Last Chance Llama Ranch (24 page)

“I don't want
anyone
to know.” Zelda kicked the dirt at her feet, sending leaves scattering. “Money ruins everything,” she said. “My PUs are, like, these tech meganerds who made a zillion in some dot-something bubble thing way back in the nineties, and they're, like, totally clueless.”

“PUs?”

“Parental units,” Zel said, as if it should be obvious. “They moved out here to the middle of nowhere to ‘retire' and they dragged my ass with them. I'm supposed to be in school in Taos right now with the other kids whose parents are, like, movie stars and oil billionaires and shit, but I ditched 'cause I can't stand their whiny bullshit, and how they look down on the people who
really
live here.”

“Like Thaddeus?” Merry asked gently. “That is who we're talking about, right?”

Zelda colored nearly as purple as her hair. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Maybe,” she muttered.

“Oh, kiddo. That boy's so head over heels for you, you could be the queen of England and he'd still pull on your pigtails to get your attention.”

“Pull wha—?” Zelda looked alarmed.

“Never mind. It's just something we used to say back in the dawn of time, where I'm from. It means he likes you.”

“Oh. Um, cool.” Zelda blushed again. “But, like, wouldn't he get all tweaked if he knew? I mean, he's worried about
real
stuff, like whether he can get his grandma her medicine. All I have to worry about is which college my folks are going to donate a library to, to get me in. Should I try to help his family out? Give them some money…or would he hate that? I thought maybe, with all those ski bucks you have, you'd know what to do.”

Ski bucks. Ha. Ha-hahahahahaha. Ski bucks
. But Merry did know plenty about family money, and the perils thereof. “Well, honey. I think you're right to be cautious about that kind of thing. Your boy Thad is obviously very proud. I think just being his friend is probably the best thing. What you did earlier, offering to help him with his reading…that's the kind of thing friends do for each other.”
And of course, we all know what happens when teenagers study together
, she thought with an inner smile. “If, after a while, you want to let him know about your circumstances, let it come out naturally.”

“You think he'll be cool?”

“Yo, Zel, you get chomped by a bear or some shit? We're about to break camp, so get your sweet butt back here!” Thad's voice, shouted through the trees, was full of energy and enthusiasm once more, as if the events of the night before had never happened.

“Yeah,” Merry said, grinning. “Somehow I think he'll be cool. C'mon, let's get back to the others and see what Sam's got in store for us this morning.”

They turned to head back, but Zelda stopped before they could enter the campsite, pulling her ponytail higher and tighter atop her head. She looked back at Merry with a shy gaze. “I'm sorry for what I said before. About the Brienne thing. I can be a real bitch sometimes, like, when I'm nervous or something. You're actually pretty cool, for a grown-up.” She trotted down the trail to catch up with the others.

Merry smiled.
I am, aren't I?

She wasn't the only one who had a scintillating experience camping with the kids.

When Merry unpacked the terrarium from Snape's pannier upon returning to the ranch that afternoon, she blinked in disbelief, turning her turtle this way and that. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she murmured, biting her lip.

Someone had bedazzled Cleese.

His shell sparkled with tiny rhinestones set in star shapes, hearts, sunbursts, and flowers. Even his tiny toes had received an expertly done pedicure—a
purple
pedicure. He cast a forlorn look at Merry, as if to say, “the things I put up with for you, woman.”

“Zellllddddaaaa!”

T
he Last Chance Llama Ranch is, you might say, about
second
chances as much as anything else. My overnight outing with the inimitable Zel, Thad, Joey, Mikey, and Beebs was some of the best fun I've enjoyed in all my time as a travel writer. While I will say spending the night in the mountains with nothing but a trash bag to keep your buns toasty definitely falls into the “don't do what I did” category, if you gotta do it, you really wanna find yourself in the company of Sam and his crew, who'll teach you how to make it through the night with aplomb, if not camping gear. You can find Sam's class schedule on his website (linked here), and he'll be happy to arrange a little adventure for you and any teens you might have in tow.

The takeaway, dear readers, is this: Whether you're a llama that's been left out in the cold, or a kid who just needs a little extra love and attention, you'll find what you need to thrive and survive in Dolly and Sam Cassidy's little slice of paradise. Come on by, friends. They'll take care of you proper.

O
pen mic night at Café Con Kvetch is something to see.

Actually, it's the only thing to see, on a Friday night in Aguas Milagros. But don't worry. If you come with your ears, your mind, and your heart open, you'll leave happy.

Merry was filled with dread.

Pure, unadulterated dread.

When she arrived at Café Con Kvetch, courtesy of Dolly's pickup truck, where she'd been wedged inescapably between her hostess and a very voluble Jane Kraslowski, there was scarcely a parking spot to be found. The three women ended up hoofing it from halfway down Main Street—the sign for which, Merry noticed, some wag had crossed out and replaced with
“Only Street.” Merry was serenaded along the way by a toe-tapping country duet that leaked out the wide-open windows of the diner-cum-general store, and her path was lit by the glow of light spilling from the propped-open door. It was brisk, she noticed, with a chill in the air that said autumn was well and truly settling in. It was getting darker earlier too, reminding her that Thanksgiving was fast approaching. With the golden aspen and cottonwood leaves skittering down the road in the twilight juxtaposed against the warmth of the inviting café, Aguas Milagros was the very picture of small-town conviviality tonight, exactly the sort of thing her readers would eat up with the proverbial spoon.

Merry would prefer to stab herself in the eye with said spoon.

Though she'd said nothing to Dolly, she was not what one would call “pumped” for tonight's events. “Rather face a firing squad” might more accurately describe how Merry felt about the festivities ahead.

“Darn it,” Dolly said, breaking into her apprehension. “Forgot my bag o' tricks in the pickup.” She turned back for the truck.

“I'll fetch it for you,” Merry offered, a bit too eagerly.

“No need.” Dolly was already tromping back to her vehicle. “You-all head inside and I'll catch up.”

“Right,” Merry muttered. And didn't move.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. Crowds make you nervous.”

“Yup.” One or two people at a time she could deal with, and still make like she was a normal, functional adult, but whole bunches tended to overload her limited stores of social grace. Gwendolyn had tried for years to beat Merry's introversion out of her—being comfortable in society was second only to being impeccably dressed in Mother's book—but it was just one of the many ways Merry had proved a disappointment to her mother.

“Didn't you used to compete in front of thousands of people?” Jane asked with some asperity.

“Yeah, but I was wearing a helmet. And goggles. And whizzing by them really, really fast.”

Jane snorted. “Seriously, woman, you need to get a grip. The Happy Hookers are harmless. What do you think a bunch of middle-aged broads are gonna do to you?”

If they were anything like her mother's circle of harpies—er, friends—these “middle-aged broads” would find fault with every aspect of Merry from her height to her personality and everything in between. She shrugged, fiddling with her satchel as if it might contain some excuse to bail. “Um…I think I left my yarn back at Dolly's. Maybe I should skip—” She started back for the truck.

“Liar. You've got it right here.” Jane flipped back the flap of Merry's tote, exposing the ball of scrap yarn (“crap yarn,” Dolly called it) she'd been given to practice on. The fiber and the hooks she would no doubt use to mangle it rested securely atop her computer and smartphone. If the ladies allowed, she'd be documenting the event, and maybe even live-tweeting it for her Twitter followers too.
If only real social interaction could be as easy as Twitter
, Merry thought.
One hundred forty characters and you're out of there
.

“And even if you didn't,” Jane continued, “collectively, the Happy Hookers have got about a Hobby Lobby's worth of wool in their purses tonight. Pull it together, Mer, before Dolly catches wind that you're not looking forward to meeting her friends. She's been beside herself talking you up to them.”

Oh, great. More expectations.

Merry sucked in a breath.
C'mon, woman. You befriended the terrifying teens. You can deal with a few old broads.
“Right,” she said briskly. “Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries, ‘Hold, enough!'”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Alright, Shakespeare, let's get a move on.” She tucked her hand into Merry's elbow and drew her forward as Dolly rejoined them.

The joint was hoppin'.

Café Con Kvetch was packed floor to rafters with what had to be all fifty-seven official residents of Aguas Milagros, plus at least a dozen more from the outlying areas. Couples in matching cowboy hats squeezed in by the bar. Kids fidgeted while their parents talked animatedly with their friends, or shushed them so they could pay attention to the performers. Steve and Mazel Tov had grabbed a little table right in front of the “stage” (really just a few shipping pallets stacked together at the rear of the restaurant, with some lamps clustered round to shed a bit of light). Their toes were tapping and their arms were uplifted as if conducting the music. Merry suspected they might be seeing tracers.

Onstage at the moment were a couple of codgers playing bluegrass banjos with rather more enthusiasm than talent. White grizzled beards tucked into their shirts to keep them out of the way, cowboy boots thumping the worn floorboards to mark the beat, they were in finger-pickin' Nirvana. Each time one would riff off the other, the first would get so tickled with delight he'd stop, slap his friend on the arm, and chortle with appreciation before trying to one-up him. It was hard not to grin along with them, even as they lost the rhythm more than once, dissolving into mirth (no doubt helped along by the impressive collection of empty beer steins and shot glasses littering the floor by their instrument cases).

From his perch behind the host station, Bob presided over all, his beard and hair neatly combed and tied back, a magnificently tie-dyed top gracing his portly form. The hubbub being too great for prolonged hellos, he just nodded over to them, waving the women inside. As they passed within, Dolly raised her chin and sailed by without a how-d'ye-do for Bob, while Jane rolled her eyes and shrugged apologetically at their host. Merry gave him a little salute.

Toward the back, Merry caught sight of Sam's Survivors, clustered together in a booth, looking excitedly at the screen of a purple-sheathed tablet that could only be Zelda's. Bernie happened to look up and see Merry, and he elbowed Joey, who elbowed Mikey, who blew his straw wrapper at Thad. Thad scowled until he saw where the others were pointing, and then his face broke into an endearingly boyish grin. Zel looked up from her beau to see who'd earned his smile, and cracked one of her own as she caught sight of Merry. The little crew waved enthusiastically at her, and Merry waved back, amused to see Thad using the opportunity to ever so casually drape his arm over the back of the booth (and not so incidentally Zelda's shoulder).

“Come on, hon. I want to introduce you to the gals.” Dolly steered Merry toward one side of the café, where a group of ladies who could not be other than the Happy Hookers sat by the fire. “Now, don't let 'em scare you off—they may be crude, but they're a close-knit bunch.”

“Get it?” Jane asked, chucking Merry's shoulder. “Close-kn—”

“Oh, I get it,” Merry said. She pasted on Professional-Strength Smile Number Three as Dolly urged her forward.

“Gals, here she is, just like I promised!”

“Pleased to—” Merry started, but they were having none of it.

“Dolly Cassidy, you are
late
! Get your ass in this-here chair right now, and bring the new blood!”

The Happy Hookers consider Dolly their madam, their mistress, and spiritual leader, and it's easy to see why. Dolly enters their midst to cries of delight, genuflections, and calls for advice on certain “knotty” dilemmas, and she takes it all in her stride like the queen bee she is.

Café Con Kvetch pulls out all the stops for the hookers' get-togethers. Despite his ongoing feud with Dolly (a shame, as anyone can see they should be the best of friends), Needlepoint Bob arranges sofas, chairs, and side tables in a circle by the cozy kiva fireplace, and starts blending margaritas the minute the first hooker sashays in, tools of her trade in tow. I was roundly welcomed, provided with ample libation, and treated to a show of feminine solidarity that warmed my heart to no end.

“You brought us a new initiate, Dolly dear?” A woman with an old-fashioned coronet of braids wrapped round her head smiled as she looked up at Merry from her seat by the fire. Merry noticed that what was holding the heavy weight of her hair in place appeared to be a vast assortment of artisanal wooden crochet hooks, knitting needles, and even a pair of snipping scissors. She was, Merry saw, in the midst of making what might well be the world's tiniest sock out of rainbow-dyed wool.

“New
victim
, is more like,” another said. By far the youngest of the bunch, and up to her eyeballs in steampunk accoutrements, she had taken over half a love seat with her frothy full-length skirt, a pair of brass-and-leather mad scientist goggles perched atop her extravagance of auburn curls. Over a flowy white poet's shirt, she wore a Victorian-esque vest that nipped in her waist and accentuated a very buxom set of breasts. A veritable Mr. T's worth of pocket watches and iron key pendants nestled in the woman's cleavage. She had an enormous set of circular knitting needles in her lap, from which some sort of fantastically intricate and totally unidentifiable project dangled in shades of silver, pewter, and gold. “I'm Sage,” she said. “I'm a fashion designer, when I'm not immersed in the fiber arts. And the pincushion over there? That's Rebecca. She's our town archivist.”

“Hi ladies,” Merry said shyly.

“You'll have to do better than that if you wanna hang with us hookers,” said a third woman. She was halfway into a huge margarita, and about two-thirds of the way into a positively Whovian scarf Tom Baker would have been proud to sport on the classic BBC show. “I'm Randi. Randi with an
i
, so get it right when you put it in your blog.” She emphasized her point by stabbing her crochet hook in Merry's direction. “I got me a sheep farm, not too far past the springs. Glad to know ya, Merry Manning. Whatcha working on?”

“Huh?” For a moment Merry thought the woman meant her next column, which was already coalescing in her mind. Then she realized Randi with an
i
was talking about yarn. “Oh. Well, tonight I thought I'd just watch you all, and take notes for my bl—I mean column. If that's alright with you all.”

“Well, it's not alright.” This came from a stick-thin woman about Dolly's age, who had more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei, a long ponytail of faded red curls, and a stack of crocheted granny squares piling up in her lap. “I'm Pam, and I'm here to tell you, you hang with the hookers, you better get those fingers flying. We all take it real serious. Even my Sage over there”—she nodded to the steampunk goddess—“has got herself a sideline in sci-fi outfits for the weirdos—'scuse me, ‘
alternative set.
' Does pretty well for herself over in Taos and as far away as Santa Fe. Got a woman named Hortencia she sells to down there, at some fancy-pants yarn shop. To earn your seat with us, you better be one crafty lady.”

“Get it? Crafty?” Jane elbowed Merry. Merry groaned. “Come sit next to me and I'll get your chain stitches set so you can at least pretend to be making something.”

“Rest of you gals, go ahead and introduce yourselves to Merry,” Dolly urged. The remaining three hookers looked up from their projects and smiled a hello.

“I'm Marie.”

“Susan.”

“Lupita.”

“Hey, ladies,” Merry said shyly. “Thanks for letting me crash your party.” The women—comfortable older ladies dressed in slacks or broomstick skirts for the most part, with scarves and shawls and all manner of stunning handmade sweaters layered on top—waved her into their conclave with welcoming smiles. Merry allowed herself to be tugged over to a bench while the women on either side of them made room. Between the music, the noise of the crowd, and the heat of so many bodies, she was feeling a bit dizzy, and more than a little overwhelmed. Yet this was nothing like the interminable cocktail parties and diplomatic events she'd been required to attend with her parents. It was nothing like the team events where athletes spent as much time measuring each other up and courting corporate sponsors as they did making friends.

This was…fun?

Merry found herself next to Sage, who grinned up at her while Jane did as promised and got Merry's stitches started. “So, you're a writer, huh? And a skier too? I heard the kids running around earlier telling everybody how they spent the night camping with this famous skier.”