The Wilder Sisters by Jo-Ann Mapson Page A

from the driver’s side of the windshield. When exactly had some vato decided to decimate her wiper? And further- more, why? That pointless violence, it was just so Orange County. Car envy, road rage, whatever you wanted to call it, ran rampant in Southern California. She wondered if she had left her steam iron on back at the condo, then decided no, that was panic-attack syndrome rearing its ugly head—yet another of the state’s perks to which she had nearly succumbed.

    In Albuquerque she bought lunch to go at the Owl Café, parking at the far end of the famous burger joint’s lot. It wasn’t very crowded, and the waitress who brought her takeout order comped Lily a handful of stale cookies for Buddy. Lily changed the CDs in her cassette and sat sharing her salad with Buddy. She ate whatever was green, and after he finished his chile verde burger, Buddy took care of the croutons. “What a great deal we have going here,” she told her dog. “Why did it take me so long to see it? You’re the only guy for me, forever.”
    Buddy licked the Styrofoam platter clean of ranch dressing, and Lily threw it in the back seat. She started the Lexus and the CD player clicked into Tish Hinojosa’s voice bleeding through the speakers, as honest as the river she was singing about. Each separate note traveled down Lily’s spine like a piece of ice some boy had slipped down her

    blouse. Even though she had forgotten most of her Spanish, she shivered at the emotion emanating from the lyrics, and Buddy began a primal whine. “You’re right,” Lily said, switching tracks until “San Antonio Romeo” replaced the Rio Grande balled that was reminding her of how broken her heart felt now that Blaise was on the past boyfriends roster. “We don’t need to hear that, do we? He wasn’t worthy of either of us. Say it out loud with me, Buddy: We deserve better. We deserve better. We deserve better. . She patted his head and straightened his collar so the bone-shaped tag with his name on it was centered beneath his chin. “Only a couple more hours, dingo mine. Then you can chase horses and pee on every sage bush your wild blue heart desires.”

    Floralee was north of Santa Fe, but not quite as far north as Taos. Off 518 the town was accessible by a twisting, partially paved road that seemed to be in a constant state of resurfacing. Lily waited be- hind a line of cars for the flagman to wave her along. She passed sleepy old ranch houses that had been handed down from family to family over the years. Cottonwood trees swayed in the breeze, and curious backyard horses peered over fences. Willows spilled lacy canopies of shade. In the neighboring towns it seemed that very little had changed since her childhood. Floralee, on the other hand, she knew would feel different than last time she’d been here. Over the years word of mouth had slowly leaked out: Buy property in Floralee. Good riding, nearby fishing, more bang for your buck. Historic haciendas and two excellent restaurants. I’m telling you, Floralee’s about fifteen years away from being another Taos . As Lily drove past the Kiwanis sign, she saw that the whispered rumor was having an ef- fect. The single gallery that had supplied the town with posters and local art had been joined by a couple of rivals. Just down the block, the general store with the saloon doors still offered homemade ta- males, but they had tripled in price. The ¡Andale! roadhouse had a fancy new bay-shaped window and looked more like the bakery next door than the down-home watering hole featuring second-rate bands every weekend, where Lily had worn out more than one pair of shoes. The tack shop facing the small plaza had mutated from a practical sportsman’s’ outfitters to a thinly disguised gift emporium. Each crumbling adobe storefront had been tidied up very carefully, maintained to appear old and quaint. Colorful wild-

    flowers grew in haphazard plantings, contrasting nicely with the brown clay—a New