Indian Time: A Novel

By Mary Verdick

Can two people from widely different cultures, she a graduate of Eastern schools and he a product of the San Toms pueblo, find happiness despite their different lineages? Author Mary Verdick, a Middletown native, who has traveled widely in the Southwest answers this question in a modern day love story.

In Indian Time author Mary Verdick's gripping romantic novel set in the exotic Southwest the author intrigues the reader with:
1. Ancient myths and legends
2. Indian dances and fetishes
3. Dangers from an unforgiving opponent

Mary Verdick, an ex-teacher and editor, is the author of many children's books and an adult novel. Raised in Colorado she was a frequent visitor to Santa Fe and the vicinity and is a dedicated student of Indian culture. She now lives in Middletown, CT near her son and grandchildren and visits the Southwest every chance she gets.

Marketing efforts to support booksignings:
Events signs and posters for instore display and free bookmarks to give away
Postcards sent to personal and professional contacts
Ongoing publicity campaign with radio, TV, and newspaper media
Announcements sent to community calendar of events

For a review copy of Indian Time or to book Mary Verdick for an in-store event please contact Mary Verdick at [phone], email:[e-mail]

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 19, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462080038

Mary Verdick

An ex-teacher and editor, Mary Verdick is the author of several adult novels and numerous short stories and books for children. She lives in Cromwell, Connecticut, near her family, and is busy at work on another novel. For more information, visit her website at www.maryverdick.com.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

To my son Fred, who is always there when I need him.

CHAPTER 1

Wonder what’s keeping your grandparents? Liz said, squinting into the bright desert sunlight as she and Cokey scanned the line of slowly moving cars along the curb.

Their plane from Connecticut had landed almost twenty minutes early at Albuquerque’s International Airport, so they’d had plenty of time to collect their luggage and step outside the terminal. If they don’t get here pretty soon, we’re going to be late for dinner.

Dinner! Cokey lifted an eyebrow. Golly, Mom, we just had lunch not two hours ago. Is that all you ever think about—your stomach?

"Not all I think about, darling." Sighing inwardly, Liz smiled at her scowling twelve-year-old daughter, wondering, as she often did lately, where the sweet, loving child she’d once known had disappeared to. She knew Cokey blamed her for the breakup with Dave, whom she adored, and she hoped someday she could explain her side of the story. But now was not the time to go into that.

So she said, I don’t consider a bag of peanuts and that dinky little snack they gave us on the plane a proper lunch. I’m dying for some of Carmen’s good southwestern cooking

Ugh! Don’t you realize that stuff goes straight to your hips? It’s chock full of fat and cholesterol…

Perhaps, but it tastes mighty good

"Everything tastes good to you, Mom. Did you ever meet a food you didn’t like?"

Well, now that you mention it…

You’ve gained at least twenty pounds since Dad left.

Ten would be more like it.

You wish! Cokey glared at her mother. Have you looked in a mirror lately? If you keep pigging out like you’ve been doing, you’re going to end up a real blimp.

Even more of a blimp than you are already, her tone implied. Liz was hurt, more than she cared to admit, but she told herself not to take it seriously. This was just a phase Cokey was going through. At least she prayed it was just a phase.

The sound of a horn nearby interrupted her thoughts. A shiny gray van pulled into the vacant spot before them. The doors opened and a trim, middle-aged couple, dressed in jeans and western shirts, jumped out. It was the Farlows, Liz’s mother and father.

Cokey! Liz! Oh, it’s so good to see you.

Hi, Gram, Gramps. It’s great to see you, too, Cokey cried, her petulant young face all smiles as she threw herself into her grandparents’ arms.

Hello, Mom, Dad, Liz said, waiting to be hugged. It was worth the wait.

Liz, darling. Both parents engulfed her in a warm embrace.

You’re looking well, sweetheart, her mother said, sounding relieved and surprised.

Her father added, Looking well, my foot! Our gal’s a gen-u-wine, twenty-karat knockout, as always.

Oh, Dad, stop, Liz protested, knowing he was joking but pleased just the same; after her daughter’s onslaught, she needed a little stroking.

And as for you, young lady, Farlow said to his granddaughter (he liked to be called by his last name), I see you’ve inherited the family trait.

Yeah? Cokey said. What’s that, Gramps?

You’re turning into a beautiful young woman. You keep that up and you’ll be giving your ma here a run for the money before you know it.

Cokey frowned. No, I won’t. I look just like Dad, haven’t you noticed? Same eyes, same hair, same coloring. I’m even built like him—tall and lanky. Mom’s short and squiggly, and I don’t resemble her one bit.

Which was the God’s honest truth, Liz thought. With her chiseled features and amber eyes, Cokey was a carbon copy of her stunningly handsome father. She had a naturally slender build that was just beginning to blossom, and long, shapely legs. She would be a striking looking woman some day.

Liz, on the other hand, who had inherited the flaming red hair and greenish-gray eyes of her own mother, had pale, translucent skin that had a tendency to freckle, and a soft, rounded body that seemed to be all curves. At five feet four and one hundred-thirty-five pounds she was not fat by any stretch of the imagination, but she had long considered herself a little on the plump side.

I’m the tallest girl in my class, Cokey informed her grandfather proudly, lifting her chin.

Are you, now? Well, ain’t that somethin’? Farlow seemed at a temporary loss for words. But he recovered quickly and winked at Liz, over Cokey’s head, while Mrs. Farlow squeezed Liz’s hand, her eyes saying plainly, Kids! What can you do about ‘em?

They put the luggage in the van and all piled in, Liz in back with her mother, Cokey in front next to Farlow. A few minutes later they were on I-25, heading north toward Santa Fe.

Liz, looking out the window, felt herself relaxing, felt the pent-up tension she had been living with for months, evaporating, almost literally oozing from her pores. After the divorce, she had agonized over whether to look for a steady job right away, which she needed, or come West for the summer as her parents urged. She hadn’t really known until almost the last minute what her decision would be, but suddenly she was glad she had chosen the latter. New Mexico really was The Land of Enchantment, as the license plates advertised. She loved its deserts, its colors, its great blue bowl of a sky, the intriguing glimpses of purple mountains in the distance.

She was anxious to see Whistling Winds again, too, the small adobe ranch resort where she had spent so many happy summers as a child. Her parents had always loved the place, returning for holidays year after year, and eighteen months ago, when her father retired from his New York publishing job, they had taken their savings, and whatever else they could scrounge or borrow, and bought the resort.

They didn’t know anything about being innkeepers, and Dave had thought they were crazy. Those poor, misguided idiots! They’re going to lose their shirts, Liz remembered her husband, or rather, ex-husband, predicting wryly. But so far his prediction hadn’t come true. The resort, twenty miles outside of Santa Fe, had twelve guest rooms in addition to the family quarters, and the Farlows had figured that if they could keep the rooms occupied all summer they’d make enough to live on comfortably the rest of the year.

It had proved harder to keep the rooms fully occupied than they’d anticipated, and Farlow’s mild heart attack the previous winter was a totally unexpected blow. But her parents weren’t discouraged, Liz realized. They had simply advertised a bit more in the big Eastern papers and had found a manager to help with running the place.

How’s this new guy you’ve hired working out? Liz asked.

Clyde? Oh, he’s a gem, her dad said. Tell the truth, I don’t know how we managed without him all this time.

And the guest situation?

Not too bad. Actually, our bookings are up a little from last summer.

Her mother added: Why, would you believe we have two permanent guests who like the place so much they plan to stay for the entire season? One of them is the nicest man, an archaeologist.

An archae—?

—ologist, Cokey piped up. That’s a guy who studies what’s left of a people’s culture. Archaeologists specialize in all aspects of past human life, Mom. They go on digs.

I know, dear.

Then why’d you ask?

I didn’t, Liz said. I was merely curious—oh, never mind. Turning back to Mrs. Farlow, she asked, What’s the gent’s name?

"Major Halls, Major J. Reginald Halls, to be exact—and he’s just so-o interesting. He’s always got some intriguing little story to tell."

Why do you call him major? Cokey asked. Is he in the Army or something?

Used to be, her grandmother said. He’s a retired West-Pointer.

No kidding. Cokey was impressed. She had talked of going to West Point herself some day if she could get an appointment.

Mrs. Farlow said, The major’s fascinated by the ancient Pueblo Indians, and he has found the perfect laboratory for his research too, almost in our own back yard. Remember that deserted pueblo on state land not far from the lodge, Liz?

Husaka? Liz nodded, Sure. Maria Valdez and I used to go up there lots of times on picnics when we were kids. It was a real neat place, as I recall.

Well, the major obviously thinks so too, Mrs. Farlow said. Two or three times a week, he has Hector saddle him up a horse, and then he rides up to the pueblo and spends hours searching for artifacts.

What kind of artifacts?

Oh, the usual. Mrs. Farlow shrugged. You know—bits of pottery, broken trinkets, arrowheads, stuff like that. The major will take anything, he says; he’s not particular.

But there’s nothing to take, Liz thought. Husaka had been abandoned for years. I thought tourists had pretty well picked that old place clean, a long time ago.

Mrs. Farlow smiled. "Maybe it looks clean to the untrained eye, but to an archaeologist it might be an entirely different story. Anyway, the major never goes off without a pickaxe and shovel strapped to his saddle; isn’t that so, Ben?"

Yep. Farlow nodded. And when he gets his saddlebags filled he takes the stuff into Santa Fe to the Sun Dial Trading Post to get it appraised, then ships it back east to Cedar Rapids, his home town. He’s a hard working fellow; I’ll say that for him.

And no trouble at all, Mrs. Farlow added.

I’m glad for you, Mom, Dad, Liz said. But you mentioned two permanent guests, Mom. What’s the other one like?

Oh. Mrs. Farlow’s face clouded over slightly. Well, the other guest is Miss Bartley, Miss Olivia Bartley, a maiden lady from Cleveland, Ohio. There’s really not a thing wrong with her except.

She can drive you downright batty with her yakking. Laughing, Farlow finished the sentence for his wife.

Now, Ben, aren’t you ashamed? Mrs. Farlow scolded, but Liz noticed her mother’s mouth was twitching with amusement. I think the whole trouble with Miss B. is that she’s just a bit lonely.

Lonely—and a crashing bore, Farlow said. But her money’s as good as anyone else’s, so, he glanced at Cokey, you be nice to her now, young lady. No giggling or fresh talk—hear?

Grandfather! Cokey said, insulted. Don’t you think I know how to behave around guests? I’m not a baby.

No, you’re not. Sorry, honey. Anxious to change the subject, he added, We’ve made a few changes around the old place since you were here last, Liz.

What kind of changes? Liz asked. The Valdezes are still working at the lodge, aren’t they, Dad?

Oh, sure, we couldn’t manage without Carmen and Hector. But we might have a surprise or two up our sleeves.

I’ve had enough surprises to last me the rest of my life, Liz thought. But she kept quiet and after a while the warm, adobe buildings of Santa Fe came into view.

They circled the Plaza and went by the Palace of the Governors, where since time immemorial, it seemed, Indians had sat beneath the portico, selling wares to tourists. They offered pottery in polished black and warm earth tones, beautiful turquoise and silver jewelry, all kinds of handmade crafts. To Liz, the scene looked exactly the same as she remembered it as a child.

Do you suppose those people ever get tired of sitting in one place so long? she asked idly.

Who knows? Sighing, Mrs. Farlow shook her head. The same ones often spend all morning and afternoon there, never looking at a watch or even asking the time of day. But then no one out here ever knows the correct hour of day or night, it seems, and few people care. ‘Indian time,’ it’s called.

Indian time? Liz smiled. Is it catching, you suppose?

You’d better believe it, her mother said. Wait’ll you see how laid-back your pa’s gotten lately. I can hardly budge him out of his chair.

Farlow grinned. Okay. Okay, I plead guilty. Since the old ticker gave me that little warning last winter and Clyde arrived on the scene, I have lost a bit of ambition, I’ll admit. But there’s something to be said for this kind of feet-up, take-it-easy, western ambience.

Ambience! Cokey hooted. Liz wondered if she was going to define the word for her. Since when did you start going in for such two-bit words, Gramps?

Now don’t be fresh, young lady, Farlow said in mock ferocity, or I’ll have to take you down a peg or two.

Yeah? I’m shaking in my boots, Cokey said, as they all laughed.

They soon left Santa Fe behind, and were climbing steadily into the Sangre de Christo range. After twenty minutes they turned off the main road onto a narrow side road, the van bumping, sending up