Last Chance Llama Ranch (44 page)

W
ell, it's official. Cleese says we're staying, and I make it a policy not to argue with the wisdom of turtles. (Besides, he's formed a fast friendship with Sam's bunny, Arwen, and I couldn't bear to break them up.) From this day forth, my bedazzled reptile and I shall make our home in the town of Aguas Milagros, where we will find ourselves in good company with the thirty…excuse me, now thirty-ONE alpacas, sixteen llamas, assorted goats, chickens, dogs, cat…and the single best people we've ever known.

Stay tuned for more news from the Land of Enchantment. Until then, I'll be…

On My Merry Way.

Oh, and Don't Do What I Did. (Seriously, the hot springs can only hold so many at a time.)

A
lright, alright. I know you've been clamoring for updates, and I've finally found the time to fill you in. So here's the skinny on what's been happening in Aguas Milagros since last I checked in.

Dolly got her wish, dear ones. With the money we invested turning the ranch into a full-scale rescue outfit, her llamas (and several more from neighboring areas) are comfortable in their retirement, with the occasional tourist run to keep them in fine fettle. The alpacas continue to slay one with sweetness while producing the silkiest yarn anywhere in New Mexico. Luke (the ranch hand I had the good fortune to fill in for) finally made it back from his much-extended honeymoon, bringing his blushing bride with him. With the increased herd around here, they've both got their hands full. Sam still teaches survival classes (he's even got my fire-building skills up to snuff!), and with Jane's help, our amigurumi sell out faster than ever in the shop. Marcus stops in from time to time to take nature photographs (he's making quite the name for himself in the art world), but I'm afraid Jane scarcely gives him the time of day. (Keep at it, Banana Hammock, I think she's warming to you.)

If you come to visit (and we hope you do!), be warned: You may not see much of Dolly. After years of tireless toil, she's finally found the time to travel the world, and Bob accompanies her as often as his duties at the café permit. We get plenty of postcards to track their movements,
however, each with a certain theme:

Alpacas of the Andes

Llamas of Tibet

Candid Camels of Arabia

(You get the idea.)

And I? Well, I'm hard at work on my novel, and I've been loogie free for 107 days now. Yet my heart has been thoroughly captured: by this land, by these people, and by the second chances so freely offered at the Last Chance Llama Ranch.

And now the part where I tell on myself:

Aguas Milagros, I'm afraid, does not exist. I pulled inspiration from real towns around New Mexico like Mora and Questa, but Aguas Milagros itself is a product of my imagination, hot springs, hippies, and all.

Llamas and alpacas
are
known to spit upon occasion, but not nearly as much as I make them out to, and they mostly only do it to each other. Really. Don't be scared.

Generally speaking, if the powder base is good, ski season in the Taos Valley opens the weekend after Thanksgiving. I moved it up a few days for my own nefarious purposes.

For similarly nefarious reasons, I moved the Wool Festival at Taos back about a month. It's usually held the first weekend in October.

Chief Manuelito, a fierce Navajo warrior and leader, obviously never spent time in a fictitious town, but he did move around northern New Mexico a lot in the 1860s, and he was well-known for his battles with the US military. I just created a little rest stop for him on his travels, for which I hope I may be forgiven.

And now the part where I slobber with gratitude:

To Susan Barnes at Redhook, for patience, guidance, and a truly humbling degree of faith in me. (And for obligingly squeeing every time I sent her
another
llama or alpaca picture.) It's a privilege to work with you.

To Holly Henderson Root, agent extraordinaire, for being as ever the voice of complete calm, competence, and professionalism. Never were there sweeter words than “Let me take care of this for you.”

To my friends Rebecca Parish, Pam Watts, and Randi Ya'el Chaikind, the Santa Fe NaNoWriMos who made this last year a time of copious caffeine, laughs, and kick-ass fiction. I think we must've slurped coffee (and hogged outlets) in every café in Santa Fe.

To Jim Garland and Diane Thomas of our little Eldorado writers' group, for invaluable suggestions and generosity with their time. I hope to be able to return the favor someday.

And lastly, to those who rescued me from rivers of tears this past year: my brother, Jason Fields, Amanda Morris, Leslie Kazanjian, Diane Schwartz, Caz McKinnon, Arna Elezovic, Bernard Balizet, Shana Hack, Lucinda Marker, Pierre Barrera, Susanna Kirk, and of course, the women of the sanity-restoring Eldorado Thursday night women's meeting.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And now the part where I acknowledge my inspirations:

I doubt I'd have dreamed up this novel without my serendipitous meeting with real-life mountain man Stuart Wilde of Wild Earth Llama Adventures up in Questa, New Mexico. The idea for “Lunch with the Llamas” began with a lunchtime trek with his majestic llamas, and he was gracious enough to share freely of his wisdom and expertise on several occasions while I plied him with llama questions. I recommend you check out Wild Earth at www.llamaadventures.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/llamatrek for a wonderful wilderness experience!

The folks at Victory Ranch in Mora, New Mexico, were an invaluable resource. (Plus, they let me pet their alpacas to my heart's content.) With two hundred of the cutest camelids you ever did see, set in a gorgeous, mountain-ringed valley, this is probably the squee-fulest ranch you can visit. Darcy Weisner and her family graciously fielded my many questions,
and
let me fondle all the yarn in their shop. They run visiting hours where you can meet and feed the animals year-round, and once a year, you can even watch the 'packies get shorn. (It's not traumatic at all, I swear.) Visit them at www.victoryranch.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/victoryranch. (Oh, and I have to fess up: I stole the idea of “theme naming” cria from them.)

Anne Stallcup at Que Sera Alpacas gave me a more thorough tutoring on the topic of microns, staple length, and “well-organized fleece” than I could possibly do justice. I'm just grateful she let me get to know her herd and take lots of adorable pictures. Check her out just outside Santa Fe proper at www.queseraalpacas.com or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/queseraalpacas.

And of course, I have to acknowledge the inimitable Cody Lundin. I was lucky enough to attend Cody's “Nothing” Course through his Aboriginal Living Skills School in Prescott, Arizona, last summer, where I learned all about being “the outside penguin,” garbage bag blankies, and roasting de
lic
ious ash cakes over an open fire. (Blech!) Cody, thanks for your wit, your wisdom, and for not razzing me
too
much about jonesing for Diet Coke. I hope you don't mind my borrowing your bare feet for my character Sam! Information on the Aboriginal Living Skills School can be found on Cody's website at www.codylundin.com.

Bliss

Last Chance Llama Ranch

Photo Credit: Jenn Adams

 

A scion of Manhattan's Upper East Side,
HILARY FIELDS
wrote her first romance novel at sixteen, and continued to write women's fiction even as she studied classics and philosophy at St. John's College, a tiny liberal arts college in Santa Fe, New Mexico. In the spirit of cognitive dissonance, she continues to divide her time between Manhattan and the Land of Enchantment, and enjoys cooking, crocheting, and her obligatory feline companions.

introducing

by Hilary Fields

Nothing says “oops” like your naked ass skidding in the salmon mousse…

A year ago, pastry chef Serafina Wilde's seemingly perfect life fell to pieces. So now, when her eccentric aunt Pauline calls from Santa Fe needing her help, Sera jumps at the chance to start over. Pauline even offers to let her take over the family business, “Pauline's House of Passion,” and turn it into a bakery…provided she agrees not to ditch the “back room.” Cupcakes and sex toys don't exactly mix, but Sera is willing to try, and what she finds in the beautiful City Different is the best life has to o
ffer
—if she has the courage to go for it.

Neither here nor there
Albuquerque airport, present day

P
auline Wilde didn't look like a woman in mourning. Unless by widow's weeds one envisioned a lemon yellow and sky blue broomstick skirt studded with what had to be at least half a quarry's worth of turquoise and intricately worked Native American silver disks, topped with a ratty, oversized T-shirt proclaiming, in half-faded but still defiant lettering, “Orgasms Aren't Just for the Young!” Add to that a fiercely pink headscarf barely binding a wild-and-woolly extravaganza of hip-length salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of ancient gardening clogs with roses and kittens hand-stenciled on them in flaking acrylic paint, and you had the very picture of a woman
not
suffering the loss of her beloved life partner. But then, Serafina thought, that was Pauline—she didn't believe in catering to societal expectations. Never had, never would.

“Bliss! Helloooooo, Bliss! Over here, kiddo!”

Her aunt's voice was exactly as it had always been—warm, slightly fruity, like a cross between Julia Child and Jane Goodall, blended with a dash of throaty Kathleen Turner for good measure. Sera smothered a grin at the sight of her impatiently elbowing past the rest of the folks waiting for friends and loved ones at the terminal. Only Pauline ever called her by her ridiculous middle name—a name Pauline herself had gifted her, and which was now echoing through the boarding area to the amusement of the other passengers disembarking from Sera's flight.

The Albuquerque airport was surprisingly posh, Sera saw as she took her first gander around at the fabled Southwest.
Not at all what I imagined from the place where Bugs Bunny made his wrong turn.
Airy, clean, and decorated in pinkish earth tones and expensive native pottery, it was a far cry from the chaos she'd left behind at JFK just a few hours earlier. But she didn't have much time to absorb her surroundings—her aunt was treating the place like a linebacker in a championship game, barreling past all obstacles to get to her objective.

Nothing had ever stood in Pauline Wilde's way. Not for long, anyhow. Ever since Sera could remember, Pauline had been pushing boundaries, defying convention, sticking her middle finger in the face of anyone who told her she couldn't do something she wanted to do. She was a woman utterly estranged from the concepts of shame, modesty, and deference. In comparison, Sera, raised by stolidly conventional yuppie parents until she was thirteen, had always felt somewhat small and apologetic, though Pauline had done her utmost to yank her niece from beneath her towering feminist shadow and lend her some chutzpah when her own wouldn't take Sera the distance.

It hadn't worked, even when Sera had gone to live with Pauline after her parents' sudden deaths. If anything, the contrast between Sera's shy, repressed thirteen-year-old self and her ballsy aunt had made Sera shrink down even smaller, despite her deep love for the older woman. She knew Pauline would be horrified if she realized her efforts to toughen Sera up had done more to make her squirm than make her strong. She admired Pauline's ideals of striving for self-fulfillment, even as she doubted her own ability to advocate for her deepest needs and wants. She simply didn't feel she had the
right
to happiness the way Pauline so obviously did.

Shaking herself firmly, Sera reminded herself she was nearly thirty, and had been self-supporting since college. She'd faced—and conquered—some extremely tough demons, particularly in the last year. She'd seen a bit of what her inner mettle was really worth, and learned to trust her instincts more and more. Pauline's support had done a lot to set her on that path. Now it was time for Sera to do the supporting.

Her aunt's frantic call had come just yesterday.

Hortencia's gone. I need you, Baby-Bliss.

Sera's heart had sunk. Pauline and Hortencia had been inseparable for the last few years. Her aunt must be devastated.
I'm coming, Aunt Paulie,
she'd assured her aunt over the phone.
I'm on the next flight.
And she had been.

Before Sera could so much as set down her carry-on, Pauline had wrapped her arms around her niece and was squeezing for all she was worth. Instantly, Sera was swamped with that familiar Pauline smell: part musky herbal—mugwort or pot, she'd never been sure—part fairy godmother. Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Fuck, it's good to see you, Aunt Paulie.”

“Ditto, kid-bean. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, too.” Pauline took her time eyeballing her niece, flipping the short, chin-length ends of Sera's new bob approvingly, putting her hands on Sera's hips and turning her this way and that. “Lookin' good, kiddo! I see all those sweets you bake aren't hurting your sweet figure any. You've still got a tush on you like a couple of hot cross buns. You didn't get that from me, that's for sure. Tuchas like a freakin' pancake, that's what I've got. A crepe even, these days. Ah, but what am I babbling about? Baby Bliss, let's get your shit and blow this taco stand. I can't wait to finally show you what heaven's all about.”

Bemused, Sera trailed after her aunt down the long, wide ramp that led to the baggage claim. Had grief made her loopy? Er… loopier than usual? Because she'd expected sorrow-stricken. Wan. Shaken. All the sad emotions the joyful, fearless Pauline Wilde had never seemed susceptible to, but surely must be feeling after the death of her life partner.

At least, that had been the impression she'd given Sera when she'd called to tell her that Hortencia was suddenly gone.
I'm devastated, Bliss. Utterly wrecked,
she'd said. Could Sera please drop everything and fly to New Mexico to help her deal with her loss?

Given that Pauline was, quite simply, Sera's single favorite person, she hadn't hesitated for a second.
After all the times she's saved my bacon,
Sera thought fondly,
she'd be within her rights to ask for a kidney. Hell,
both
kidneys.
In any case, considering how little anchored her to New York these days, taking time out was no great hardship. And she'd been missing Pauline a lot lately.

“So how's your love life, kid?” Pauline asked—loudly—over her shoulder as they headed for the bag claim. Her skirt jingled in counterpoint to her strides. “You getting any?”

I didn't miss
this
part,
Sera thought with a mental wince. She avoided the smirking glance of the college-aged bohunk trotting down the ramp to meet his gloriously tanned, crunchy-granola girlfriend, her arms outstretched as if to announce to all and sundry, “Now you…
you're
getting some.”

“Um, I'm doing okay,” she said weakly. “Not dating anyone seriously right now. Mostly trying to keep the catering business out of the red, keep myself on the straight and narrow. That kind of thing.”

“That wasn't what I asked,” Pauline said, huffing a little as they made it to the conveyor and started scanning the bags. “I asked if you were getting
laid.
Don't really need a boyfriend for that, though of course, it never hurts to know where your next O's coming from. One of the benefits of a steady relationship, I s'pose.” Her face clouded over momentarily.

“I'm so sorry about Hortencia, Aunt Paulie,” Sera jumped in, eager to change the subject, and also to comfort the woman who'd once been
her
sole solace after her parents' deaths. “It must have been quite a shock, her passing so suddenly. I had the impression she was healthy as a horse, with all that hiking and mountain climbing you two were always doing. I'm just sorry I never got to meet her. From everything you've told me, she must have been a really special lady.” Sera patted Pauline on the shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

Was it her imagination, or did her aunt flush, just slightly?

Pauline made an impatient, fly-shooing gesture. “Don't get me started with the wailing and weeping just yet, kiddo. I need these eyes to see. It's a long drive to Santa Fe, and we have a lot of catching up to do. So,” she finished, briskly clearing her throat and pointing at the luggage rattling around the conveyor, “I'm gonna guess yours is the one that looks like a giant pink cupcake with rainbow sprinkles on the front?”

Sera had to admit it was.

“Great, let's get that cupcake to go.”

As she stepped out into the sunlight, Sera took her deep first breath of New Mexico's thin, dry air. Goose bumps rose along her arms, but somehow she didn't think the cool September breeze was to blame. She sensed a weightlessness, a sense of potential—as if destiny had taken a vacation and left her with a wide-open fate. She couldn't say how she knew, but she had a feeling her life—her very being—was about to change.

And considering the woman she'd been until recently, that might be a very good thing.

Because
that
chick had been a real fuckup.