” he commanded to Neil.

Lyndy stood up, brushing off her ruined dress. “Watch out, he’s got a cattle prod. If he tries anything I can help take him.” Lyndy pushed back her hair. “What about the hotel? Is it still standing?” she wondered aloud.

“Of course,” answered Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy looked over at Neil, who had a guilty expression as he tilted his body forward. “Not for much longer,” he mouthed.

Next Lyndy locked eyes with Ranger Brandt. “We gotta move if want to save it.”

Coconino County, AZ 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: One afternoon at CBB I walk in to find Mr. Chan laughing like a hyena at the TV, almost falling out of his chair. It was unusual for him to genuinely laugh, especially during business hours. Upon investigating, a looney tunes cartoon was playing, the one where Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny are arguing whether it’s “duck season” or “rabbit season”. That is a classic.

It started innocently. Fred Simmons met Lyndy in the waiting area of the Flagstaff airport. Outside with the sun going down, lights in the parking lot were just blinking on. Lyndy had a big smile on her face and so did he. He had one overnight bag, his dapper suit jacket on and under his arm a box of genuine Mustang parts.

Holding the weathered box out—with its original faded label on the side—he presented it proudly as he rushed to meet her. “This is it!”

“My Ford is in my friend’s hangar. I brought it with me so we can work on it here.”

He’d not thought to question how Lyndy managed to drive onto the airport grounds, whether with a permit or some supposed friend working there. With the kind of woman she was, she presumably had connections. Of course, other cars like the fastback were parked on airport grounds, alongside the private hangars. Most of them were rich people who owned Cessnas.

Lyndy pushed through a beefy gate, which said authorized personnel only. He followed her into the closed area with the private hangars. Once there, she beckoned him into a side door for one of many steel buildings. The lights were out. Peering into the darkened room for any signs of the Ford, he felt two strangers—strong men—grabbing his arms and lifting his feet off the ground. A bag slipped over his head, and before he could yell or manage much of a resistance, he felt himself being rolled into something stiff like carpet.

The next thing Fred Simmons knew, he awoke in a wooden chair with his head face down on a tabletop. Restraints were tightly wrapped around his wrists and ankles, securing him to the chair. Straining to separate them was no use, as he discovered they’d been bound with zip ties.

The room was dim and quiet but he sensed he was not alone. An odor of ancient dust and juniper smoke permeated, tickling his nostrils. His eyes strained to focus in the darkness and he could see five outlines, statue-like figures seated across the room, opposite him on the floor. Their backs were resting against the stone wall, meditative style. He wished for it to be a dream, but it most certainly was not.

The floors were composed of something like packed clay.

Fred soon deduced he was sitting in an underground kiva, the coals at the center still smoldering and glowing orange. The other occupants were dressed in robes, but the curious thing is that each wore an elaborately constructed mask—ceremonial masks. The mask enclosed their heads, blocking their faces completely. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the coals, he could see they were canines: Two of the masks were larger, wolves with lighter whitish fur tones, whiskers and fuzzy ears. A pair of the figures were coyotes. The figure all the way to the right belonged to a smaller person, and the head was a fox with orangish fur.

“This is highly illegal,” declared Fred, lacking a cleverer response. “You all can’t do this. You can’t hold someone against their will. You’re in big trouble.”

No one responded. The fox-masked person on the far right stood up slowly, as if their joints were old and achy. The fox approached him, walking like a woman. Something like fresh creosote had been smeared across the coals, and this mixture began to crackle and pop, emitting a new powerful new aroma. At the same time a soothing, spacey Enya type music began to play from an unseen speaker.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the fox. The voice he recognized, had to be Lyndy Martinez. “We are gathered here today for an unusual but important reason. We are here to honor the legacy of an extraordinary woman, one great admirer of indigenous peoples and culture. In so doing, you will be taking a short quiz.”

“If this is about Gillian’s inheritance …”

The fox put up a hand. “Excuse me I’m talking,” she scolded.

“You guys can’t go around kidnapping people. I will report this.” But Fred’s mind began reeling with a vision of how exactly to report this unusual incident to law enforcement. The description alone would be hard to prove. On top of this, it was Lyndy whom he needed to strongarm into signing the affidavit—not the other way around. He could hardly accuse her of blackmail. “Where am I?” Fred demanded.

The fox turned its head gradually to the left and right. “A kiva,” she answered. The other canines hardly moved an inch, but he knew they were living. They watched him motionless, and it was unsettling not being able to read the reactions of a human face. Their wolf and coyote masks were unchanging. Every once in a while, he swore he could see their eyelids blinking above their snouts, in tiny holes cutout for the eyes.

“Well, what do you want? I already offered you a third share of the fortune. Do you want more? You’ll never be able to spend it all. That’s about 300 million.”

“We are gathered here to honor the spirit of Rita Lovelace. A woman, who I promise never did anything for the money if it meant being dishonest.”

“How is this an honor?” Fred strained against the plastic bindings. He squirmed in the chair, but it made him feel weak knowing he was trapped. He felt himself sweating.

“We are taking a quiz,” answered the fox.

“Okay. Fine. What kind of test?”

The fox cleared her throat, having paused halfway across the room. “Today’s quiz will be titled: How well do I know Rita Lovelace?” Sweetness infused her tone; in ways he’d not remembered. Lyndy Martinez, in spite of her reputation and some years of smoking, still had a youthfulness in her voice. “Don’t worry, it’s multiple choice. You won’t have to conjure anything from scratch.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll take the quiz. What does it prove though?”

“It proves whether you were wedded to Rita Lovelace. Like you say. If that’s true, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Fred exhaled, hating himself for having been tricked. He hadn’t thought she’d do this, as Lyndy seemed so earnest when she met him at the airport. “I suppose if I get the answers wrong, you won’t be signing the affidavit.”

The fox didn’t directly answer, instead offering, “Everyone on our panel has a copy of the quiz, with correct responses marked. That way there’s no funny business.” She unfolded a sheet of stationary, something a wedding invitation might come printed on. The fox cleared her throat. “As we know Rita was born in Phoenix, her father a businessman and her mother a model. What famous woman was Rita named after? A. Rita Moreno. B. Rita Coolidge. C. Rita Rudner. D. Rita Hayworth.”

Fred sniffed, trying not to sneeze at the dust and drifting creosote smoke. “Some of those are too young,” he muttered. “Gotta be Rita Hayworth.”

“That’s right,” answered the fox excitedly. “Cha-Ching.”

“This is stupid,” Fred complained, straining again to adjust his stance, as his frame was bent sharply against the table. He felt his eyes tearing up from stress. “Let’s hurry up.”

The Enya music was maddening in this environment.

“Chompin at the bit, I see. We’ll move on.” The fox cleared her throat again, circling around the fire pit and pacing to the left side of the kiva. She stared down at her slip of paper, though she must’ve known what was coming in advance. “Rita had a lifelong passion for horsemanship, along with western culture. She was a talented rider and raised foals on her ranch in Tucson. What was the name of Rita’s all-time favorite horse. I’ll make it easy, cause Rita loved mares. A. Akrivia. B. Shimmer. C. Nightfall. D. Sunset.

Fred exhaled sharply. He shook his head, then let it droop on the table.

“I’ll give you another hint. There’s a grave marker with this mare’s name chiseled upon it, where she spread her ashes.”

“Fine. It’s B. She liked weird names.”

The fox shook her head plainly. “That’s wrong.”

“I don’t care. Give me another one. We never talked about horses. It would’ve been too painful.”

“For the record it was Nightfall. Okay. Moving on. Rita had a good head for business, owning several art galleries among her other ventures. She valued one quality in an employee above any other. A. Loyalty. B. Results. C. Ability to generate profit. D. Intelligence.”

“I dunno, loyalty.”

“That’s an important one, the root of many future problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I promise you; in no way did Rita value loyalty.” The fox paced to the opposite side of the firepit, moving away from the drifting smoke.  “Moving on. What annoying habit did Rita have after drinking to excess? A. Removing her clothes. B. Throwing up. C. Fighting. D. Dancing with strangers.”

“This is stupid.”

“What’s your answer?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She didn’t drink with me; she’d given it up. I guess B. Throwing up.”

Without words, the fox shook her head. “It’s A.”

“This is so stupid,” Fred repeated, impatience boiling over. “You’re missing out on the big picture. There’s nearly a billion dollars at stake and you would rather play games?”

“This last question is so important it’s worth two points, like a lightning round. You’re still in the game and can tie it up, if you get this right. At a fancy outdoor wedding in Malibu, Lyndy Martinez and Rita Lovelace had their last and final falling out. Lyndy was expelled from the wedding, fired from her job at Lovelace Corp. and Rita cruelly cutoff all communication. They never exchanged one single word again. What embarrassing incident at the wedding precipitated this last straw event: A. Lyndy made out with a stranger in a catering tent. B. Lyndy was drunk and ranting about politics. C. Lyndy pants’ed the groom. D. All of the above.”

A sound of girlish laugher filled the kiva, one of the coyotes breaking character. The high voice meant the coyote was another female, but younger. Perhaps both the coyotes were female, Fred reasoned.

The wolves looked at her and she quickly regained composure.

“What’s yer answer?” demanded the fox.

Fred inhaled nervously.

“D. All of the above,” said Fred.

“Oh my god,” lamented the fox, dropping her arms to her sides and shaking her snout. “How poor is your opinion? Admittedly, Miss Martinez had been drinking that day. And this led to teasing, as she and the groom knew one another. For some reason, not having any foresight, Lyndy immaturely decided to prank the groom. Rita witnessed it—leading to the most awkward wedding moment ever. If she could go back in time, it’s the one thing Lyndy would change.”

The same coyote began to cover a laugh, but still did not remove its mask.

“So, what. I got it wrong? You didn’t do all those things?”

“Very wrong. In fact, you only got one question correct overall.”

“So, what now? You’re not signing? You’re crazy!” Fred seethed in anger. “For Pete sake, all this cause I didn’t know you pants’ed a dude at a wedding? Big deal. Rita over-reacted.”

Both coyotes stood up, moving toward the fox. They linked arms, standing on either side of the fox. “There isn’t anyone in the Lovelace firm who didn’t later know that happened. It was absolutely legendary, obviously a bad decision. We were getting wine at the reception, surrounded by a dozen people. Lyndy tried to apologize over and over. But Rita wouldn’t have it … Rita shouldn’t have cut all ties and never spoken to her for the rest of their lives. After all the times Lyndy saved her and all the experiences they shared as best friends. Rita was wrong too. Rita did not value loyalty. Everyone knew that.”

“I’m sorry Rita did that to you,” grumbled Fred.

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, what now?” Fred scanned the room. A chill ran through him. “What now? What about the money? We need to lock up that deal.” He tried to kick the table with his knees, but they were bound too tightly. He struggled to free himself, letting out a groan when this final act of defiance failed.

The fox touched fingers upon the fur along her snout, then patted them in a circle below her ears. Fred wondered whether Lyndy were about to remove the mask. But she did not.

“I’ve been told, I’m getting a facial,” answered the fox.

Fred came to later that day on a bench, in front of the airport.

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-10

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: You know how the great inventor Steve Jobs went through an “apple phase” whereby he only ate apples morning, noon and night? Allegedly this is how the name Apple Computer came to be. Well, me and Rita went through a “hot dog” phase, where we consumed grilled hot dogs every living day without fail. I don’t recommend this habit, due to the nitrates which we knew nothing about. Between us we went through gallons of mustard in a month, and I remember one time we drove to the grocery store and they were out of buns. Rita practically had a meltdown in the bread aisle.

A veil of smoke drifted in between the pines catching rays of light, ghostly but smelling of summer. The warm dry air was soothing to the skin, making one want to put on shorts or a dress—perfect for a cookout. Strolling from the bus stop, this was the Camp-4 scene: party R&B music on a boom box, charcoal grills sizzling, huddles of people laughing, talking.

Lyndy spotted Neil holding forth, recounting his “big wall” adventure stories to a circle of younger climbers. Picture a sensei surrounded by pupils. She could see how Erica might describe him as a celebrity. He paced confidently as he spoke, walking a figure-eight, delighting each admirer whenever he happened to meet their gaze.

Everyone had a cold drink in hand.

A few of the ladies present were college age, with hardly what could be considered a top—they were enthralled just as much. Spaghetti strap tanks were about as modest as it got for these campers. Lyndy felt out of place, as she and Neil were likely to be the two “elders” on site.

Lyndy rolled Mari’s stroller into a flat, out of the way spot, shielded by a tree stump. She then raised the retractable roof extension to block out some of the stimulation. There was no avoiding the thumping music though. Hopefully Mari would adapt. Nice to have something tickling the eardrums other than constant baby whimpering.

Next, she spotted Erica in the clearing, working a hula-hoop like an absolute boss, with those glowing plastic necklaces one gets at concerts.

Then she locked eyes with Neil. Neil stopped everything when he saw her, parting the crowd and marching up to Lyndy as his friends watched. He helped her place a towel over the opening on the stroller, for shade and to help Mari feel more comfortable.

“Glad you made it!” greeted Neil. “There’s a whole potluck table set up over there,” he explained. “Help yourself to anything you want to drink.”

Lyndy darted to the table, scanning for a stack of red solo cups. Searching in vain, she realized everyone else had brought those metal cups you get at camping stores. “Oh shoot. You’re supposed to bring your own tin cup?”

“You can have one of mine,” answered Neil. “Lemme just rinse out the gunk first.”

Lyndy examined the selection of red and white boxed wines, positioned on the ends of the table allowing one to hold a cup under the spigot. There were five boxes in total, enough for a small army.

Next to this were white igloo coolers, brimming with ice and import beer bottles denser than a fish market. The rest of the table was stacked with potato salad, chips, hummus dip and cantaloupe cubes.

“Yikes,” muttered Lyndy.

Someone had taken all her vices, her gluttonous desires, and packed them onto one epic picnic table. Inner demons were running wild. She reached for the white wine, dribbling it into her borrowed cup.

As she strolled to join the circle, Neil returned to finish a story. She sat down on the end of a bench, intending to rest and listen. Instead, one of the Neil’s pals whom she’d met at Degnan’s—fella with the shaggy hair—came stomping over to chat.  

The man sidled up, uncomfortably near, and spread one of his hairy arms behind her shoulders on the table. He leaned over, not so suavely and said: “I want to tell you a secret. I have a thing for new moms.”

Lyndy nodded, masking her cringe with a grimace. “Oh cool,” she replied, voice cracking, sipping her wine.

The dude seemed unsure where to go from there. He fidgeted with his beer, before taking another breath and spewing forth the words: “So do you like Porsche’s?”

Lyndy shrugged. “I dunno, maybe I do.” Though she actually preferred macho muscle cars to fancy German coupes.

“Cause there’s a sleek black Porsche hidden in the woods. Like a quarter mile from camp.” He looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was listening. “They put a bunch of tree bark and branches over it, making it look like a pile of yard clippings. But I could tell there was something underneath there so I dug it out.” The man shifted, squeezing his nose and exhaling. “Sorry, I gotta be honest. I’m outta practice talking to women.”

Lyndy’s ears perked up. “It’s okay.” She was about to ask a follow-up question. But the party got hushed. Somebody turned down the music which was most noticeable by the lack of bass. Two tall climbers, whose dress and appearance revealed their Europeanness before they uttered a word in French, had entered the clearing.

The mood shifted. One of them helped himself to a craft beer, popping the cap by whacking it on the edge of the table. The other was pointing to an imposing granite boulder which looked utterly unclimbable. This thing was as big as a house, and so heavy they’d not bothered to clear it when they built the camp. With a raised hand he was charting out several spots where there were chalk lines. Which meant, despite its polished smoothness, climbers did occasionally perform their training exercises upon it. The route was 20 feet in length, and a fall from the top end meant landing in packed dirt and a broken leg or worse.

The blonde men began speaking to Neil in aggressive tones. Neil was in a crouch, his trademark “aww shucks” modest expression on this face.

Erica moved right beside him. She grabbed onto Neil’s shoulders, ready to defend him.

Lyndy could only hear bits of the conversation, but it was obvious the foreigners were goading him, accusing Neil of being over the hill. With his hands and body language, Neil was waving them off. He wanted them to get lost and leave the party.

Out of nowhere, it escalated. The dude who’d been chugging the beer took his bottle and slammed it against the rock, causing it to shatter. The crowd got even more hushed. Neil and everyone else at the table instinctively put-up hands to shield their eyes from an explosion of glass shards. But now Neil seemed upset. A line had been crossed. Neil spoke something firm like: “I hope you’re planning to clean that up.”

The drama was making Lyndy uneasy and she glanced to Mari’s nearby buggy.

It was clear the gauntlet had been thrown. Neil arose with folded arms and the taller challenger began dipping his fingers into a chalk bag. Slapping his hands together, he created a puff of white, then rolled his shoulders and bounced in place.

Neil walked a semi-circle, facing the rock, hardly ruffled but now with more intensity in his eyes. He reached for his climbing shoes, which were upside down on a tarp next to his other equipment. He started to dust them off. Meantime the cocky fellow approached the smooth rock face, and it must’ve been agreed he would go first.

Jaunting the few yards to Lyndy’s seat, Neil whispered in her ear. “Watch this,” he spoke confidently with a wink, and began lacing up his shoes one at a time.

The blonde man started his ascent with his partner spotting. He moved upward with gecko-like abilities, requiring only the tiniest flakes to make progress. These holds were so small they were invisible from afar. His arm muscles tensed and flared, and sweat beaded on his back, which was mostly visible through a ventilated beach shirt.

Neil studied him, while tightening his laces. The specimen of a man was grunting and breathing heavily, but continued to make progress inching up the wall. His feet were splayed in different directions like a tree frog. Soon his forearms were shaking, fingers pinching onto sandpaper-like grips. On the ground his partner had hands ready to soften his pal’s landing. He’d even put down his beer, thus indicating he was serious.

Neil leaned over, cupping his hand around his lips. “That’s like a grade 8 route.”

Lyndy, knowing nothing about the sport of bouldering, was ready to believe anything Neil said. It sounded intimidating—even life threatening—from where she was sitting. Neil again whispered in her ear: “Forgot to mention you look smoking hot right now in that outfit. I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re the best-looking woman I’ve ever seen.”

Lyndy blushed. Perhaps a desperate man had uttered those same words to her, in her prime, but she couldn’t recall the last time. It felt delightful and warm inside all the same. She pointed discretely to the route. “But you’ve climbed it before, right?”

Neil bobbed his head side to side, then lifted up one leg touching his heel to his butt, stretching the hams. “I’ve climbed it once. Except I was 28 years old at the time.”

All eyes from camp-4 were on the French climber, when suddenly he made a noise and gravity brought him back. He slammed into his partner with a FWOOSH, both men landing in a heap on a crash pad. The blonde challenger jumped up immediately with a smug grin, self-assured in his performance. Having been roughly two arm lengths from the summit when he slipped, he seemed to believe this was unbeatable. Meantime his partner clutched his head and frowned, having had his bell rung.

Now it was Neil’s turn, as the other two were licking their wounds.

“You gonna be okay?” asked Lyndy.

“You worry too much,” said Neil, unbuttoning his shirt. For a man nearing forty, he had no sign of a beer belly. Every inch of him was lean. He tossed his dusty shirt to Erica.

Neil strode forward to place both hands on the rock, steadying himself at the base. The guy with the curly hair jumped up, ready to provide the spotting.

Neil studied the rock for half a minute, gazing vertically and taking in the details; in his mind working out the moves like a chess master. Lyndy couldn’t eat or drink she was so nervous for Neil. She pushed her cup and a paper plate away, then gripped the edge of her seat with both hands.

With one deep inhalation Neil started up the granite face. The moment both hands and feet were off the dirt, his mission had begun. Stretching with his long arms, fingers clawing for a grip, he snagged a hold. Then with his bicep power pulled himself two feet higher, re-positioning his shoes. He couldn’t turn back now.

All attention shifted to Neil, including those of his two rivals.

Lyndy could see the muscles in Neil’s back were tense, as his spine curved so he could twist a foot onto a higher grip. Her own heart began to pound, and her fingers began to curl. She could feel the grittiness of the rock on her fingers. His breathing got heavier and when the moves were tough, he exhaled a sudden rush of air. She breathed just as hard.

At the apex, where the climb tilted to a negative slope, he cupped both hands over a knob extrusion on the rock, launching himself with the power of his forearms and shoulders.

Lyndy glanced to Erica who had knotted up Neil’s shirt and was biting it.

She smiled. It occurred to Lyndy that although Erica had said she had a boyfriend, that she was actually hopelessly in love with Neil. If one counted her own crush, well that made two of them.

As Neil kicked up his left shoe, one of the French climbers scoffed. He was approaching the crux move, now twelve feet over the soil. A fall from this height would be hard to soften, and his buddy Rick with the shaggy hair, had both arms raised and eyes fixated. He was nervous. Neil was battling gravity with his muscles and his brain, but all his buddy could do was dance a small circle with his hands up.

Neil’s back like iron, began to glisten with sweat. Yet this and his heavy breathing was the only evidence of exertion. The rest of him was deep in concentration. In a tense moment, Neil managed to heave his core above the negative section onto a polished, but positive sloped pitch. From there, it was the friction in his shoes and the chalk on his hands that kept him glued to the rock. An impact from the full height couldn’t be softened now. His spotter backed away. Probably he would be hospitalized if not dead.

Lyndy couldn’t watch so she covered her eyes, but continued to peek through the cracks in her fingers.

The Frenchmen scoffed again. One of them said in a thick accent: “I knew he could do it. I wanted to see the way it should be climbed.” But everyone knew that was bull.

Neil topped out onto a flat summit, peering down at the party like a perched gargoyle, with a very broad grin.

“Hey Lyndy! See, I made it,” boasted Neil, like a proud little kid.

Lyndy stood up and clapped. So did Erica. It took a few seconds for Neil to skid down the back, where he used a pine tree to gracefully descend and lower himself to the ground. He marched across the circle to the tables and Erica gave him a hug.

The celebration didn’t last. In the corner of her eye, Lyndy spotted a fish out of water man, wearing khaki pants, a loosened tie and plaid business shirt. He was poking around near where Maribel’s buggy had been stowed.

“Ohhhhhh shit,” Lyndy mouthed in slow motion. Kyle caught sight of her at the same moment, and the anger was plain to see. He stormed across the circle of tables, disrupting even the French climber dudes.

He grabbed hard onto Lyndy’s wrist, with a cold rage.

“Hey man, what’s yer problem?” argued someone.

Kyle dragged Lyndy across the camp; she followed out of sheer embarrassment. As he brushed past Neil—who’d been in shock—he said words which were etched in her mind for years to come: “Lyndy Martinez is a lot of fun isn’t she? Well, she can’t come out and play anymore.” He swiveled his head, making sure everyone was watching. “Lyndy can’t come out and play cause she’s a mom now! For Christ sake.”

Kyle kicked the buggy until the brakes let go, then he pushed it with one arm while not letting go of Lyndy’s wrist. Maribel was crying. Hard to tell if it just started, or she’d been wailing for an extended time as so much excitement had gone on.

“Dude, wait up,” said Neil, attempting to follow.

Kyle stamped the ground in a threatening manner.

“Now are you her boyfriend or are you Lyndy’s dad …

Kyle glared back at Neil, daring him to finish the sentence.

“… cause right now it’s hard for me to tell,” said Neil.

Kyle pointed to the east end of the valley, the direction of the hotel. “Your boss will be hearing from me. This is unacceptable.” Kyle looked at the crowd with disdain. In his eyes they were losers.

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

Lyndy Life observation: As a new mom I often wondered how many of my personality traits Maribel would inherit versus Kyle’s. I remember one early warning sign came from a teacher’s report the first day of Mari’s kindergarten. They had nap time of course and apparently there was another little girl who was sniffling and complaining about missing her mother. After ten minutes of this, Maribel rolled over and scolded: “Oh be quiet, people are trying to sleep!”

They waited a long time before coming to get her. Lyndy spent the alone time seated in the yard, listening to the rustling of leaves and chirping birds. But then she heard a door unlatch and creak.

“I know it’s a lot,” remarked Fred, stepping from a side entrance off the patio. He had both hands in his pockets as he sauntered to her. Behind him, his daughter emerged, using a cane for support but moving more easily than expected.

Gillian hobbled across the lawn to her stone bench, resting beside The Spitfire. Then she placed a hand atop Lyndy’s. Her green eyes were inquisitive and wistful.

“Miss Martinez, could you please tell me something about my mom?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. I was so young, I only have a few precious memories, like still frames of her with nothing substantive.”

Lyndy cupped a fist under her chin, while flashes of her youth played on a projector in her mind. The reason some of these were hard to access was obvious. She didn’t like to think about those days.

At last Lyndy answered: “Your mother enjoyed Mexican food. A LOT. Homemade tamales especially—the more authentic and lower budget the better. With red and green sauce. But obviously not from chain fast food joints.”

She could hear Fred exhaling a laugh. But when Lyndy glanced to the curious eyes of Gillian, she could tell the girl felt unsatisfied.

“No. Like what I mean is, tell me something good about my mom. Something positive she did for others or yourself.”

“Uh. Geez. Lemme think,” said Lyndy running her hand over head. She accidentally dislodged her glasses, catching them in her lap and preventing the pair from falling to the stone path. Lyndy smirked, as an old memory floated itself from the murky depths. “This one time we were flying to Denver and Rita was in first class. I was stuck in coach, of course.” Lyndy turned to squeeze Gillian’s shoulder. “This was back when flying was still hip, and first class was worthy of the name. As she was boarding, a stewardess presented Rita with this zippered goody bag. It was scarlet red, with the logo of the airline and inside were all sorts of girly items. There was a hairbrush, some pink sunglasses and an eye mask. And like little candies and stuff. But Rita didn’t want it. After we took off, she wandered back to coach where I was sitting—probably in a middle seat—and she handed me the bag, saying something like: “Here. I don’t’ want this.” She glanced to Fred and then back to Gillian. “That’s something nice right? Proves Rita was thinking of me.”

“That’s all you can think of,” sighed Gillian. “What about her philanthropic work?”

Lyndy shrugged. “Philanthropy? Rita had her moments. She often donated to charity. But your mom wasn’t known for being what others consider quote-unquote nice.” Gillian glared at Fred. There was an unspoken grievance, possibly with the truth about her mother being revealed at last.

Valley Girl Part-9

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Coconino County AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santa Barabara,” answered Lyndy.

“Why? Are you with someone?”

“Uh… actually yes. A guy.”

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

“It would seem so yes.”

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

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

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

Lyndy chuckled.

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

Lyndy chuckled again.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. What for?”

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

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

“I am,” Cathy confirmed.

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

“I wasn’t anticipating that.”

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

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

“What did she say?”

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

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

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

“Yes. That’s where he lives.”

“Okay, better call me later!”

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

Several hours later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-6

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Coconino County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

This was odd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mari looked up and nodded, remaining on mute.

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

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

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

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

Lyndy had said it would be hard.

“Did my mom send you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wanna know what my mom thinks about you?”

“Uh, not right now,” answered Cathy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not far away, near Ash Fork …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had a daughter too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twenty minutes later …

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

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

Fred nodded in agreement.

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

“Come again?” he asked innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. She left you that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-1

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got any cotton swabs?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stranger sat down beside her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

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

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

Her blonde friend blinked but said nothing.

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

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

“Yes, with hands. How else you goof?”

“Then hell no,” answered Cathy.

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

“More for me,” she whispered.

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

“You ever gonna quit wearing dresses?”

“Nope,” Cathy replied proudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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