She was born in central California in the middle of the 1950s, in the middle of a family of boys. Her mother was vain and her father was egotistical; they neither noticed each other, really, so it wasn’t too surprising that they didn’t notice their daughter.

Some folks would argue that Cindy was lucky that way. Her brothers received rough discipline from their father whenever they misbehaved. Cindy managed to avoid the belt. But she would contend that even violent attention is better than none at all. Cindy can’t remember an occasion when either parent hugged her.

It really wasn’t fair. She was a beautiful baby and a gentle toddler. She was short and plump and had thick blonde hair that went where it should even though no one took the time to style it. She was sweet-tempered and bright enough to amuse the ambient adults. But the adults were busy raising boys and livestock and avocados and apricots during the day, and pursuing their own interests during the short evenings. They figured a daughter didn’t need much from them.

Cindy’s father read political philosophy when he had time. He would have liked an academic career but his rural family didn’t even let him go to the free community college; he was expected to take over the running of the farm and he did. But he spent his spare time cozying up to socialism and dreaming of the utopia he would design.

Cindy’s mother came from a whiter collar family. Her dad had been a veterinary doctor and her mother worked as a nurse before marriage. Cindy’s mother always felt she’d stepped down by marrying her father, and by the time Cindy was old enough to understand her parents’ arguments, her mother wasn’t letting her father forget the social gap between them. Her mother spent her free time reading society magazines and sneaking vodka.

Cindy spent time alone. Her brothers rough-housed with one another when they weren’t doing chores or attending school. Her father was outside during the day and in his small study most evenings. Her mother put her to regular work at domestic duties, but didn’t provide any companionship. The family lived too far away from congenial neighbors for her to find any friends near home.

She attended school of course, but she didn’t find friends there either. She was not bright or funny or coordinated enough to impress anyone there; she was too shy and quiet to be noticed. If she’d been a victim of teasing she might have acquired a defender or co-sufferer, but it was Cindy’s lot to go unnoticed. When she moved from the valley she left behind no close friends.

She came to the coast and the city. She brought with her substantial experience at cooking and cleaning and ironing and gardening. She knew her way around a sewing machine but disdained that skill. She had taken typing and shorthand in high school, so she aimed above au pair or housekeeper; she planned to acquire secretarial work.

She didn’t bring much luggage with her, but she toted a load of baggage. She had secrets.

She was the farmer’s daughter. She was a peach of a young lady: early maturing and luscious. Full grown she wasn’t over 5’2″ and her skin was fine-pored pink and white. She had sun blonde hair and sky blue eyes, and she produced impressive breasts by the time she was 14.

Her goods might have remained unsampled but for her father’s politics. He was so supportive of farmworker causes that he sometimes allowed a migrant or two to camp in the outbuilding behind the barn. Cindy’s first affair took place in that building, and it wasn’t her last.

His name was Paco. He was 32, tall and strong, darkly handsome. From the first time he encountered Cindy, he was gentle, friendly, and interested in her. Then he noticed that no one was noticing. He told Cindy how much he enjoyed her company. He said he wished they could talk more often. He explained that he had to work all day or he’d lose his place. He said he wished they were able to visit after work.

“I could sneak out,” Cindy suggested the next time they spoke. Paco said he didn’t want to get her in trouble. “No, I can do it,” she insisted. “Daddy never minds me; he’ll be reading in his study. And Mama has a cocktail while we clean up after dinner, and then she goes to her room and doesn’t come out. I could even bring some of her vodka.”

“No need,” said Paco (actually he said, no es necesario, but that makes this too hard to read).

Cindy showed up at the outbuilding around 9:30 that night. Paco had improved the room with a blanketed nest in one corner. He sat her down there. He asked her questions. She talked. He listened. Then he talked. He told her how beautiful she was. He looked into her blue eyes with his of chocolate brown, and he said that he loved her. Then he put one arm around her shoulders and stroked her face with his other hand. He kept looking in her eyes as he brought his mouth to hers. At first he gave her kisses like feathers. She didn’t pull back. Then he planted his lips around hers and gently pushed hers open with his tongue. At the same time he let his stroking hand explore one breast and he moaned into her mouth.