Chapter Three
Slowing his pace, Dane followed Kada toward the main building and kept his mind off her backside, her honey-brown eyes, and the way her hands moved like they never stilled. If he stopped his life for every pretty woman in Palm Springs, he would never get a seed in the ground or a crop to market.
Given his workload and his family expectations, he fell into bed after sunset, tackled problems like a rodeo cowboy, and shouldered the weight of every decision he or his staff made on his behalf. He had no business admiring a woman or the way she moved.
Then again, her lush hips swayed like an off-balance metronome, and the quirk intrigued him. If she had an old injury, then he knew a dozen ways to soothe it. Shaking off the thought, he scanned the guests for a familiar face, found none, and assumed his momentary weakness would stay confined to the motel’s shadowed, verdant walkway.
Clutching her caramel bounty, Kada walked through a lobby and waved toward the cantina. “Have a drink on me.”
“I will.” He could drink a gallon of water, but instead of following her into the cantina, he lingered in the lobby and removed his hat. Candy-colored Christmas decorations peppered the room. The eclectic, cheerful mix had no place amid the desert’s shifting sands and sunbaked shadows. Nearly a week after the holiday, he found them garish.
Picking up a bubblegum glass ornament resting in a ridiculous bowl, he hefted the glass’s weight. The piece was decidedly heavy, but it was as fragile as new fruit. Given a squeeze, the ornament would shatter in his hand, and he’d be another loafing farmhand with a mess to clean up. Putting down the ornament, he remembered his place as a guest came with little tolerance for ineptitude.
He walked right past a tinsel tree, pink nutcrackers, and a disco-themed peacock chair. He questioned why women spent so much time decorating buildings. His mother was worse than Kada. Mom erected seasonal displays worthy of the local school’s bulletin boards, and she had a craft closet worthy of its own zip code. This year, she put away the flickering tinsel and fake snow as soon as possible. He’d hauled her boxes to the attic and wondered at the change of pace. Had she mentioned Kada came via Los Angeles?
The woman’s providence and Mom’s quirks were anecdotal to his workload. He and Dad kept the farms neat as a pin. Spotless storage buildings and barns looked like advertisements for tool catalogs.
Walter kept the office organized, and he ensured the equipment ran with quiet efficiency. In a modern, resource-constrained world, nothing less than exacting attention to detail would do.
A brass flamingo peeked from a large, potted plant in the room’s corner.
He stared at the ornament. “Maybe I will get a drink.”
Striding past a neon sign and a check-in counter, he stepped into the cantina. Dim lights created intimacy, but a fire roared in the hearth, and two servers moved between occupied tables. One server looked like she moonlighted as a choir director. The other server looked like a goddess. Judging by her nails, she knew it.
Leaning against the cantina wall, he tracked Kada walking toward the kitchen. Without a doubt, he knew her cheerful efficiency ran the motel. Her name popped up over dinner conversation so often that when Mom asked him to run over a date cake, he knew he had two choices: complete the tasks or renounce his inheritance.
He chose a joyride on Smoky and brought Walter for company, but his favorite horse spooked easily. Given the gelding currently occupied Kada’s front yard, he was glad he’d given her the dates. If Smoky’s rosebud snacks were any indication, the stubborn, old beast planned to make himself at home.
Kada acted like she adapted to running her grandfather’s motel, but she wouldn’t be the first person to dip their toes in a Palm Springs pool and flee before summer set in. Her shiny black hair and lush backside would catch a man’s eye, but she hailed from Wyoming, a state that recorded subzero temperatures. Given a few more blistering months in the desert, she would sell the motel to investors, turn tail, and leave him the lush crops, skittering roadrunners, and fat-cheeked kangaroo rats. He placed his hat on a table. A man couldn’t ask for better company.
The perky server walked up. “Can I get you anything?”
Running a hand along his hat’s brim, he treated her with the same courtesy any person deserved. “Lemonade, please.”
“Coming right up!”
“Thank you.”
She approached the sidebar where pitchers of agua fresca and a tea dispenser sat atop a cooler holding bottled beverages.
Agua frescas were refreshing fruit drinks made from fruit, water, lime juice, and a hint of sweetener. He preferred lemonade’s kick.
The server turned from the bar, walked clear across the room, and presented him with a tall glass of lemonade.
A lemon wedge anchored a jaunty umbrella and bobbed next to a bamboo straw. Beneath the glass, a white cocktail napkin kept the glass’s bottom dry.
“Would you like anything else? A table? We have excellent appetizers.”
He took the glass and inclined his head. Was she being polite, or was she flirting? He hated to think he’d given her the wrong impression. Spending most of his time with pickers, he had little experience with women, and the one who caught his eye was currently having an intense debate with the chef. A pass-through let him see the pair engaged in intense conversation and the orange flames from a neglected grill. “I’m good. I won’t be here long.”
“Okay!”
She bounced away like a wind-up toy. Taking out the frilly garnishes, he rolled them in the napkin, raised the glass to his parched lips, and drained the sweet contents. The lemonade deserved a trophy. It possessed the perfect balance of sweetness and tart delight that hit all the right spots. If Mom had hauled over a case of lemons, then he would attribute the drink to Palmer Farms produce. More likely, someone in the kitchen knew how to work a juice press and make magic from commercial produce.
Flames flared in the kitchen.
A man wearing a chef’s hat swore in a mix of Spanish and English that warmed Dane’s cheeks. “I doubt the chef goes in for sweets.”
Assuming a brisk walk, Kada left the kitchen and approached a patio table where a man and a dog sat outside with a menu and a notepad. She looked back and forth between the kitchen flames and the guest.
The dog’s compact, brown, muscular body looked familiar, but its angular head caught Dane off guard, and a trick of the light made the animal appear hairless. The combination of strength and delicate skin intrigued him, but he had better things to do than sweet-talk mutts.
Ceramic shattered in the kitchen.
Hurrying across the cantina, the two servers entered the kitchen ready to fight fires.
But Kada retained her cool.
The flames intensified. A woman screamed, and the dining room’s occupants went eerily quiet.
Eyes wide and cheeks red, Kada retreated to the kitchen.
Dane grinned.
Left stranded in her wake, the man with the dog on the patio glared at her retreating form.
“You know, I might need a table, after all.” He knew how to isolate a threat and make sure it caused limited harm. Peeling himself off the wall, he walked past the fireplace, opened the patio door, and sat next to the man and his chocolate-colored dog. Picking an adjoining table, he set his hat on an opposite chair and placed his glass square in the table’s center. Stretching out his long legs, he crossed his hands over his midsection. “Nice night.”
“Lousy service,” the man said.
The guy’s face looked too smooth, and his hair glistened with too much oil for rural life. Dane would peg him as a Los Angeles writer sentenced to local interest stories to pay the rent. “Where you from?”
“Orange County.”
“Hmm.” He stretched out a hand toward the dog. “Nice place.”
Raising its head, the animal sniffed his fingers and nudged him for more affection.
He complied. Scratching the dog behind the ears, he resolved to keep the conversation light and distract the OC honcho from whatever gripe left him upset with Kada. As long as she ran the motel, she was nearly a local, and desert people had to stick together. “You staying long?”
“I thought I’d be staying longer.” The man shifted in his seat. “They’re out of everything I want to eat. What good is a write-up on Palm Springs dates when the motel doesn’t have dates?”
“You’re out of season,” he said. “If you want the best dates, show up in October when we pick them from the trees.”
The man frowned. “I thought the crop lasted all winter.”
Dane smiled and straightened his frame in the smooth, wooden chair. “Not when they’re good.”
The man laughed.
Even the surliest city dweller could catch on to a joke. Dane stuck out a hand. “I’m Dane Palmer. I farm a bit of land next door to the motel.”
“Gustavo Dyson,” the man said. “I write for the Los Angeles Times . You’ve probably seen my column on local hot spots in the Los Angeles area.”
Dane shook the ice in his glass. “Can’t say that I have.”
Gustavo frowned. “The tortilla wars? The cotija rodeo?”
Cocking his head, he stared.
“Right.” Gustavo closed his laptop and drummed his fingers on the case. “I forget how isolated some people end up.”
Dane grinned. If he was isolated, he chose the condition. Like every member of his family, he left the valley to attend Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, but he returned to the farms he stewarded and quietly loved. “So, what brings you to the Starlight Motel?”
“My dad raves about this place. He and his new girlfriend took a cruise for the holiday, so I traveled the highway to check out his favorite haunt.” He scanned the cantina and shook his head. “So far, it’s a huge disappointment.”
“Huh.” He figured the man’s disappointment had more to do with his paternal relationship than his experience at the motel, but not every son could grow up with a father as awesome as Dad. “Which casita do you have?”
“The green one.”
“Oh, that might be the problem. I prefer the orange one. It’s closer to the pool.”
Gustavo stared.
He should stop lying to the writer before the man packed up his vegan leather travel bags and demanded a new room. As far as he knew, the casitas stood equal distance from the pool, had vibrating beds, lava lamps, and scented soaps. “Have you tried the southwestern eggrolls?”
“They weren’t on the menu.” Gustavo scratched his head. “Maybe I missed them.”
“Oh, they’re good. These aren’t your ordinary eggrolls. The kitchen takes crispy flour tortillas and wraps them around chicken, black beans, corn, jalape?o Jack cheese, red peppers, and spinach. After deep frying the rolls, the chef serves them with avocado-ranch.”
Gustavo cocked his head. “I feel like I’ve had those before…”
He bit back a laugh. The rolls anchored a chain restaurant’s appetizer menu, but if Gustavo found them intriguing, he deserved them. “It’s a popular dish.”
Gustavo frowned and wrinkled his brow. “Wait a minute!”
Kada made eye contact across the room, spared him a smile, and walked toward Gustavo’s side carrying a cheerful, red ceramic plate. On top of the plate, goat-cheese-stuffed dates glistened with a fine drizzle of honey. “I have the best news,” she said. “We sourced the fruit from a local provider…”
Dane coughed.
“…and the chef whipped up these morsels. The dates have the perfect balance of sweet and savory flavors, a satisfying creamy texture, and a little pecan crunch.” Setting down the plate, she linked her hands and waited.
Gustavo picked up a date and took a bite.
The man worked his jaw like a wine steward with a flight waiting on his opinion. Dane rolled his eyes and leaned back his head to watch the stars emerge.
“Kind of bland.” Gustavo set down the half-eaten date. “Maybe you should wrap the dates in bacon or blend a little chili oil into the cheese. You know, give it a little kick.”
Straightening in the chair, Dane crossed his arms and considered how to respond to the writer’s suggestions. If he wanted a little kick, he could go to a Mexican restaurant, or he could stand behind Smoky.
People deserved opinions on the food they ate, but business owners deserved respect. He would gladly pony up to the salsa bar for salsa picante and discuss the merits of homegrown peppers, but Kada’s goat-cheese dates weren’t trying to set a style trend. A staple in the valley for seventy years, the dish’s sweetness and hearty bite made it a perfect seasonal appetizer. He cleared his throat. So he heard.
“Bacon.” Kada blinked. “What a great idea.”
“Everybody loves bacon,” Gustavo said.
She wet her lips and smiled.
He recognized that smile. Mom taught at Coachella Valley High School and managed an agricultural-based curriculum. The minute one of the students went on a tear about hydroponics and zero-impact agriculture, she unleashed the same indulgent smile. Neither woman could keep their exasperation out of their expressions.
If Mom’s smile didn’t quell the student’s dissidence, she reminded the student he or she grew up eating the valley’s produce, and to improve the system, he or she should dirty their hands and start from the ground up.
Her approach usually worked. Beyond the students, the Coachella Valley hosted music festivals, tennis tournaments, and wealthy snowbirds with a fondness for pool parties. Nestled two hours outside of Los Angeles, the valley’s sunny winters made it an ideal location for chic resort towns and productive farming communities.
Where manicured houses, restrained condominiums, and boutique hotels ended, the desert thrived. Honey mesquite and indigo bush leaned toward the surrounding mountains, and bighorn sheep hopped along the ragged cliffs. Beyond the towns, farms mixed with the landscape and lined the highway with stately groves. The Starlight Motel stood alone on the highway, but farms surrounded it like acres of inaccessible land. He often wondered whether the casitas should stand down and let his agricultural pursuits reign. Given the chance, he could ensure Kada never ran out of dates again.
Guests could go into Palms Spring proper. The reporter might prefer the artsy town. A welcoming sign portrayed jolly old St. Nick lounging poolside. The city’s residents decorated the town with candy-colored accents and glittering tinsel. They strung lights on cacti, painted vintage convertibles on shop windows, and erected a twenty-two-foot Christmas tree in Frances Stevens Park. Ornaments hung from streetlights, reindeer peeked from rock gardens, and manufactured snow filled the aviation museum’s parking lot. Days after Christmas, the decorations still stood, but nobody elected him Chief Sentimental Sot or ordered him to take down the festivities. Perhaps Gustavo could gift the town an opinion piece.
Kada cleared her throat. “You know, if you like bacon, we have an amazing breakfast planned for tomorrow morning.” She straightened the salt and pepper shakers. “I’ll save you a few select pieces. Chewy or crisp?”
“Oh, chewy,” Gustavo said. “I like a little give in my pig.”
Pulling out her phone, she opened a text app. “Noted.”
Dane stood. The man was hopeless. “Kada, could you point me toward the facilities?”
She looked up from the phone. “Excuse me?”
“The bathrooms?”
Coughing, she covered her mouth and slid her phone in her jeans’ back pocket. “Sorry, I assumed you knew your way around the motel. You’ve probably spent more time here than I have.”
“I’ve hardly set foot on the land.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Smart move,” Gustavo said.
Dane considered carrying the writer to the pool and giving him a first-class bath. As far as he could tell, Kada and her staff provided everything they advertised. She went out of her way to bring the writer his requested dish, and she looked as pretty as a picture doing it. He could imagine her in a dress with red lipstick—he cleared his throat—he didn’t have time for those thoughts.
“Well, let me show you the way,” Kada said. “Follow me.” Turning, she walked toward the cantina where a growing crowd occupied tables and kept the two servers busy. Flames subsided, and the kitchen bustled with activity.
Dane uncrossed his arms, but he lingered at the table.
Gustavo opened his laptop and typed into a blank document.
Dane risked a glance.
The backwoods, without the trees, are as bland as the… Gustavo typed.
He shifted his weight and stepped on the man’s canvas sneaker.
“Man, you’re on my foot!” Gustavo cried.
Relocating his boot, Dane picked up a date from the shiny, red plate and bit into the cheese-filled fruit. The appetizer was as sweet and tangy as he expected. It recalled childhood memories with his brother, long-winded stories from his grandparents, and deep-seated pride. “My bad. I grew those dates, and they’re the best you’ll ever eat.”
Shaking out his foot, Gustavo nodded. “I get it. Go chase down your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” He watched her move through the crowd and picked up his hat. “But a man could get lucky in this town.”
Gustavo shook his head and pecked out another line of text.
At this rate, he’ll finish his column for New Year’s Eve. Don’t they teach touch typing in the basin? Then again, if he has any sense, he’s writing about strip mining and not the Starlight Motel. The impulse to do more than step on Gustavo’s foot grew stronger, but he couldn’t blame the man for his bad taste. Plenty of people grew to love the rich complexity of a ripe date, but expectations mattered as much as experiences. Squaring his shoulders, he left the patio and followed Kada into the cantina.
Turning in the crowd, she stopped and made eye contact.
He raised a hand and paused a respectful foot away from the woman.
She leveled a finger. “I don’t need your help scaring off customers.”
Scratching his throat, he nodded, but the desert could brutalize unprepared visitors.
“And that man’s a travel writer! If he puts out a favorable review, reservations will jump. Who wouldn’t want to idle away a few days in Palm Springs?”
He scanned the cantina. Each table held a small, white ceramic vase stuffed with pink and red carnations and a candy cane. “Someone who doesn’t like pink?”
She put her hands on her hips. “It’s a festive color!”
“So’s red. Royal blue. Orange.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared. “Do you actually need to use the facilities?”
“No, Miss Kada. I’m fine on my own.” He rocked back on his heels. “Thanks for the hospitality.”
“Good!” She blew out her breath.
The loose hair surrounding her face danced. He wanted to tuck one strand behind her ear, but he shoved his hands in his jean pockets.
“I’ll let you know when Walter returns.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen.
He watched her hips sway. She ran the motel, but he could see her in a cocktail dress at the steak house Frank Sinatra had favored. Tucked into a corner booth at the swanky restaurant, she would sip a dirty martini and smile indulgently while a server prepared steak Diane. Would she enjoy the show or call it kitsch?
The valley offered delights, but she had seen more of this world than the people who never left the valley. That group almost included him. While steak house patrons paused their meals to watch servers flambé a sauce made of cognac, garlic, and mushrooms, he hoped she would smile with red-lipped indulgence and savor the experience. He wanted to be in the booth with her and share her joy. “Kada?”
She stopped and looked over her shoulder.
Despite the stakes and the staff hovering for her attention, she made eye contact and tilted her head. He could lose himself in her caramel-brown eyes. “For a holiday weekend, the motel has quite a crowd. Don’t worry too much about the travel writer’s review. You must be doing a lot of things right. Word travels faster than newspaper columns.”
She scanned the cantina and exhaled. “My grandfather left behind a solid property with a good reputation, but thanks for the feedback. I appreciate it.”
He nodded. Based on his observations, the motel had been busier in the last six months than when Hall lived. If she thought she owed her grandfather for her success, she should review last year’s tax returns and check her profit margins. Watching her depart, he released a smile. “My pleasure.”