Chapter Four
Daisy, Now
My best friend holds out her phone, smiling at the Instagram photo of her crystal shop. This one has hundreds of likes and comments, putting anything I’ve ever shared to The Mirage’s account to shame.
“Of quartz we hope to see you this weekend,” I read out loud. “Cute. So I should write short and snappy captions?”
“Sometimes.” Gwen leans over the lobby counter, scrolling through her posts. “Longer, honest ones can work well, too. I vary it based on my mood.”
I’d love buzz for The Mirage, but posting online is the first task I ignore when other to-dos pile up, which is always.
Thankfully, Gwen offered to share some tips and tricks she learned from her social media manager.
My budget is tight, so I can’t hire my own—not until I take care of the termite damage in the barn and finally tackle the HVAC maintenance I’ve been putting off.
Maybe this is a last-ditch effort for a moment of virality, but I’ll do anything to keep The Mirage going.
Between Gwen’s generosity and Max swooping in to play taximan, I’ve reached my limit of accepting favors, though.
Thank god the Hollises kept him busy, so he wasn’t on the property distracting me all weekend.
He never mentioned how long he’d be in town, and after he took the guests back to LA last night, I haven’t heard from him.
Maybe he’s getting in quality time with his sister; maybe he’s halfway around the world, setting up another museum.
Although it stings to think he wouldn’t say goodbye, I need to let him return to his life so we can both get back to the more comfortable, candid voicemail game that we play.
“You okay?” My friend rests a hand over mine as she searches my face. “You seem—”
“I’m fine,” I say, not wanting to tip her off. “You’re just way better at this than I am.”
“You’re doing great, really. The Facebook page has holiday wishes every year, and you update followers about inclement weather, like flash floods. But something my social media gal always says is to crowdsource from others to make posting easier.”
“Like stock photos?”
“No, actual visitors. Think of all the guests who’ve stayed here, or the professional photographers who have shot weddings at The Mirage.”
The money from hosting weddings in the barn is a nice boost since the newlyweds have to do a full buyout.
I’ve secretly enjoyed not having them as I figure out renovations, though, because they’re stressful as hell.
I wish we didn’t have to rely on them for income.
Handling someone’s most important day of their life involves way more than turndown service and wake-up calls.
“Or…” Gwen taps on her phone a few times, pulling up some stunning photos of the property that I’ve never seen before. Mr. Hollis has his arms wrapped around Mrs. Hollis like they’re about to go to prom, the sun setting behind them in a radiant display of oranges and pinks.
“Did they send these?”
“They tagged you. See?”
With my bb in Harlow <3 Had a rocky start to the weekend (literally lol) but u know how it is, always an adventure w/ this 1! Big love to The Mirage for hooking us up with a driver and for being the most aesthetic ever. Perf for a romantic getaway. Xx
“These are gorge.” Gwen’s mouth hangs agape. “Oh my goddess, I’m falling in love with this town all over again, seeing these pics.”
She swipes to a selfie with three people. Max stands tall, sandwiched between the Hollises as they grin wide at the camera. He can make friends with a wood cabinet, so it’s not shocking they enjoyed the weekend with him. Max loves people, and people love Max.
Most people, at least. My pulse sprints, and if I could burn all of Instagram so Gwen never saw that photo, I would.
“Babes.” She sets the phone down and places both palms on her chest. “I knew your vibes were off.”
“My vibes are fine.” I sigh because my ever-attentive, emotionally in-tune friend wants to overanalyze this.
“What was he doing with your clients?”
“He sort of appeared on Friday and saved me in a pinch.”
“Like an apparition?”
“Kind of.”
“And you didn’t mention this to me because…” She draws out the last word, giving me the chance to fill in the blank.
“I didn’t want to upset you. And it wasn’t important.” I adjust one of the small succulents on the counter, wishing she’d let this go. “I couldn’t care less.”
“Let me guess, he left a message after the beep?”
I shoot her a look. Mom and Gwen knew what happened in Dublin, but my best friend is the only person who knows about the voicemails.
She never said so, but I got the sense that she didn’t like me talking to him again.
I don’t know why it feels so good to share what’s going on in my life with Max, but somehow, the distance and time made our back-and-forth messages a safe space for me.
“So…how are you feeling?” she asks.
“Fine.”
She assesses me. “I only knew him for a few years in high school, but you knew him your whole childhood. What’s he doing here?”
“Hanging out with his family, I think.” I recall his short voicemail from the other day. His messages have always been calm and relaxed—like he found some time and curled up on the couch to update me on his life. His last voicemail seemed different, though. Strained.
“He’ll head home soon,” I go on. “Back to Ireland. And then things will be normal again.”
“I’m worried about you. You were a mess when you got back.”
My heart jumps into my throat at the memory. Breaking off communication with him was like letting all the oxygen leave the room. But I made the right choice.
“Please don’t worry about that.” I deflect her attention away from Max. “What you should worry about is my social media accounts.”
“They’re not that bad.”
I let out a hopeless huff of air, wishing I didn’t have to chase online success in order to keep Mom’s hotel open.
“Hey. What’s goin’ on in that brain of yours?” she asks. Gwen wraps her arms around me in the same pose Mr. and Mrs. Hollis had in that picture.
“I want to believe that a photo could solve all my problems.” The quiet confession tumbles out of me. “But what if that doesn’t happen?”
“My manager says that consistency matters more. Show up, that’s all.”
“And reduce the hotel to a snapshot and a punny caption? It’s bigger than that. Doesn’t feel right.”
Gwen’s head bobs on my shoulder. “But it totally makes sense for my shop.”
“No.” I laugh, pinching her lightly on the arm so she releases me. “You make it look genuine.”
“You could too.”
“Maybe. My mom created The Mirage to be a literal oasis in the desert. Not a Best Western, not some trendy hotel with no substance. She wanted to have a hidden gem.”
“Hidden makes earning a steady profit kinda hard, don’t you think?”
“I wish…” The corners of my eyes prickle, so I look to the ceiling to chase the sensation away. “I want to do a good job here.”
Gwen has been privy to many of these conversations.
My first major meltdown happened when I discovered Mom had misreported a room renovation, which led to a minor tax headache the year I took over.
When I switched to an entirely new booking software because the old one was clunky and outdated, I almost lost my damn mind.
Even though Gwen’s gem shop is thriving, she has her own business-owner breakdowns, and I love being the person she can talk to.
We know what to say to each other, how to bolster each other up.
But rather than bounce back with a reassuring reply, like “You are doing a great job,” or offer me an overflowing glass of wine, she clicks her tongue and says, “And I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
I follow her line of sight to the overgrown parking lot at the far end of the property, where Max exits his vehicle. My stomach twists into knots.
“The apparition is back,” she mutters, and her gaze snags on me. “I can get rid of him.”
“Are you going to raid my spice cabinet and leave salt circles around The Mirage to cleanse it again?”
“I figured I’d just ask nicely, but I like how you think.”
Smiling, I pat her shoulder. “I’ll handle it.”
Max catches my eye and tips his chin up in a casual greeting, a carefree smile painted on his face. And for the second time in three days, Max Weber walks back into my life.
Rather than subject Max to a sage cleansing from Gwen, I greet him in the lot and tell him to meet me at one of our old favorites.
It’s that or welcome him into the casita, which I’m not mentally prepared for.
He waits by the entrance to Sal’s Saloon until I arrive, and when he opens the door for me, the pungent smell of stale beer hits me first. Dusty, western-style decor covers the walls, from rusty license plates to splintered wagon wheels that have been there as long as I can remember.
Music from the jukebox blares, and conversations rattle in all directions.
For strong drinks and greasy eats, Sal’s is the place to be.
“Wow.” Max halts at the entrance as if the sticky beer on the floor has glued him there. “It’s like stepping into a time machine.”
“Would you rather go somewhere else?”
“Are you kidding?” He gapes at the bar with wonder, and warmth trickles into my limbs seeing him excited to be back here. “This is great.”
A boisterous voice roars from across the bar.
“There ain’t no way.” Sal throws a stained towel over his shoulder and speed-walks to greet us, his tiny white apron like a child’s costume wrapped around his rotund belly.
“My Daisy Duke and Maxster, together again?” He rests a hand on each of our shoulders, squeezing us so our sides meld.
Max could be made of steel, he’s so firm against me.
The heat from his body surges into my arm, while a citrus scent overtakes the stale lager.
Something sharp and fresh like lemongrass.
“We’ve missed you in here.” He points his finger at Max, then me. “Both of you.”