Chapter Twenty
Stepping away from the casita , Kada eased closed the white gate and checked the time. She should be meeting with her therapist, but she had plenty of time to make patties, fire up the grill, and toast store-bought buns.
Judging by the sound of creaking wood, she assumed Dane and his family found a tool to pry open the fireworks crate. Before she found an apron, she would make sure they put the supplies in the designated spot and knew they had her undying thanks.
Weaving through the palms, she cut through a service corridor and found Dane and his family staring at the open crate. Sheet of cardboard separated rows of pyrotechnics like wine bottles waiting to explode. Just kidding . The crate contained a jumble of metal stands and wire racks. “Is this too much to ask?”
Dane turned. “Did I do something wrong?”
She shoved her hands into her jeans and grinned.
He ran a hand through his hair. “What happened to the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas?’ Seven swans a swimming can’t go boom .”
Raising her eyebrows, she held his gaze. “Really? You think I should send back this stuff?”
“No, but most people start with sparklers. Consider them a gateway drug.”
She laughed. “I like to go all in.”
“I’ve noticed.” He stepped toward her.
His dad cleared his throat.
Shaking his head, Dane pulled out the first stand, held it up to the sunlight, and glared. “This thing looks like a medieval torture device.”
“I think it’s meant for explosive candles. I’m not asking you to light it.”
He eyed the stand and set it aside. “Good.”
His humility intrigued her. Outside his element, he sensed his vulnerability, and she wondered how he would react in an art gallery. She could spot a real art lover from across a sterile, white room. The people who checked a piece’s price tag before they experienced art came to be seen. University students came to eat as many appetizers as possible, and gray-haired old women came to chat with one another. She welcomed them all. One in a hundred would fall in love with a piece, and an artist only needed one chance to find their piece a home. Dane would linger.
“Do they come with set-up instructions?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
Widening his gaze, he looked up. “Seriously?”
She laughed. “We need to haul them into open space and wait for the professional crew.” Mentioning the crate’s six hundred pound weight wouldn’t make him or the rest of his family members any happier about the job, so she chewed her thumbnail. “Wait a minute, and I’ll get a dolly.”
He shook his head and hefted the stand over his shoulder.
Turning, she jogged toward the laundry room.
Inés stepped onto the path.
She stopped short.
“Kada! My niece loved the tram ride.” Inés pulled a child’s handwritten thank-you note from her deep pocket and offered it. “Thank you so much for the tickets.”
Taking the note, she read it, and a warm pleasure radiated through her chest. The child’s heartfelt gesture reminded her of how much she enjoyed making connections. Looking up, she smiled at Inés. “I’m glad the tickets went to good use. Is your niece coming to one of your concerts?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Inés gripped her middle. “She came down with an upset stomach.”
“Was it something she ate?” Kada feared an outbreak of gastroenteritis more than she feared a bad review. If Inés might have a stomachache after spending the day with her niece, Kada would be happy to comp her dinner in her casita .
“Three churros sounded like a good idea.”
Kada released her breath and laughed.
Inés shrugged. “She can watch a rebroadcast. The next time I come to town, she’ll be older, and the experience might mean more.”
“I’m sure it will.” The poster for Inés’ concert hung with the other activity guides, but responsibility kept her from purchasing a ticket. If Dane wanted to swap his jeans for a pair of slacks, then she could steal away after the New Year. The future’s glimmer left her unsettled, and she slipped the note in her jeans’ back pocket. “Is it too late for me to purchase a ticket?”
“I think the concert’s sold out. My sister has tickets to the one at St. Francis of Assisi in La Quinta. You could probably have hers.”
The adjacent town was a forty-minute drive through the desert. “La Quinta is a trek.”
Inés toyed with her wooden necklace. “She says the building’s beamed ceilings and heavy chandeliers remind her of our childhood church. Also, she doesn’t feel like a standout in St. Francis’ multigenerational, multiethnic congregation.”
Kada could slip into the back row, but she hadn’t attended church in years. Her parents often went for choir concerts and special performances, but religion hovered near the periphery of her daily experience. Kada found her peace with a paintbrush in her hand. Making the most of each day kept her mind from drifting toward distant futures.
Dropping the necklace, Inés shrugged. “Me, I can perform anywhere. Good acoustics help, but a strong singer can make the most of any venue.”
She laughed. “Well, I’m happy to have you back at the motel. I missed your voice this morning, and I overslept.”
“I’ll remedy that error tomorrow.” Inés raised her eyebrows. “Should I start with the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ from ‘Handel’s Messiah’?”
Wanting to flee the suggestion, she decided to advance her proposal before Inés proposed early morning vespers. “Maybe you should stay up late and ring in the New Year. At the Starlight Motel, we traditionally have a homespun celebration, but we definitely have champagne.” She gestured toward the pool and circled a hand like a Hollywood set designer staging a scene. “This year, we’re firing up the grill, making hamburgers, and setting off enough fireworks for laughter, dancing, and memories. You’re more than welcome.”
“Everyone is welcome?”
She nodded.
Inés worked her jaw.
“Please don’t make me sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ ” she said. “I can do many things, but singing sits at the bottom of the list. We need you!”
Inés patted a hand. “You excel at running the motel. You have a good feel for people, a vision you want to create, and the stubbornness to make it happen. You would have made a good nun or teacher.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Lately, she’d had very un-nun-like thoughts about a local farmer.
“You’re also a good artist. I’ve spent many quiet hours enjoying your work. I’m not sure how a person paints and runs a motel, but if you’re caught between two worlds, you must find your peace and your inspiration. I did.”
Dropping a hand, she stared and wondered how many times Inés considered altering her path.
Inés took up her wooden necklace and toyed with the beads. “I hope young people will not be afraid to make hard decisions. Everyone has a calling…”
She stepped back.
Inés dropped the necklace and smiled. “Lucky for you, you are not stuck with the daily interference I bestow on my family members, but I hope you figure out what keeps you up at night. Some vocations have nothing to do with institutions or community service.”
Lowering her shoulders, she thought the silence of her late-night painting shielded her from observation, but every guest could see the mural’s progress, and Inés saw more than most people. “I want to help people shine.”
Inés cupped her elbow. “A heavy heart makes for terrible sleep. Is something bothering you?”
Even without the vocalist’s guidance, she gave thanks for the people in the world who listened and mentored. Her mother nurtured her, her professions inspired her, and women like Mariah and Inés supported her. One day, she would be the mentor, but right now, she would take all the help she could get. She drew a deep breath. “Inés, there’s a man.”
Laughing, Inés squeezed her arm. “Kada, there’s always a man.”
She planted her feet. “But there’s also a motel, a sweet pregnant dog, zero staff, and this unending compulsion to go into the world and do something!”
Inés laughed and patted her arm. “Work within your confines or change them.”
“Change them?”
“Break the rules, Kada. Ask for what you need. You’re the only person who can shake up your world and resettle the pieces as you see fit.”
Clamping tight her lips, she held her breath and released it. Staying in the valley would still be doing something, and she had more than most people, but the valley’s confines chaffed. Asking for grant flexibility wouldn’t change her statement of purpose. If she stretched out the schedule, she could spend time in the desert, accomplish her artistic goals, support her family, and carve out time for herself. Asking for more rankled her, but she considered the implications of choosing her art over her life and knew the decision would burn out her creativity. “I don’t know what I need tonight, but I welcome your help.”
Taking a hand, Inés patted it. “ Mija , you have me. Give me something to do before I go stir crazy. Singing soothes me, but productivity keeps me going.”
Turning her palm, she squeezed Inés’ hand. “How do you feel about making New Year’s Eve decorations?”
She threw up her arms. “Love it.”
“Good!” She exhaled and wrapped her arms around Inés. “Thank you.”
Inés lowered her arms and returned the hug. Pulling back, she cupped her cheek. “Any time.”
Kada smiled. “Thank you.”
Dane’s dad walked past carrying launch sleds.
The reminder of her present needs cooled her desire to pick up the phone and call the grant organization. Easing away from Inés, she offered Mr. Palmer a smile.
He advanced on the gate leading from the pool and whistled like he carted around lumber in his sleep.
An orange flag marked the site for the fireworks launch. Due to the nature of the explosives, the crew came by last week and selected a qualified, safe location to shoot the show. The desert’s wide-open field, situated away from buildings and people, fit the bill.
Setting down the sleds amid the scrub brush, Mr. Palmer turned. “Isn’t this my land?”
She shrugged. Who could find property stakes in the desert?
Shaking his head, he walked back toward the unpacking operation.
The holidays might make people a little crazy, but they roused society’s latent energy for good causes. Looking away from the glimpse of future Dane and the border between their properties, she focused on Inés. “I don’t need party hats and selfie backdrops for decorations. Those trappings charm, but we’ll let the pool, the lights, and the desert shine.”
“Are you sure?” Inés fluffed her hair. “No party hats?”
“We have fireworks planned,” she said. “While we wait for the professional crew, I’ll ask the guests write out their hopes for the coming year and smile for an instant camera. Their smiles and hopes will be our decorations. We’ll create a chain to drape around the pool fence. We’re all connected, aren’t we?”
Inés squeezed a hand. “Let’s do it.”
Dane walked toward the pool carrying a box of electrical wire, let himself out of the gate, and marched into the field. Stopping at the launch site, he looked over his shoulder. “Kada, are you sure this is where you want this kiddie dynamite?”
She struggled to form an answer. He wore a staff shirt, and his body stressed the seams. “You know you’re carrying setup equipment?”
Eyeing the box, he shifted its weight. “So you say.”
“Aren’t you a farmer? You probably know more about making explosives from fertilizer than half the people in the valley.”
He grinned.
“Yep, let it blow,” she said.
Lowering the box onto the sled, he stood from a squat and brushed clean his hands. Shaking his head, he walked back toward the pool, closed the gate, and kissed her cheek. “Ridiculous woman.”
She tried not to laugh.
“How many boxes are in the crate?” Inés asked.
She looked at the vocalist. “Lots?”
Inés grinned and fanned herself. “Well, I’m certainly expecting a show. Let me call my sister and tell her I’ll be late to her house.”
“Sounds good.”
Dane returned with two boxes in his arms.
Stepping back, she gave him room and skirted the pool. Beneath desert winds, the clear water rippled. If he fell in, he would make a splash. His track record of catching her said a lot about his reflexes, but if she knocked him off balance, she doubted she could haul out his frame. Smoothing her hands along her jeans, she readied herself to be useful. “Do you think I can carry the smaller pieces?”
Adjusting the boxes, he turned and looked at the shimmering, turquoise water. “Yes, but let me finish bringing out the guns. If too many people move about, someone’s bound to land on their backside.” He winked. “I’ve already had my turn.”
“This is too much to ask,” she said.
“Kada, it’s nothing.” He lowered the load. “Just don’t ask me to light them.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She hated asking for help. “You have a good eye. Once they’re airborne, the sequence won’t matter.”
“This one’s called an ass-blaster.” He gingerly lowered the box. “Are you sure you hired professionals?”
She nodded.
He lowered the second box. “Okay. Blast away.”
“Okay?” She wouldn’t have asked the cantina staff to cart out the pyrotechnics. Why did she think her handsome neighbor wanted to spend his evening doing grunt work? Just because he looked capable of surviving a desert siege and bringing her to her knees didn’t make him a superhero.
He turned and made eye contact.
Okay, maybe it did. She cleared her throat. “You don’t like holidays. Aren’t you annoyed you’re toting around flammable materials on someone else’s property?”
He winked. “If you sold me the motel, it would be my property.”
She glared, but she couldn’t maintain the expression. A smile cracked her fa?ade.
He leaned close. “I like discrete tasks. Kissing you? Got it. Carting fireworks into the desert?” He pulled back and smiled. “Got it. Keeping my mother from going crazy while she upstages Martha Stewart at the farmhouse?” He shuddered. “You take care of Mariah, and I’ll put the sparklers anywhere you want them.”
He smelled so good. Pulling back before she had to take herself to confession, she wet her lips and looked for a chaperone. “Where is your mother?”
“Where’s yours?”
She scanned the palms, the pool, and the firepit. Something heavy settled in her stomach. The feeling wasn’t dread, but the sensation felt like a long-overdue conversation she could no longer put off. “I’ll find her and make sure she and Mariah have a plan for the evening. I’ll do my best to keep you out of trouble.”
“Deal.” He tucked his shirt back into his jeans, whistled, and walked toward the pool.
Inés walked up to her side. “Honey, if I had a man like that in my life, I would have thought twice about becoming a vocalist.”
She turned. “But would you have still fulfilled your vocation?”
Inés smiled. “Absolutely.”
A caravan of rusty trucks rolled into the parking lot. Men who spent their twenties operating carnival rides, chain smoking, and telling raucous jokes lined up behind a man with a large, black mustache.
“You Kada?”
She offered a hand.
“Sorry we’re late. Should have been here this morning, but we got lost in West Texas.”
She stared. “You drove here from West Texas?”
The man twirled his mustache. “You have a problem with Texas?”
Stepping back, she gestured toward the gate leading from the pool. “Have at it!”
Half the crew bypassed her. They taped off the firing area, exchanged good-natured insults about the Palmer family’s efforts to help, and started assembling the show. The other half unloaded the explosives from their trucks.
She wouldn’t ride the highway with a bed full of candy-colored bombs, but she hoped their skill and vocation left the motel intact.
Knowing what she had to do, she turned toward the main building where Mom and Mariah worked through Pops’ memorabilia. She had to paint. To do so, Mom had to meet her halfway or choose between her art and her inheritance.
In the year since Pops died, the choice dogged her, but she felt certain about her needs. Two days ago, she could have walked away from the motel and focused on the promise of new students and new art. Then Dane rode into her life. She wanted Mom to meet her halfway. If Mom couldn’t make that happen, her decision couldn’t change, but leaving the Coachella Valley would be one of the hardest things she ever did.
****
Mom and Mariah sat on the floor in the office beside the tinsel tree.
Half-empty boxes surrounded them, dust mites floated in the air, and Pops’ treasures revealed facets of his life. Kada knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”
Beckoning her, Mom held up an old family photograph. “Gosh, I should have done this months ago. I’m sorry I left it so long. If you hadn’t volunteered to run the motel, then I don’t know what I would have done with it. The place still smells like him. His little touches are everywhere. It’s like he’s still here.”
“Well, tell me if you start seeing spirits.” Mariah riffled through hundreds of match boxes. “I don’t have the stomach for haunted houses.”
Mom laughed and smoothed out an old magazine with a feature on the Starlight Motel.
Judging by the cover photos, the seventies could stay where history left them, but Kada suspected Palm Springs style never aged. She settled down on the floor to join the pair.
Flipping through the magazine pages, Mom stopped on the motel spread. “Pops anchored my childhood, but my grief took an emotional toll. I’m better, but loss never passes quickly. All this stuff is bittersweet.” She ran her finger along the text, looked up, and smiled. “I’ll read this piece later when I can enjoy it.”
“You could stay awhile,” Kada said.
Mom shrugged.
So much for an easy transition.
“Larissa, I thought your dad was the best,” Mariah said. “He toted you around like you weighed nothing. He was so strong.”
“He had to be,” Mom said. “He nearly raised me. After Nana died, we were a team, but we had our squabbles. When I met Bobby, I thought he was such a freewheeling alternative to my old man, but the older I get, the more I recognize their stubborn similarities.”
Kada pulled a wooden box from the pile, opened it, and revealed stacks of postcards from around the world. The cards thanked Pops for his hospitality and invited him to visit far-flung places. She handed half the stack to her mother and wondered how much her mother remembered. “If you had a sibling, do you think life would have been easier?”
Mom and Mariah exchanged looks, and Mom shrugged. “Sometimes, I was lonely, but I had friends. Maybe Pops couldn’t have handled more than one rambunctious kid.” Reaching out, she patted Kada’s arm. “I had my hands full with you.”
Guilt settled on her shoulders. “You poured a lot of energy into my childhood. It was lovely and magical. You worked so hard to set up play dates and to be an activity director. Whenever I had an interest in something, I felt your encouragement.”
“You can’t have one passion.” Mom folded her hands in her lap. “As much as I love you, I also love my art. The minute you went to sleep, I ran to my studio and poured out the ideas I’d saved up while you put on plays about two sheep tied together at the tail.”
She widened her gaze and lost her nerve to ask for more. The grant had come through, but Mom had put herself in second place for years. Flipping through postcards, she stared at a picture of the Taj Mahal and wondered if she would see the marble mausoleum in person. Maybe her ambitions were too grand.
“Oh, all kids can be silly.” Mariah stretched out her legs.
Shifting, Kada made room.
“Jud keeps Dane’s ego in check. He was the sweetest baby. If my first-born fails you, try Jud.”
Jerking her gaze away from the postcard, she opened her mouth to respond, but she couldn’t switch gears fast enough to stave off the older women’s laughter.
“I’m kidding,” Mariah said. “Jud’s a mess in the best possible way. Stick with Dane.”
She chewed her lip.
Holding up an eight-by-ten photograph of Marilyn Monroe and Frank Sinatra, Mom gawked. “When did Pops meet Marilyn?”
Mariah yanked the photograph from a hand. “Forget Marilyn. What about Frank? Frank hated having his picture taken! This picture is worth money!”
Kada leaned back on her hands and watched the two women reclaim their friendship. As far as she could tell, Mom and Mariah took two different approaches to life. Mom sculpted clay and loved life in all its forms. She organized play dates, scavenger hunts, and fairy parties so legendary Kada’s friends begged for birthday party invitations.
Mariah followed a playbook so detailed she had the end zone in sight from the ninety-yard line. No wonder Dane kept the goal in sight.
Together, the pair helped her shape her vision for the future, and if she could ignore their emotional involvement, she would explain her conflicted feelings about the motel, her art, and Dane Palmer. Reality forced her to clear her throat. “We can get a large format reprint and hang the picture in the reception area.”
Pointing her finger, Mom nodded. “Brilliant. Let’s get a statue made, too.”
She wrinkled her nose. A twenty-six-foot statue of Marilyn Monroe in her famous, billowing white dress occupied a spot in local lore.
Palm Springs had a love-hate relationship with its illustrious past. Whoever saw the beauty in the desert’s striking landscape would claim its future. She already tipped the sand out of her shoes, looked toward the mountains for inspiration, and knew the desert held a portion of her heart, but the desert didn’t hold all of it.
Riffling through old scrapbooks, pressed cocktail napkins, and newspaper clippings, she gathered the courage to ask for what she needed. “Who knew Pops was so sentimental?”
Mom ran a hand over a brochure from the 1970s. “It wasn’t Pops—it was Nana. She loved him, and she saved everything he touched. He was her hero.”
Captivated by the mention of her grandmother, she tilted her head and listened.
“Nana idolized her husband, but she knew his faults, too. When he was frustrated, he couldn’t tone down his language. ‘Turning off’ bothered him more than he cared to admit. When he got too rowdy, she sent him into the desert to wind down.”
Realizing how much her sage grandfather changed over time, Kada appreciated his efforts to help her process her feelings.
“So, all these treasures?” Mom asked. “If he wanted to forget the past and focus on the future, then Nana made it her mission to preserve history.”
Kada sighed. Her entire life, Nana was a saint gone too soon, but the more she lived, the more she realized Nana couldn’t live up to the family myth. “Do you ever think Nana wanted more than living in Pops’ shadow? I mean, she was an artist, too. As far as I know, the minute she delivered you, she stopped painting.”
Mom stared.
Mariah flipped through an article with the intensity of a high school student cramming for a test.
“She didn’t stop painting,” Mom said, “but she definitely scaled back.”
“Where are the paintings?” Kada asked. “I’ve never seen her work.”
Staring into the closet, Mom frowned. “I don’t know. She kept my lopsided sculptures from middle school.”
Nana’s legacy felt too close to home. Kada could love the Starlight Motel and pour her heart into the property, but where did that effort leave her? In fifty years, another manager would take over the property and obliterate her contributions. As much as she loved her family, she wanted to paint, make connections, and improve the world beyond the motel’s adobe walls. If everything was within her reach, she wanted it all.
Mariah looked up. “What did Nana paint?”
Mom worked her jaw.
“Nature,” Kada said. “Pops said she painted the world around her, and her work was as beautiful and flawed as life itself.” She let the words settle and compared her work to Nana’s hallowed art. She might never live up to her ancestors.
As much as she wanted Mom to take over the motel, she wondered if a compromise would be the best solution. Could she keep one foot in the desert and one foot in the art world? The valley could only host so many murals. To thrive and contribute, she had to leave, but could she return?
When she painted, she wondered if her legacy would persevere. Without impact, the paint she laid down would fade, and other artists would claim her canvases, mostly likely with a paint roller.
By devoting her life to a cause, she wanted to help people, and she wanted a record of her presence. The alternative, fading into loved memories, felt like an aspiration and a threat. “When Nana stopped making art, she died.”
“That’s not true.” Mom frowned. “Maybe. I wish we had more of her art.”
Picking up a worn, leather jacket, Kada held it up to her nose and inhaled the rich, oiled scent. “I wish I met her. I loved Pops, but he was part of a team.”
Mom pulled her into a side hug. “Teams produce the most beautiful art.”
Raising her head, Kada wondered if a team always had a leader and a supporter. Dane, as rugged and capable as he was, could no sooner put down his notebook than she could put down her paintbrush. She faced her mother and summoned a compromise that let both women thrive.
Mom tilted her head.
Kada took a deep breath. “Mom, I needed the Starlight Motel to regroup, but I need you, too. I can’t spend my life checking in guests and solving their problems. You couldn’t do it, either. We both need to create, and I need to paint. Mariah and I worked on a grant. I received it, but I can’t run the motel full-time. You have to step up, we have to split the work fifty-fifty, or we have to sell the property.”
Drawing a deep breath, Mom held it.
“She’ll provide direct, hands-on arts experiences to students, teachers, and community members,” Mariah said. “I think her crowd funding failed because it benefited a faceless artist. We solved that problem. The grant funder knows he or she gets Kada’s capabilities, and her work speaks for itself.”
At the praise, Kada’s cheeks warmed, but she stayed focused on Mom. “I love interacting with people. Creating a mural is the final goal, but workshops, classes, and community events feed the process. After the museum residency, I thought I served my role, and I needed to make room for the next artist, but I’ve only begun to leave my mark. If I’m running this motel, I can’t paint.”
“And you’ll paint beautiful works,” Mariah said. “You’ll shine. As soon as the corporation receives your application, I’m confident you’ll have your funding.”
She chewed her cheek. Two consecutive rejections might scar her self-confidence. Pushing away her fear of a life without creativity, she squeezed Mariah’s hand. “Thanks.”
Mom looked between her and Mariah. Turning, she stared at the nearest casita mural.
“What?” she asked.
“I didn’t know. I thought you grew tired of art and decided to become a business owner. This whole time, I thought you were happy in the Coachella Valley.” Looking back and forth between her and Mariah, she sighed. “You’re so capable. I thought my job was done.”
Taking her mom’s soft, lined hand, she squeezed it. “I am proud of my work, but I don’t feel fulfilled. If I can paint and help our family run this motel, I’ll do both.”
“Both?” Mom bit her bottom lip.
“If you can meet me halfway, then I’ll feel like I’ve won the lottery.”
“Both.” Mom chewed over the word.
Shaking her mother’s hand, she pulled her back into the discussion. “We can run this place together. If the grant application had failed, I would have poured my heart into finishing the casita murals, and I would have regrouped, but I would have still wanted to paint in the community.” She took a deep breath. “The grant application didn’t fail. I have funding.”
Mom looked up and squealed. “I’m so proud of you!”
Kada looked toward Mariah and mouthed her thanks.
Pulling free a hand, Mom dropped her chin into it. “We might be similar, but we can’t butt heads every day running this place. I know how stubborn you can be, and I know where the gene came from.”
“Dad?”
Mom smiled. “Absolutely not.”
She wrapped her hands around her knees and realized how much she missed her mother. She didn’t need to repay her parents’ investment, but adulthood shouldn’t mean losing them, either. “I thought I had to take myself out of the process and give someone else a chance to paint, but I’m the only person who paints and thinks just like me.”
Mom cupped her cheek and dropped her hand. “My sweet Cicada. You are special.”
“Sometimes, I feel like I can do great things, but I need you. If this place means something, can you carve out time for it and let me pursue my art? Can we meet in the middle and find a way to both be artists?”
Standing, Mom brushed the dust from her hands. “Over the years, I’ve learned tunnel vision is a bad decision. When Pops died, I needed time to process my grief, but I also needed you. That was my mistake. I won’t let it happen again.”
Coming to her feet, she held her breath.
“I can work remotely half the year. Life has its seasons, and you need time to develop your skills outside the classroom. We can figure out what rotation makes the most sense, but Dad and I have your back. Pops had our backs, too, but leaving something you love never feels like the best answer.” She stared out the window. “Maybe I should have stayed.”
Interrupting her mother’s view, she cupped her shoulders. “Mom, if this motel doesn’t work for our family, we can sell it.” She glanced at Mariah sitting on the floor. “I know a buyer.”
Mariah bit her lip.
“How could we sell this place?” Mom asked. “It matters to us, and I’ll learn how to deal with the hiccups. Together, we can keep it going for the next generation.”
Finding herself pulled into a hug, Kada blinked back tears and envisioned a cooperative, multigenerational future at the Starlight Motel. As long as her family owned the property, she could return and savor its charms.
Mariah stood and smiled like a benevolent principal watching another student fledge.
Holding her mother tight, Kada swallowed. Solving her professional dilemma took a weight off her shoulders. She could paint and return to the motel, but Dane wouldn’t always be here, and the magic of the past two days wouldn’t be the same. She drew a deep breath.
Mom released her and wiped away her tears.
Rubbing Kada’s back, Mariah smiled. “You come from a long line of strong women. I’m thrilled Larissa is coming back to the valley. Nana sounds like a beautiful woman, and I wish I could have seen her and Hall together.”
“Maybe your timing was off,” she said.
Picking up an old newspaper clipping, Mariah smiled. “Maybe my timing was just right.”