The Starlight Motel

Chapter One

Two Days Before The New Year

Kada considered the turquoise casita at the Starlight Motel. Standing beneath the late afternoon sun, she endured sweat dripping down her neck and dry wind picking up the loose hairs around her face. She kept her gaze trained on the casita’s southern wall. Something about the mural-in-progress felt off, but identifying her concern felt like a deep dive into self-doubt. She tapped her chin and considered her brushstrokes.

“Cannonball!” a child yelled before splashing into the heated pool.

She smiled. Kids had no need for self-doubt. Behind her, spotless lounge chairs circled a deep concrete pool, lush date palms lined stone walkways, and cushions ringed a pale-pink firepit. The Starlight Motel sat on State Route 111, and for seventy years and four generations, its botanical oasis provided a haven for weary travelers. Her great-grandfather chose the site to catch tourists before they arrived in Palm Springs, and his ploy worked, but mortality required succession.

When her grandfather, Hall, passed, she reluctantly took on managing the motel so her mother could grieve her loss. The old man was a force of a nature, and Kada missed him, but he left this world without regrets. She hoped she could do the same, and Los Angeles beckoned with a heady mix of need and opportunity. If everything went according to plan, she would relinquish her responsibility for the motel and resume her artistic pursuits at the start of the New Year.

In the meantime, she retained full control of the motel’s retro, adobe buildings and glowing, neon sign. The gig wasn’t bad, but it required an attitude adjustment. She glanced at the tinsel wreath adorning a palm tree. At this rate, the motel’s mid-century Christmas decorations might stay up until Twelfth Night or the Fourth of July. Being the boss had its perks, but she wondered where she would find the energy to take down the tinsel kitsch. No matter how much she loved sleigh bells and spiked punch, running twenty casitas , studios, and standard rooms left her exhausted.

She checked her reflection in the casita’s window. Paint splatters marked her serviceable jeans and button-up shirt, but shiny, metallic sneakers gave her step a little pop. The desert wind whipped her long, black hair across her face, and she pulled the strands from her eyes. She could be cynical about her circumstances, or she could look back on this year as a gift to her family. Mom deserved time to process her grief, and Kada’s work was flexible. The stack of toilet paper rolls waiting at her feet was not. She filled her arms with the cottony rolls and turned her back on the mural.

After stocking the toiletries in the supply shed, she turned toward the cantina and the reception desk. Paperwork beckoned. She swung her arms.

An insect buzzed her face.

She paused and swiped the sensation from her skin. Glancing at the turquoise casita’s exterior wall one more time, she cocked her head. Late afternoon light cast shadows, but her work depicted a native ocotillo plant swaying in the wind. Painting native fauna at a desert motel felt like hocking postcards to tourists, but she needed ways to maintain her skills. One day, she would return to the students who inspired her work and who drove her to finish graduate school. They would catch her mistake in an instant. The ocotillo plant needed a shadow. She shook her head. “Rookie mistake. Maybe I can pay off my student loans by selling paintings to tourists.”

Behind her, a child splashed in the pool and yipped like a coyote.

“Okay, I’ll stick with Plan A.” After she left the Coachella Valley, she hoped guests would appreciate the desert landscape. They probably wouldn’t recognize her signature in the bottom right corner, but she had to finish a work before she could sign it.

Plan A depended on a looming New Year’s Eve deadline forcing her to define her future. She could run the family business and give Mom additional time to grieve, or she could accept a multi-year grant and return to printmaking and public art installations. She craved artistic expression, but she couldn’t walk away from her family. If she left the motel in her mother’s hands, she had to trust her mother’s capabilities. Failure on Mom’s part meant the family would have to hire a manager or sell the motel, and the half-finished mural would be the least of Kada’s worries. Perhaps she should stay.

A man cleared his throat.

She turned away from the mural and found a pair of thirty-year-old men clutching guidebooks and cross-referencing mobile phone apps. Their bright, desert-themed shirts and chino shorts sported store creases. Sunglasses shaded their eyes, and leather loafers encased their feet.

“Can you recommend a good restaurant?” the shorter man asked.

His ears were red from exposure to the winter sunshine. She adopted her guest-service smile and searched for their names. “What kind of food do you like?”

“Organic, fresh, and local.” The taller guest kept his gaze locked on his phone screen. “Nothing too fancy.”

She pegged them as first-time motel guests, but if she could make a good impression, she might convert them into regulars. Scrolling through her mental inventory of restaurants, she tapped her foot to signal her thoughts.

“But not too crowded.” The shorter, sunburnt guest loosened his collar and glanced at his partner. “We hate to wait.”

Did he hurry out the door and forget to put sunscreen on his ears, or did his companion heckle him? Unasked questions kept life amusing. “I hear you. Waiting’s the worst.”

The shorter man dropped his shoulders and exhaled. “So I’ve heard.”

She pursed her lips and considered their options. The quirky desert town from her childhood visits was in the midst of a hipster renaissance. Downtown restaurants offered caviar service and fifty-dollar martinis. Japanese small plates competed with street tacos and chili cook-offs. Highly curated selections of local arts, crafts, and dry goods filled local boutiques. Yet, despite the last decade’s lodging boom, the Starlight Motel thrived. Would mentioning the motel cantina be too obvious? The Desert Empire Café was a local favorite, and its eclectic delicacies could soothe most travel-strained nerves.

“Have you eaten at The Desert Empire Café?” The taller guest scrolled down his phone’s screen. “It has excellent reviews.”

Grabbing her hair to keep it from the wind, she popped her lips and pointed toward him. “I was just about to mention that place. You’ll love their options, and the location is excellent for window browsing and shopping.”

“We love to shop!” The taller guest pocketed his cell phone and turned with military precision. “Let’s go!”

Rubbing together her fingers near her thigh, she itched to extoll the valley’s charms and hidden boutiques, but she kept quiet.

His partner clutched his guidebook to his chest and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Thank you.” He turned tail and hurried after his companion.

She watched the pair depart and hoped their relationship had lighthearted moments. Given her current level of stress, she couldn’t imagine time for romance, but she remembered its charms. Candlelight and bubble baths. A poem read aloud wouldn’t be amiss.

Like her ideals, the pair disappeared down an alley of palm trees sporting hot-pink wreaths. As she had hammered a nail into each tree’s rough, brown trunk, she had winced, but desert plants and weary travelers were tougher than they looked. She hoped the pair enjoyed their meal.

Leaving the unfinished mural for another day, she walked toward the main two-story building housing the lobby, office, and cantina. Toiletries weren’t her only administrative concerns. If she didn’t approve the menus for the coming week, she would have to face Chef Benito’s overheated emotions. He preferred to hold court in his steam-filled kitchen, and she was one of the few employees brave enough to enter his domain. He looked like a teddy bear, but he glowered at bussers and barked commands at servers. When she intervened on behalf of new hires, she ended up covering her ears while he threatened to send her back to Los Angeles where she belonged.

Sometimes, she wished he would.

Stepping inside the building, she admired the chic lobby’s pink-and-turquoise decorating scheme. Her family filled the space with warmth and vintage treasures, but she added modern touches. The bright neon sign spelling Starlight Motel was all her.

Beyond the initial “wow” factor, color-blocked prints popped off gray-and-white striped wallpaper. On a brass entry table, bubblegum-pink glass ornaments rested in an opaque glass bowl, and a white ceramic pineapple welcomed guests. In a place of honor by the roaring fireplace, a tinsel Christmas tree twinkled, and two pink nutcrackers held court on the white mantle. Christmas memories might be fading, but anyone who entered the building knew she was serious about holiday cheer.

If guests preferred to linger, they could relax in the peacock chair and while away the hours with a newspaper, but they had to cope with the gold, disco ball pillow. Brass flamingos peeking from potted plants were relatively easy to ignore.

Randi, the motel’s best and least predictable employee, stepped out of the cantina and planted her hands on her hips. A twenty-five-year-old, statuesque woman with coiled braids, she obsessed over microgreen placement, recited jazz album track lists, and wore killer heels. She also knew about every party in town. Her knowledge base made her an invaluable resource, and she humored Chef Benito, but she only showed up for half her cantina shifts.

Kada covered a yawn and regretted skipping her afternoon coffee. “What’s up?”

“We’re out of dates,” Randi said.

“Excuse me?”

“Dates.” Randi raised her eyebrows. “The sweet, little gems you stuff into local treats like brownies, energy bars, and smoothies? You know, the chewy, caramel fruits with the sugary skin?”

She held up a hand. “Wait. I know about dates, but how did we run out?”

Randi shrugged. “The supplier doubled our avocado count, but he left out the dates.”

Rubbing a hand over her face, she hoped she didn’t smear the remnants of her mascara. Dates were one of the motel’s signature products. California grew ninety percent of the country’s dates, and most of the fruit came from the Coachella Valley. Starting in October, farmers sent their best fruit to packing facilities and sold extra produce at weekend markets, but December dates might be an oddity. “That’s okay. We have plenty of other appetizers and treats to offer our guests.”

“Nope.” Pointing toward a man taking a call from a patio table, Randi shook her head. “He’s a travel writer, and he wants date bread. Goat cheese stuffed dates. Fudgy date brownies. Peanut butter buckeye balls…”

“I got it.” How on earth had they run out of dates, and how many dates did she need? She tugged down Randi’s pointing hand and counted the guests in the cantina. Two couples sipped drinks, a family devoured nachos, and a dog snoozed on the patio at the travel writer’s feet. When the sun went down, guests would return from outdoor adventures and fill the building with laughter and the sound of rumbling stomachs. Toilet paper was the least of her problems, and she needed more than a pint of dates from her mini fridge.

If she had known about the travel writer’s reservation, she would have scanned his social media account and looked for little quirks and preferences the motel staff could anticipate. If he liked long hikes, then she would leave trail maps near the coffee station. Giggle yoga? She knew a yogi. “How long is he staying?”

“Two more days.” Randi yawned behind her manicured hand.

“Okay, we have time.” She exhaled. The valley specialized in the caramel, sweet superfood. Picked fresh from a date palm, the fruits were sweet and full of fiber. As natural sugars rose to the skin, the fruit took on a light, white crust. They lasted one to two months stored at room temperature, six months in the refrigerator, and about a year frozen.

Pops’ old, metal filing cabinet probably contained a list of backup date suppliers. Her grandfather left her and Mom the motel, but he brushed off her logistical questions and passed on his terms. Judging by his medical bills, he knew about his cancer, and she was glad she savored their last days together instead of burdening him with mundane questions. “I’ll take care of it.”

Randi turned away and paused. “And another thing.”

She held her breath.

Facing her, Randi squared her statuesque shoulders. “I want to take off New Year’s Eve.”

Of course, Randi wanted to take off the holiday. She did, too. Given a stretch of vacation days, she would hop a plane and zoom up to Wyoming to visit her hometown and see old friends.

Instead, her parents were coming south, and their visit amplified her stress. In little more than a day, Mom and Dad would arrive on-site, and she wanted the motel and her emotions to be ready. Her future as an artist depended on Mom accepting her past and embracing the motel’s future. She couldn’t afford to run off Randi or the loyal staff, but she couldn’t run the place by herself. “Like, next year?”

“This year,” Randi said. “Like, the day after tomorrow.”

“And if I tell you we’re really busy and I need your help?”

Randi flicked a spec of dirt from beneath her long nails. “At will employment.”

She didn’t know why she wasted her breath on logic. Instead of screaming, she closed her eyes and made a tight fist. Windmill tour vans, bachelorette pool parties, and bangle-wearing festival-goers booked out the motel, but she had advance notice and staffed accordingly. New Year’s Eve might be relatively tame, but tending to the motel guests was more than a one-woman job. “I really need your help.”

“Fine.” Randi rolled her eyes.

She blinked and released the tension in her hand. “Fine?”

“I’ll stay.” Randi glanced at the exposed beam ceiling. “I don’t know what you’d do without me.”

“Neither do I!” Wrapping Randi in an impromptu hug, she squeezed tight and considered squeezing tighter. Randi’s bravata pulled her out of so many funky afternoons, she wanted to give the woman a raise or a talk show, but she had a motel to run. “Also, you’re the worst.”

Randi patted her back. “You mean the best.”

She cleared her throat. “Actually, I mean the worst.” Her voice wobbled. “Sorry.”

Randi pulled back. “Are you gonna crack?”

Stepping back, she smoothed her shirt and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Four generations of her family kept this motel afloat, and she would make sure it thrived under her watch. “Absolutely not.”

Randi raised an eyebrow.

Who was she kidding? She dropped her shoulders.

“Uh-huh.” Randi pursed her lips. “Here it comes!”

“Not here it comes!” She exhaled. “When Pops passed, I wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of decisions. I figured since I worked with kids, I could take care of guests, but I didn’t think about the emotional toll of running this place. The move out here was just”—she frowned and searched for the right word—“a lot. Maybe I’ll grow into the role, but I’m hanging on by a thread, and you know it. I need your help. You’re an excellent server.”

“Okay, you’re not the worst, either.” Randi scratched the side of her nose with a bent knuckle. “But, we still need dates.”

“I know.” She exhaled and rolled down her sleeves. She needed dates more than she needed a pity party. If Randi was strong enough to carry the world on her shoulders, then she could, too. “I’ll find the little nuggets. Stall him with free liquor.”

Randi grinned. “Now, you’re cooking!”

She needed more than an ounce of Randi’s self-confidence. “The holidays were fun, but seeing the ins and outs of this place took away some of the magic I remember. Keeping this place going wasn’t always this hard, was it?”

Crossing her arms, Randi tilted her head. “And we’re back to the pity party.”

She swallowed. “I mean, growing up, I’d visit Pops and Grandma Nana, and running the motel all seemed so…effortless. Who wouldn’t want to escape to the desert for beautiful memories? Now, everything depends on me, and reality bites. I want to slink off to the candy table and open a bottle of champs. Instead, I’ll probably have to canvas grocery stores.” She shook out her hands and drew a deep breath. “But no, don’t worry. I won’t crumble. Crack. Whatever. Go pour shots.”

Randi laughed. “Welcome to adulthood, sister.”

She rolled her eyes.

Shaking her head, Randi turned and walked back toward the prep area. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she called over her shoulder. “We all do.”

“I hope so!” The click of Randi’s sky-high heels on Saltillo tiles drowned out her response, but she appreciated the moment to gather her wits and fortify her resolve.

Speed walking back to the reception desk, she flipped through Pops’ files. The motel used local vendors whenever possible, but after ten phone calls, she set down the motel’s phone and dropped her head in her hands. The valley was sold out. Drumming her nails on the counter, she eyed the fading holiday decorations and wondered if the travel writer enjoyed pomegranates.