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Valley Girl Part-12

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

Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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 Did I have some outdated notion, when a free spirit is responsible for a child, they’ll adapt?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chain of twenty folks blocked the farm road.

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

That last one made sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes later …

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

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

Lyndy pulled the stroller near, tensing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the woman scampered off, trying to avoid Kyle.

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

“Fine,” replied Lyndy.

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

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

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

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

Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s funny about that?”

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

“What are you saying? I’m a liar?”

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

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

Valley Girl Part-11

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Coconino County Az, 2010s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s alright,” replied Cathy.

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

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

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

Mari blinked, exhaling a deep sigh.

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

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

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

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

“She isn’t motivated by money.”

Maribel sniffed and shrugged. “Everyone needs money.”

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

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

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

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

“Your mom was his favorite partner.”

“Ewww,” muttered Mari under her breath.

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

Mari shook her head.

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

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

“Then you need to come clean!”

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

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

“What?”

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

“What if he doesn’t believe me?”

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

Santa Barbara, CA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What were they invested in?”

“Mostly silver and other precious metals.”

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

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

“That’s an understatement,” agreed Lyndy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fred shook his head. “I know.”

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

“Why do you say that?” asked Gillian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-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 5^th and her middle name happens to be Whitney.”

“I wasn’t anticipating that.”

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

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

“What did she say?”

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

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

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

“Yes. That’s where he lives.”

“Okay, better call me later!”

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

Several hours later …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valley Girl Part-5

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And before?”

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

“Like a security guard?” asked Ruby.

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

“Why did you leave your job? Pregnancy?”

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

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

Ruby chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neil seemed embarrassed but also starry-eyed.

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

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

Everyone roared with laughter.

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

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

“Beverly Hills? Pacific Palisades?”

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

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

“Romance of course,” answered Lyndy.

“High five, girl,” said Erica.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

“Just have him explain.”

Later that afternoon …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How many people were there?”

“Six, not including me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did,” answered Kyle.

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

“And what?”

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

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

Valley Girl Part-4

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Yavapai County, AZ, 2010s

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

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

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

She slept a lot these days.

Ten minutes later …

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t respond, still assessing.

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

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

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

“How much you want for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That seemed farfetched.

“Course that’s up in Santa Barbara.”

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

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

“I’ll be damned. Is that so?”

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

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

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

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

“Fat chance,” thought Lyndy.

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

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

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

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

He grinned at this.

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

Yosemite CA, 1990s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you staying here by yourself?”

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

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

The men exchanged glances.

“For the Silver-Pacific construction?”

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

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

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

“Any crime?” prodded Ranger Brandt.

Lyndy blinked and inhaled a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

Amusement shined in Brandt’s eyes.

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

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

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

“Is there another place we can speak privately?”

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

Valley Girl Part-3

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Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-3

[Author’s Note: This chapter includes quite possibly the #1 best Lyndy Life Observation of all time. It’s the current winner at least, unless a better comes along. See if you can spot it. 😉 ]

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rita Lovelace went on a date with a male model, probably in the mid-1980s. And things were going swimmingly, until halfway into the meal he casually let slip he owned five sports cars, but never changed the oil. Literally he owned Mercedes-Benz’s and Beamers with over 75k miles, nary an oil change or a tune up. Rita was horrified. She made up an excuse about feeling sick and split. Later when she told me this story, I pointed out the hypocrisy seeing how she owned like 50 cars and she’d be taking a car in a week if she actually maintained them. That was Rita for you.

It was a clear night, cold enough for Lyndy to see her breath. Typical Sierra weather in Spring. Tiny willow leaves were blowing across her path.

Her high-tech stroller had eight inflated tires—the cushy kind on a delivery cart. The rubber tires functioned as a Jeep-like capability, rolling with ease on dirt paths, softening the bumps and potholes. This came in handy, say if you were raising a baby on the rocky planet Mars. Or more likely, on a hike behind your white bread suburban community.

The nearest trail to the hotel crisscrossed through a pine forest, hugging the channel of the Merced as it snaked in a series of 90-degree bends. Through openings in the tree canopy, one could see Half Dome towering, a cap of snow reflecting white, and twinkling stars making up Orion’s belt.

The valley was tranquil at this odd hour, much as it had been in ancient times. No smelly tour buses belching out soot. No hordes of people clogging roads and sidewalks, snapping photos, or tourists of any kind. The rocking action, plus the calming effect of nature were working their magic. Thank God. Mari started to cry less, her eyelids becoming droopy.

Anyone sane in the campground was snoring by this hour. The flickering campfires from before had been doused, but their scent lingered. At a sandy embankment Lyndy guided the stroller downward to the water’s edge, where the current rippled against tiny pebbles. With her big toe, she put the brake lever in place to park it.

Lyndy leaned over Mari to snug her blanket. She’d finally calmed down, cried herself to sleep. Was it the river and woods? Or the power of the night? Lyndy didn’t know what forces were involved, but she wished she could bottle up that magic, save it for home.

From someplace deep in the pines, she heard the call of a nightingale. Or maybe it was a dream, she reckoned.

Fifty yards down, a castle-like bridge spanned the river to the south. It was the kind of arched structure found in amusement parks, designed as much for visuals, as for strength. She spotted the outline of a figure atop, doddering down the road center; the first soul she’d seen walking since departing the hotel.

Her body shivered with a sudden chill. Lyndy studied her surroundings, listening for any other movement. Hopefully there were no bears. Of course, somewhere in the valley there would be bears. It was their park too. But just like humans, they were probably asleep at this ungodly hour.

Setting aside thoughts of danger, she crouched in the sand next to her baby. From a hidden fold on the underside of the carriage, she undid a Velcro flap. This allowed her to slip two fingers inside and retrieve her hidden, emergency pack of Newport cigarettes.

The pack had been there a month, without anyone touching them and without Kyle knowing. She had a Nancy Griffith song stuck in her head, one of many, about leaving Mississippi, listening to the radio. She hummed the tune peacefully, as she flicked the lighter and puffed to get a smoke going. Ah, sweet comfort.

The Spitfire paced off a healthy 20-foot buffer zone, same way Aunt Rose would. With the flow of air, she knew the wisp of smoke particles would be transported safely away, nowhere near Maribel. She exhaled a ring, which floated overhead before dissipating.

“We can’t keep on like this,” Lyndy spoke aloud, her voice defeated. “Not bonding I mean.” Lyndy gazed at her baby. It broke her heart to think she might not love this child as much as a new mother should. “I seem to be lacking a mothering gene or two.”

To think that Kyle adored their baby more than she. How was this possible? Well, she must be his favorite lover. That much she felt certain of. And his love grew from their passion. The embers of a twenty-year romance, on and off. She’d seen it from the first night at the hospital, the way he looked at her with new eyes when she held their baby. He’d never shown her so much genuine affection. Maribel had elevated her to the highest pedestal, number one. Then why the resentment?

She exhaled another smoke ring. “You and me babe, have to come to … a mutual agreement, or I will lose it. Like two people on the same sports team. I warn you, I will flip out.” Lyndy paced back to the water’s edge, turning her attention to the view. “God knows I can’t watch you grow up the messy way I did.”

The view of Half Dome, patches of snow glistening, was sublime. The murmuring river was the only sound, and a distant car if she strained her ear. She stuffed the lighter and the remaining pack back in the secret spot, thinking about her life before Maribel. Then she bowed her head to pray. Her daily prayer, to make it through, when she heard the squealing brakes and tire skid. It made her jump, coming from the direction of the bridge, like someone setting off a bottle rocket.

Lyndy flicked her cigarette into the sand, near the stroller. Without any sudden moves she craned her neck to view the bridge. Instinctively she ducked, keeping herself low so she’d blend into the scenery. She observed the silhouette, same person who’d been walking. She suspected it was Kristen now. They were tall, with a long coat, same intoxicated stumble of a woman in heels. Also present, the outline of a sleek car, steam rising from its tailpipe. As it inched forward she recognized the rumble of the motor, the taillights and the roofline, a Porsche.

The woman and the driver were arguing. The Porsche must’ve been speeding, rounding a curve and nearly slamming into the person on foot. She’d reeled back, but continued to lecture the driver with a raised fist. Pumped full of adrenaline and hubris, the woman strode up to the car window. Angrily the driver sat up, extending his arms to clutch onto her sleeve. But she ripped it away and he let go. They exchanged words, and though Lyndy couldn’t put her finger on why, she got a sense they knew each other.

“Was it her husband?” Lyndy wondered.

The engine revved and the driver zoomed off. The lone figure—certainly Kristen—stormed across the bridge, to the south end of the valley. Seconds later her shadow merged and disappeared into the dark woods.

Eeesh! It was bad to be wandering in such an intoxicated state.

Lyndy ran her palms across her face, not knowing what to do. She checked on her baby. Should be alright to leave for a moment or two. Logic dictated to stay out of this dispute, but what if Kristen needed help?

Lyndy dashed off toward the bridge.

Kristen was down on both knees by the time Lyndy got another view. She’d traveled as far as the perimeter of the woods, bordering an 80-acre meadow. Her profile faced Half Dome, in a praying position, as one might do at the nave of a church.

Lyndy watched from the bridge as Kristen appeared to be mumbling into cupped hands. Light glinted from her silver-blonde hair, and the white coat, making her glow like an angel. Hard to believe it was the same drunk she’d backed out of the bar.

Half a minute elapsed and Kristen rose to her feet again. She began a steady march into Stoneman Meadow. From her coat pocket she retrieved an item the size of a paperback book. She briefly gazed at it, before tossing it casually over her shoulder to discard it. She continued walking, though lacking a path her feet sank and post-holed in the sticky mud. Any ranger who spotted you trampling a meadow would give you the sternest lecture of your existence, or at least since grade school. But Kristen seemed determined, driven to carry on with barely a nod to her surroundings.

“Hey! Hey! Are you okay?” yelled Lyndy, but there was no response. It was as if Kristen could no longer hear, her spirit leaving her body. “Do you need help?”

She’d been quite loud enough. Anyone, inebriated or not, would’ve heard.

Lyndy turned to the beach. The outdoor stroller was still there, a dozen feet from the river. No one was near, particularly not a bear or recognizable threat. Only serenity. She surveyed the roads and distant buildings. Not a ranger in sight. Sleeping probably.

Lyndy brushed her hair from her face. “Ay, yai, yai,” she mouthed anxiously. She tried again, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Kristen, are you okay? Where are you going?”

Kristen continued hiking straight across, by now halfway.

“This is no bueno,” Lyndy whispered. “Kyle would freak if he found out.” She felt panic setting in. Maybe she should run to the hotel front desk. Or the campground host. Most campgrounds had one. Or shout “Help”?

She wanted to follow her instincts, the urge to tail Kristen. But then again, she hated the idea of trampling a sloppy, springtime meadow. Next Lyndy heard a buzz which startled her out of her skin. It was a Motorola phone, unusual to carry, inches away in the grass. Must’ve been the thing Kristen tossed away. Most people didn’t own them. Only doctors and businessmen carried those. And any call to the valley would’ve been analog. The signal would be weak, only one bar.

She watched the screen blink: “Incoming Call – Incoming Call”, and the heavy brick-like device continue to buzz like an angry snake. While there was still nobody in the vicinity of the bridge, lights were coming on in nearby cabins. She could tell through the trees. People were getting up—awakened by the commotion on the bridge—and soon would be coming to investigate.

Lyndy couldn’t help herself.

Reaching for a stick, she poked the button to answer the call, then leaned over so her ear was near the receiver. It was faint, with a hissing, but someone was definitely there. She thought she heard a frantic breath, and the noises of a city at night.

“Uh, hello,” Lyndy mouthed, wincing and covering her face as she realized her actions were only making things worse. It worked though; the caller on the other end answered: “Kristen? Kristen …. you paged me, girl. Look, I spent the last hour arguing your side with Charlie. He said we’re still a go on Sunday. The pin is your favorite verse, in Luke. Use the B-channel. He knows you didn’t want Sunday of all days, but you were over-ruled.” There was a break and the call became fuzzy. “Charlie mentioned something.” Long pause, with erratic breathing. “The most dangerous person to any organization is one who won’t stop telling the truth. Thought you should know.”

After that Lyndy heard a click. The lights on the phone flashed “Call Ended.”

Lyndy took one last glance at the meadow, but Kristen’s silhouette was absent, having dissolved into the landscape. Like a ghost. “What a strange place,” thought Lyndy. Stoneman meadow, with the shadow of Half Dome looming.

Lyndy heard car engines, saw headlights traveling the loop. People would be arriving soon to investigate. She sprinted as fast she could across the bridge, into the woods and down on the sandbar. Once she had the stroller back on the walking path, she slowed her pace, but felt jittery all the way back to The Ahwahnee.

Yavapai County Arizona, 2010s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a road trip with Chan, we were sharing a cheap room and I’m unable to sleep cause he snores like a moose. At three AM out of desperation I stagger into the bathroom, shut the door and fall sound asleep in the tub. Coincidentally I had big spaghetti sauce stains on my night shirt. Hours later I awake to a panicked Chan attempting to resuscitate me. Apparently, he saw me there and figured I’d been murdered. I was just surprised he wasn’t more relieved to find me dead—I was super annoying back then. Sometimes I think this story perfectly encapsulates my relationship with Chan.

It was so early crickets were chirping and Venus hung low in the eastern sky. Scattered lenticular clouds like flying saucers framed the horizon, reminding her why she lived here. She rubbed a sleeve-padded knuckle against her eyes as she yawned. Then she began unloading the old trunk, setting her things on the dry level gravel, using a headlamp and the glow of early dawn.

Mari Ellis once dreaded these days. Not because she didn’t love autumn. Those months were precious in the Arizona high country, with crisp, frosty mornings, azure skies and sunny afternoons to warm your spirit.

No, what Mari hated were the Saturdays. Her day off from school, spent rising with the dawn, picking and selling vegetables by the road alongside her mom. In overalls. This activity occurred chiefly in the fall months, when the harvest from their garden was at its peak.

Lyndy adored the farm stand.

On a pleasant weekend they’d set up a folding table opposite the long driveway. Then put out a hand-painted, no frills, sandwich board reading: “ASH FORK FARM”.

Together they’d arrange baskets of fresh vegetables for tourists. Mostly green peppers, tomatoes and zucchini, with a white goat on a leash as a side attraction. The pretty 67 Ford Mustang, parked nearby, was its own kind of draw. In those days Lyndy had a giant perm and sometimes a yellow bandanna. She’d wear faded overalls; they were somewhat in style and added legit farmer vibes. Mari would count out the change, which Lyndy alleged helped her learn math.

Sitting in those tube-frame camp chairs together, Mari Ellis in a pink cowgirl hat, passers-by used to stop, thinking Lyndy and her daughter were cute. Or maybe it was the goat, munching on a bale of hay. Mari claimed she found this whole exercise painfully embarrassing. But little kids wanted to pet and feed the goat, adults wanted to chat with Mari, so it worked like a charm. Men wanted to talk to Lyndy.

For lunch, the pair would close up briefly and drive to the nearest El Pollo Loco at the I-40. They could freshen up. But she didn’t dare setup shop in view of a freeway, as the highway patrol would bust your ass for not having a permit. County government could suck the fun out of anything.

Kyle Ellis hated the farm stand activity too, thinking it beneath their family dignity. He’d stop by, in his black Range Rover (U2 music blaring on the stereo) and tell Lyndy to quit the charade. Said she ought to be ashamed using their daughter for manual labor. But it only strengthened her resolve.

In truth, she relished it. Often, she sipped beer from a paper sack while on duty. Mari accused her mom of becoming more flirtatious and apt to give away free items as the day wore on. And she’d apologize for her, when she’d say something outrageous but typically Lyndy like: “Complement me in this crop top, receive a twenty percent discount.”

If Kyle stopped by and Lyndy was smashed like that, he’d be extra irate.

But after counting at the end of the day, they’d sometimes have a few hundred dollars. They’d keep the profits as mad money, buying a night at the movies or a new outfit for each of them. For this reason, Mari tolerated the stand.

These memories helped take her mind off the fact the cold was making her joints ache. Lyndy was grinning to herself, as she arranged a selection of yellow squash and bell peppers, on a bed of hay, with prices on sticks. There would be no assistance from Mari Ellis today. Hadn’t been in several years. She’d been working real jobs at the country club on Saturdays. And now her daughter was even more pre-occupied with her new pad and apparently, a budding romance.

Lyndy kicked out the legs on her sign, thinking of the hardships they’d endured together. Maribel deserved a stout dose of happiness. But she missed the old days, when she wasn’t so lonely.

Aiden S Clarke, author

Home of Lyndy Martinez

Tag Archives: yosemite-national-park

Valley Girl Part-12

Valley Girl Part-11

Valley Girl Part-10

Valley Girl Part-9

Valley Girl Part-5

Valley Girl Part-4

Valley Girl Part-3

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