Chapter Sixteen
Kada looked so interested in the grapes, so Dane thought about stopping the truck and letting her poke around the vines. The fruit wouldn’t be ripe and ready to pick until June, but the vibrant leaves rustled and cast alluring shadows. If his hiking plan crashed and burned, he could take her back to the farmland and regroup.
“How many grapes do you grow? Are they a lot of work? Are they good?” she asked.
He gave her a wide grin. Her curiosity and ability to throw herself into every situation impressed him. She probably didn’t want to hear about the rush to harvest before the Central Valley’s massive grape harvest undercut prices. The fight to retain workers, the field tastings, and his obsession with weather forecasts made for dry conversation. Clearing his throat, he reached for his hat. “We grow about fifteen hundred acres of grapes spread over multiple sites.”
“That’s a lot!” She laughed. “Why do you want my land?”
Pausing, he considered the question. He might not own the air’s freshness or the water’s sparkle, but he could put them to use and feed the multitudes. “Why not?”
She crossed her arms. “It’s mine.”
Just shy of a pout, her defiance charmed him. Maybe she would stay, after all. Suppressing a smile, he climbed out of the truck and put on his hat and his sunglasses. “Do you have any water?”
“I keep some behind the seats.” She pulled out two bottles and handed over one. “Will we need it? I’m not sure I’m dressed for a long hike. And then there’s Benito…”
“Enough about Benito.”
She laughed.
Turning his back on the grapes, he took a hand and tugged her into motion. The trail gained altitude quickly, but on flat ground, he set a relaxed pace and enjoyed the solitude and the tension of holding hands with a beautiful woman.
“Pops liked to hike.”
“Where’d he take you?”
“When I was a kid, we went up the Garstin Trail and followed it up Smoke Tree Mountain. I think Pops wanted to see if I would wimp out on the switchbacks. We usually snacked on the plateau, and he gave me chocolate.”
“I’m surprised it survived the heat.”
“Ice packs,” she said.
He laughed. “Clever.”
“The site has breathtaking views of the San Jacinto and the Little San Bernardino Mountains, Palm Canyon, and Palm Springs. When I made it to the top of the trail, I could see the whole valley.”
He had a hard time imagining Hall hiking to the top of the Garstin Trail, but Kada knew him twenty years ago. From the top of the trail, the pair could have linked up with the Wild Horse Trail and climbed Murray Hill. “How far did you go?”
“Not much farther,” she said. “Pops said the Murray Hill hike was strenuous, but one day, I should do it.” She pulled free a hand and opened the water bottle. Taking a long sip, she wiped a hand across her mouth. “I still haven’t done it.”
“It’s a good hike.” He waited for her to finish the sip of water and resumed walking to step into the shadows.
She jogged and caught up. “You’ve done it?”
He nodded.
“Was it breathtaking?”
“Yeah.”
Tugging him to a stop, she stared. “Yeah?”
Exhaling, he debated how much to reveal. “My dad brought a map and pointed out all the family lands. It was like some regal moment from a cartoon. ‘Everything the light touches…’ ”
She laughed.
“Thanks. This is me opening up.”
“No, I mean, I can see you up on Murray Hill finding your bearings and figuring out what you’re supposed to do with your dad’s information. That’s intense. Pops let me be. He said time and fresh air would sort out my problems.”
“Did they?” He shifted his weight.
She spread wide her arms and inhaled deeply. “Not yet. I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Lucky me.” He tried to keep his gaze off her chest, but her inhalation raised more than her shoulders. Admiring her figure was one thing, but he felt compelled to step closer and figure out just what kind of person she might be. In the canyon, she looked as wild as an undisturbed red hot poker. The spectacular flowering plant had a softer name, the torch lily, but when it bloomed, the hot name fit. Insects and hummingbirds flocked to the blooms, and he forbade any farmworkers from disturbing the plants. Walter gave him a hard time, but the blooms attracted the valley’s best pollinators, and Palmer Farms depended on pollen. She might be as rare and spectacular as the bloom. People flocked toward her, and he wanted to understand why.
“So, where are we going?” she asked.
“A half mile. I’m not sure this will work out, but I have a hunch.” He wanted to hold her hand, but the schoolboy gesture seemed too familiar. Meeting her surprised him, but he’d gone about this relationship ass backward. If he backtracked, he might be able to reorient their connection before she chocked up their liaison to a one-night stand.
“Taking a risk?”
“Something along the lines of that notion.”
“As he grew older, Pops couldn’t walk as far. We mainly stuck to the land around the Starlight Motel or ambled from his favorite brunch spots to downtown’s sunny park benches.”
Nodding, he rubbed his fingers against his sweaty palms. Desert wildflowers in December required heavy rains in September and October.He checked the records, but he couldn’t be sure if the flowers would agree with the rain measurements. A few days ago, he saw a few blooms in the wash and canyon behind the farmhouse, but he needed more than a spec of white to make an impression on Kada. If the valley bucked his expectations, he would look like a fool.
Keeping his gaze on the climbing trail, he estimated the steps until he and Kada broke free of the canyon and stepped onto the gentle hillside. Patches of mottled greenery coursed along the hillside like prickly, stubborn lichens, but he looked for a low-growing, gray-green annual.
“I think Mom misses Pops more than she lets on. I mean, we came back for holidays, and she sent me down here for school breaks, but she left home. It must be hard, you know?”
He adjusted his hat. “Huh?”
She laughed and waved off his confusion. “Never mind. Family drama.”
“I want to hear what you said. I’m sorry, my mind wandered.”
Nodding, she walked beside him. “You’re a busy man.”
“It’s not that…it’s”—he stopped and grinned at the first sight of a tiny, early-blooming white flower—“I have something to show you.”
She shaded her gaze. “That’s an interesting line.”
Grabbing a hand, he quickened his pace and nearly pulled her toward the patch of small, white flowers. Aptly named popcorn flowers, the blooms resembled popped kernels spilled across the ground by a careless child. In groups, the flowers formed blazing white blankets that shone like snow against the brush. “Look!”
She stumbled.
Catching her elbow, he waited.
“Oh! Look at them! I didn’t know c ryptantha could bloom this early.” Dropping to one knee, she lifted a branch. Stiff, erect hairs and finer, flat hairs covered the plant’s stems. The clusters of white flowers were smaller than a dime, but they bobbed in a hand like a rich spray of white. “They’re beautiful. Is this what you wanted to show me?”
He rocked back on his heels and grinned. “I’ve seen them bloom up here, and with the fall rain, I thought we might get lucky. I figured we had to act fast before the desert tortoises found them.”
Standing, she walked toward him and tilted her head.
Widening his grin, he appreciated her smile and waited. Her gaze was as welcoming as a cold drink after a long, hot day. He dug his hands into his pockets and convinced himself he conjured the snowy magic purely for her benefit. But the hillside air felt as charged as an approaching storm, and he knew Mother Nature put on the display.
She drew close.
He reached for her and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Your murals are beautiful. I hear how much you enjoyed your walks with Hall. I thought you might enjoy the blooms.”
She leaned into him. “The Spanish call them nievitas or little snow. They’re beautiful. Thank you for the gift.”
Grinning with pride, he leaned down and kissed her so thoroughly that he prided himself on holding back. Her lips tasted sweet and cool, and he wanted to tighten his grip and find space to explore her body. Instead, he pulled back, straightened, and traced his thumb over her bottom lip. “You’re welcome. I’m glad to see you smile.”
“What other blooms do you have up your sleeve?”
He preferred not to answer that question surrounded by prickly plants.
She draped her hands over his shoulders. “Bringing me to see these flowers is the sweetest gesture, and I wouldn’t have pegged you for a romantic. You rode in on Smoky like a man who could not only ride a horse, but shoe it. I pegged you for the capable leader who makes people feel like everything will be okay.”
I’ll make it okay. He cupped her hips.
“You’re someone who makes sure the world is safe and secure.” Walking her fingers up his chest, she stopped and tapped a button. “But inside that strong fa?ade, you might be a softie and a romantic at heart.”
“Hardly.” His throat constricted. Instead of accepting her praise and its roiling connotations, he peeled back a layer of control and laid bare his motivations for bringing her to see the flowers. “Kada, you’re so vibrant, but every time I bring up your art, you go mum. I don’t want you to be sad. Your failed fundraising campaign won’t define your career. Even I can see your potential. Don’t worry about those idiots in Los Angeles. They can’t see past the ends of their noses.”
“Sad?” She pulled back and frowned.
He forged ahead before he lost his nerve. “Huge, showy impacts make a statement, but the smallest changes matter, too.” Nodding, he felt like he was on a roll. “Like the popcorn flowers, abundance lets little moments of beauty shine. Your mural is huge and breathtaking, but it must have taken hours of brushwork. Anyone can see the love you put into the work.”
Dropping her hands, she uncapped a water bottle, drained the contents, and screwed on the top. She opened her mouth.
Another kiss would suit him just fine.
Tilting her head, she closed her mouth and stared.
Speechless. He wanted to keep the moment going by telling her how much he enjoyed spending time with her, but he didn’t want to come on too strong.
“We should go.” Casting a last look at the flowers, she snapped a picture, tucked her phone into her pocket, and set a steady pace down the trail.
Left standing next to the blooms, he scratched his head and wondered where he went wrong. Crops needed soil, sunlight, and water. Based on Kada’s reaction, he had absolutely no idea what she needed, but an abundance of sweet, white blooms hadn’t done the trick.
Kada leaned against the blue truck. Arms crossed, she looked as friendly as a rattlesnake, but he could stand the bite. He nearly chased her down the trail. The fact that neither party turned an ankle was an absolute miracle. “You didn’t like the flowers.”
“Loved them.” She wet her lips.
“The kiss?”
She worked her jaw. “Better than the first.”
He rolled the tension from his shoulders, noticed the crisp scent of the irrigated vines, and felt like he could dig himself out of whatever hole he stumbled into. “Good.” Drawing a deep breath, he cocked his head to reiterate his intent, thought better of digging a deeper hole, and opened the door to the driver’s side.
“I can drive back to Palm Springs,” she said.
Making eye contact through the dusty windows, he left the keys on the seat and switched places.
She executed a three-point turn in the truck, followed the gravel drive, and stopped before the painted gate.
If she wants to ride back in silence, we have a long way to go. Jumping out of the cab, he unlocked the gate, waited for the truck to pass, and locked the gate tight. Reclaiming the passenger seat, he set his hat on his knee and rode for five minutes.
“When I was a kid”—she cleared her throat—“my art teacher carted in a sheet of plywood from the lumber store, laid it flat on the studio table, and invited every kid in the school to paint their palm and lay down a print. After we finished, red, blue, yellow, white, and black handprints covered the plywood. When the paint dried, she added a two-inch border along the perimeter, metal hang tags, and a coat of clear shellac. She hung the art from a chain in the hallway.”
“I’m sure it was a colorful piece.” Mom had a box of artwork stashed in a hall closet, but he wasn’t going head-to-head with a woman as talented as Kada.
“It was more than a colorful piece. Art creates excitement, and when people participate in making the art, they have a sense of belonging and a sense of possibility. Every time I walked by that plywood collage, I touched it. I remember the feel of the paint over rough plywood. The work wasn’t flat, organized, or pretty, but it was there, and seeing it, I felt like I was there, too.”
She leaned forward over the steering wheel. The speedometer hovered past the speed limit, but the silence was in his best interest.
“Arts education leads to academic achievement, social and emotional development, civic engagement, and equitable opportunity. It does everything we say we want for our kids, and I couldn’t deliver it.” Her voice hitched.
Taking a risk, he reached across the seat and settled a hand on her thigh. Her muscles contracted beneath his touch, but she let the gesture stand.
“Letting kids muck around in paint, explore textures, and create improves their education. Motivation, confidence, and peer relationships follow. You want to form social bonds and community cohesion? Set out cans of paint and let kids get messy. Parents will take pictures, kids will laugh, and everyone will go home with a load of laundry and a lighter heart.”
“Water-soluble paint.”
Glancing over, she narrowed her gaze.
He retracted a hand and held it palm out. “I’m in favor of anything that connects people to the world and opens new ways of seeing it.”
She eased off the accelerator.
Pulling his shirt collar from his neck, he exhaled. She had so much passion, her knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel, but he wanted the passion directed toward her art, not pointing out his missteps. He had worried he would put his foot in his mouth over dinner, but he should have stuck with plant pollination and let her come to him.
“All those teenagers and young adults making commitments to vocational training deserve applause and scholarship support, but I wanted them to showcase the beautiful, compelling facets that made the neighborhood unique.”
The sunlight picked out highlights in her hair. He could imagine her on a stage, or a social media channel, pleading her case for art and raking in donations. Whatever she wanted to accomplish, he was all in, and he found it hard to believe her fundraising campaign had failed. “What exactly did you propose?”
She stopped the truck at a stoplight. “The wave design worked beautifully and taught me so much, but it filled one wall at the Vocational School. While I packed up my paints, a student came to chat. She said she watched the mural unfold, and she really liked the work. She wanted to paint her grandmother a picture to brighten her room in a nursing home, and I couldn’t shove paints into her arms fast enough.”
The light turned green.
If he learned one thing from Mom, he learned to let a woman finish her story before asking questions.
“The student said she was too scared to paint and mess up the canvas. I got it. All that stretched linen staring back can feel intimidating, but you have to put paint on your brush and paint. We worked together for a couple of afternoons, and her stories spilled out. I wasn’t there to fix her problems, but I was there to listen. I told her that during the times I feel like my life’s off course, art keeps me steady.”
Family pride kept him steady. Customer expectations, contractual agreements, and weekly payroll kept him awake at night. Instead of imagining his life with a different degree, he imagined his life with entirely different surroundings. “The student finished the painting.”
She turned toward the block containing The Desert Empire Café. “She did, but she wasn’t the only student who wanted to paint. People need a constructive way to let loose. On my last day at the school, I ran out of supplies, stared at the empty walls, and wondered what else I could do.”
A jaywalker wearing four-inch platform boots stepped into traffic.
Exhaling, she waved the individual across the street. “Nice boots.”
He snorted.
She grinned, gripped the steering wheel, and eased forward through traffic. “The school administration agreed the facility had plenty of space for public art, but tags and graffiti covered the exterior walls. I couldn’t cover the wall with roses, but I could find students who wanted to paint and showcase their technical programs. We sketched designs for chemistry, computer information systems, automotive repair, and registered nurses.”
As the size of the campaign grew in his mind, the possibility of making a quick financial contribution faded from view like a disappearing oasis.
“I knew I wasn’t alone. I mean, every muralist struggles with technical challenges and community connection, but art can’t exist in a vacuum. At most, I showed the students how to execute their creativity on a large scale, and I helped them keep their vision cohesive.”
“I doubt that’s all you did. You’re talented.”
She shrugged. “Anyone with experience could do it. I thought if I could leave behind a transition plan, the community would support my replacement, and an up-and-coming muralist would have the kind of one-year appointment that changed my life.” She cleared her throat. “I wanted to raise sixty thousand dollars.”
His throat went dry. Ten or fifteen thousand dollars might pour in from art admirers and small business owners, but at that level, she needed corporate or institutional sponsorship.
She angled for a parking spot across the street from the café, cut the engine, and turned in the driver’s seat. “Fundraising was the wrong approach. I should have written a grant.”
Exhaling, he gave thanks he wouldn’t have to be the person who laid out that observation. “We all learn from our mistakes. Do you want to talk about it over lunch?”
“Yes, I’m starving,” she said.
“Good.” At the mention of food, he felt his mouth water. “I want to hear all about the students.”
She smiled and pulled the keys from the ignition.
Her smile gave him hope, but given her dedication to the craft and to community involvement, he should have known he wasn’t out of the woods…or the desert.