Last Chance Llama Ranch (32 page)

O
f all the booths at the festival selling fantastical fiber arts, trinkets, and tools of the trade, there was one that drew Merry like no other. Like a lodestone, the smell of baked goods sent her salivary glands into overdrive, and she was helpless to resist.

“Bliss,” read the hand-calligraphed sign at the top of the tent. And Merry had no doubt that was exactly what the purveyors provided. Rows of exquisite chocolate confections and cupcakes covered the counter, seeming to shimmer like a mirage before her eyes.

“Can I get, like, eight dozen of whatever's most fattening?” Merry asked the black-haired sprite behind the counter. The woman had to be a foot shorter than she was, and at least six months pregnant.

“That bad?” asked the woman, dimpling.

“Oh yeah. And then some.”

“Then I recommend these.” The woman pointed to something that looked like a cross between a cupcake and a benediction from God.

“If it's got chocolate and it'll send me into a stupor, I'm sold.”

“I think this will fit the bill,” said the woman. “I'm Serafina, by the way.”

“Merry Manning.” Merry shook Serafina's outstretched hand.

“Oh! You're the one who's been writing about that llama ranch over in Aguas Milagros, aren't you? The travel writer? My aunt-in-law Hortencia told me about you. She buys from one of the women in Mrs. Cassidy's stitch-n-bitch club.”

Small world round here
, Merry thought. “That's me. Or, that
was
me until a few days ago,” she amended. “Now I'm not sure what I am, or where I'm headed next. Hence the need to induce food coma.”

“Been there,” said Serafina. “Hoo-boy-howdy, have I been there.” She helped herself to one of the miniature cupcakes, with frosting shaped to look like a ball of yarn and two chocolate knitting needles poking out the top. She plucked out the chocolate sticks and stuffed the whole cake into her mouth, grinning around it. “Trying to get the little one into the family business early,” she said when she'd swallowed, rubbing her baby bump. She picked out a pink-frosted cupcake and handed it to Merry. “On the house.”

“Oh no, I couldn't.” The woman's confections were so exquisite, she could obviously charge a premium for each morsel.

“It's not wise to look a gift cupcake in the mouth,” said a voice with an intriguing accent. Merry turned to see one of the most astoundingly attractive men she'd ever encountered coming to lean against the counter. (And, as an athlete surrounded by well-built men in the prime of their lives, not to mention the sister of a supermodel, she'd seen a
lot
.) Tall, blond, and craggy featured, he was everything she'd been telling her readers Sam was. And he had eyes only for the woman at his side.

“This is my husband, Asher,” Serafina said.

“Lucky you,” blurted Merry, then turned as pink as the cupcake in her hand.

Asher smiled and wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulder. “I'm the lucky one,” he said.

“Hey, hot stuff!” an older woman's voice called from behind the flap of the tent. “Get your buns back here and bring these buns out there!”

Asher smiled indulgently. “Coming, Pauline.”

“That has to be about the most jaw-droppingly handsome human being I've ever seen,” Merry sighed when he'd gone. “Good on ya.”

“He makes an atrocious omelet though,” Serafina replied, eyes twinkling. “Guess no one's perfect. So, what has you seeking succor in sugar this fine afternoon?”

Somehow, Merry found herself spilling her guts to this woman who'd been a stranger not two minutes ago. “I think I may have inadvertently ruined my hostess's life with my big mouth.”

“How's that?”

Merry's lips twisted. “It's complicated. But suffice it to say, if I don't find a way to fix the situation, I doubt I'll be welcome at the Last Chance Llama Ranch much longer. Hell, there may not
be
a Last Chance Llama Ranch much longer.”

“Wow. That's pretty heavy.”

“Yeah. I have to wonder if they wouldn't be better off if I hightailed it out of town before my blundering around causes
more
trouble.”

Serafina looked at Merry speculatively. “You know, if there's one thing I've learned, it's that sometimes you have to face the things you least want to—to ‘clear away the wreckage of the past' as they say, before you can find your way to the life you've dreamed of.”

“Looks like you've found it for yourself, if you don't mind my saying.”

“I don't mind,” Serafina said frankly. “And I
have
been incredibly lucky. But I wasn't always in such a good place. I blew up my life once in a pretty spectacular way. If I could put myself back together after the mess
I
caused, I bet you can too.”

“What turned it around for you?” Somehow Merry couldn't imagine this bubbly little elf carving the sort of swath of destruction she herself seemed to specialize in.

Serafina rubbed her rounded belly as if consulting a crystal ball. “I had to ask for help.”

Help
, thought Merry.
From whom?

Sera seemed to read Merry's mind. “Simple, right? But it wasn't easy. Still, when I finally broke down and admitted I needed it, my friends, my family…heck, people I barely even knew, they all supported me.”

Merry's lips twisted. “You don't know my family.”

“They couldn't be any weirder than mine,” said Sera. “Trust me.”

At that moment, a woman wearing what Merry could only assume was a full-scale Frida Kahlo costume threw back the tent flap and pounced from within it, her posture shouting “Ta-da!” without so many words. The woman, sporting a tower of salt-and-pepper braids and about four hundred frothy skirts, skipped to a stop as she saw Merry. Her eyes traveled up and down all six feet, three inches of her.

“Hey, gorgeous! How'd you like to be the subject of my new seminar, ‘Tall women in sex'? I need a model so I can demonstrate techniques for my new reverse-action sex swing.”

Before Merry could respond to this invitation, the apparition was followed by a shorter, plumper, and altogether more mainstream one, sporting a tasteful array of hand-knit accoutrements upon her comfortable frame. “Pauline Wilde! What have I told you about accosting strangers with your sex swing shenanigans!”

The Frida Kahlo impersonator looked anything but abashed. “Horsey, if you want me to stop issuing invitations to strangers, there's a very simple solution.”

“I told you no, fool. My back was out for three weeks after that last time.”

Asher emerged from the tent and put his arms around both women's shoulders and kissed their foreheads, effectively shutting them up as they beamed up at him with adoration.

“See what I mean, Merry?” Serafina said. “Family. There's nothing like it.”

I
knew you'd come to your senses, darling.”

Fresh as a lily and smug as could be now that her daughter had finally returned her increasingly insistent summonses to talk, Merry's mother leaned into the Skype screen.

Merry leaned away from it. “I haven't come to my senses, I'm afraid. But I have come to ask your advice.”

She shifted on the booth's vinyl banquette to ease the discomfort in her leg. She was back in Aguas Milagros, at Bob's, and exhausted after a weekend that had taxed both her emotions and her muscles. Dolly had won her hard-fought blue ribbon, and Fred Astaire had earned a treat of feed and fifteen minutes of “fun time” with the lady alpaca of his choice. (Merry had been surprised at his selection of Ginger Rogers over Cyd Charisse, but there was no accounting for taste.) They'd sold out of amigurumi, and most of Dolly's hand-spun yarns were spoken for as well. Yet for all that, it had been a more solemn occasion than it should have been, with the pall of Dolly's ex hanging over them both.

Merry adjusted the screen of her laptop to see her mother's face better, and her own as little as possible. She sipped her latest latte, which Bob had decorated with an elaborate curlicued question mark, and broke the bad news to Gwendolyn. “I'm not ready to accept Grandmother's bequest yet, Mother.”
I'll never be ready
, she thought, but this wasn't the moment to tell her mother that. She needed Gwendolyn's expertise. And she still wasn't sure that when this was all said and done, she
wouldn't
take the money. Her bills weren't shrinking, and she still hadn't got a home to go to when this crisis was over. “What I
am
ready for, if you're willing, is to pick your brain a bit.”

Gwendolyn patted her hair, as if to guard what lay beneath. “I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Meredith.” She tried to laugh, but she just looked uneasy—an emotion that didn't set well with her customary poise.

“I'm talking about your life's work. Fund-raising. Getting people to get behind a cause that's dear to your heart.”

“And why would you suddenly care about that?” her mother asked. Gwendolyn seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought what I did bored you to tears.”

For the first time, Merry realized disdain might be a two-way street in the Manning family.
Her feelings are hurt
, she marveled.
All this time I was feeling shitty because I could never do right in her eyes…could she have been feeling the same way about me?

Confident, self-righteous, mother-knows-best Gwendolyn Manning?

Nah
…

“It's not what I'm passionate about,” Merry admitted. “But that doesn't mean I don't think it has worth. I do. It just isn't right for
me
. But maybe…maybe you could use your skills to actually save the day for us here.”

“You're asking me to come to your rescue?” Her mother looked more intrigued than offended. It was a start. Asking her mother for anything put Merry on uncertain footing. She felt like she was staring down the barrel of a steep chute, knowing she had to ski the run of her life. Only this time, lives other than her own depended on it.
What if she says no?
What if she tells me the things I care about aren't worth pursuing?
Merry's coffee went sour on her tongue.
Then again, what have I got to lose?

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Merry smoothed her eyebrows nervously. “Truth is, you were right, Mother. My column isn't always a good thing. In fact, it's really fucked things up for someone I care a lot about.”

“Language, darling.”

Despite the fussing, Merry noticed Gwendolyn had declined to gloat.
Well, that's new
, she thought.
Huh
.

“Sorry, Mother.
Messed
things up.” Merry outlined what had happened with Dolly and her ex-husband. “Anyhow, I need to find a way to come up with two hundred grand in the next couple weeks, to prevent Mr. Dixon from selling the Last Chance to that ugly corporation.”

Gwendolyn made a tiny moue with her lips. She was no fan of big corporations—they had an unfortunate “homogenizing influence,” in her opinion. “Darling, I cannot recommend investing in some little farm in the middle of nowhere, but if you were to accept your grandmother's bequest—”

I.e., join the dark side
…

“—you would of course be free to make such purchases at will. If you'd only stop being so stubborn…” Gwendolyn studied her manicure, letting the silence speak for itself.

Merry sighed. “Even if I weren't a pain your butt, Mother, agreeing to your terms wouldn't help with this anyhow. Dolly won't accept my money.”

Gwendolyn's brow rose. “Really? I'm impressed.”

Merry shrugged. “You'd actually like Dolly, Mother. It might surprise you to hear this, but in a lot of ways the two of you are alike. I mean, not to look at, of course. You're far more glamorous. And well preserved. I mean in the way that counts. Your standards. Your dedication to your causes.”

“As a matter of fact, it doesn't surprise me at all, Meredith. I read your column, you know.”

She does?

Gwendolyn ignored Merry's surprised expression. “It's clear to me Mrs. Cassidy is a woman of character. More so if she won't accept charity. But if she won't, then what exactly
is
your plan to help her?”

Merry slugged more coffee. She'd thought about this, and she was convinced it was the only way. “Crowd-funding. It's when you—”

“I know what crowd-funding is, Meredith,” Gwendolyn said tartly. “My donors may be of a different caliber, but I
am
familiar with the concept.”

“Right. Sorry, Mother. I got the idea after people started up a Kickstarter campaign for Sam's Survivors—the teens he mentors.” She saw her mother nod impatiently and gesture for her to continue.
Guess she read that post too. Wonder what she thinks of Sam? Or the fiction of him I've been creating, anyway
. “All told, thousands of dollars were raised for the kids, when we didn't even ask for anything.” The jury was still out—on walkabout, with Sam Cassidy—on whether that had been a good thing. “Anyhow, I figured if people would open up their wallets on a whim like that, maybe we could get them interested in doing some real good for Dolly. I read last year some guy raised fifty thousand dollars for a
potato salad
party, and I thought, if he can do that for picnic food, surely I could get Dolly the money to buy out her husband's interest in the ranch.”

Gwendolyn considered this. “Won't that be harder now that
Pulse
is no longer publishing your work? Not that they weren't beneath you, darling, but they did drive a lot of traffic to your column.”

It took Merry a minute to digest the fact that Gwendolyn seemed completely up to speed with all her doings, including getting fired by
Pulse. I thought she'd lost interest in what I do after the accident. Except to criticize, of course
.

“In some ways, it actually frees me up to write what I like, instead of just being sensationalistic,” Merry said. “Right now, I need to remind folks why Aguas Milagros and its inhabitants are important, why it's crucial they don't get bulldozed by the forces of big-box stores and crass commercialism. Single them out, like that Humans of New York guy does with his photographs. If I feature the townsfolk on my site, make people care about their fates, I thought maybe I could get my readers to open their wallets on Dolly's behalf.”

Gwendolyn was nodding as she listened. “Yes, I think it could work.” Then she frowned as a thought occurred to her. “But why would she be willing to accept a bailout from a thousand strangers who owe her nothing, and not from one person she knows well, and who
does
owes her?”

Merry squirmed. She wasn't about to confess,
Because she doesn't want me under your thumb for the rest of my life, Mother
. “She just is, I guess. Better to be beholden to many than to one, or something. And anyway, she's promised to name all her new crias after the biggest donors, and make amigurumi for the others.”

Gwendolyn looked skeptical, as best her Botox would allow. “Well, whatever the case, I find with fund-raising, there's always one key to success.”

“And that is…?” Merry asked, when her mother seemed content to stretch out the suspense.

“Sincerity.”

Merry choked on a laugh, then pretended to have swallowed coffee down the wrong pipe. Gwendolyn Manning was many things. Poised. Graceful. Beautiful. But she swam in a realm of artifice and glitter as easily as koi in an ornamental pond. Hers was a world not known for welcoming candor. Or Merry, for that matter.

“I know you won't think it of me,” said her mother, who had clearly not failed to note Merry's reaction. “You've never given me credit for so much as a soupçon of humanity. But it's quite simple, really.” She leaned forward into the webcam, fixing her daughter with a gaze that was more direct than Merry could ever remember. Despite the distance between them, the technology making their connection possible, Merry felt
seen
. “You speak from your heart, Merry. Tell people plainly why your cause is so important, and they'll make it their own.”

What makes Aguas Milagros so special—its charm—is also what is endangering it now.

No. You know what? That's not true.
I
am what's endangering it.

I came here, snark in tow, to make hay of the very people who have so graciously welcomed me into their world. The very name of my column has been an insult to my hosts.

“Don't Do What I Did.”

Well, that's true. Don't blunder into a person's home and imperil their livelihood. Don't assume you're more sophisticated, more worldly than the folks you meet, even if the entire population of the town they live in could fit into your apartment building back home. And don't assume your presence won't have a lasting effect—or that theirs won't have one on you.

What I'm saying here is, I've come to love Aguas Milagros and the people who call it home. They've made me feel welcome, and valuable, and accepted in a way I can't ever remember feeling anywhere else. And in return?

I thought I was doing some good. I hoped that by sharing with you some of the wonderful personalities and talents around here, you'd see the value I've come to appreciate—not just in their handicrafts, which are world-class—but in their way of life.

Instead, because of me, the forces of commercialism have come calling, and the Last Chance Llama Ranch is in danger of being sold off to feed the faceless maw of corporate banality. Unless Dolly can come up with the scratch to prevent a “hostile takeover” in the next couple of weeks, she'll lose everything, and so will the llamas (and alpacas, goats, chickens,
dogs, bunny, and cat).

I'm not going to try to be cute here. I'm just going to say it plainly. Dolly needs your help. I'm starting a crowd-funding campaign to help her keep the Last Chance from being sold out from under her, and I'll be featuring more profiles and stories from Aguas Milagros each day while the campaign goes on. Donate if you can, and please pass the word along to your friends.