The Starlight Motel

Chapter Eleven

After checking on Smoky, Dane climbed into the passenger seat, settled his hat on his lap, and closed his eyes.

“You’re taking care of things.” Walter started the engine.

“He’s a good horse.”

“I’m not talking about the horse, you idiot.”

He bit back a smile. “I do like her. She never stops, she’s beautiful, and she doesn’t put up with much of anything.”

“Sounds familiar.” Walter eased the truck out of the parking lot and turned on the highway. “Then again, I’ve met easier women.”

Opening his eyes, he turned his head and focused on his friend. “Where? Point me toward them.”

Walter laughed.

On the drive to the farmhouse, he tabled thoughts of Kada and braced himself for the holiday onslaught. Until he saw her again, he couldn’t do much but send her a good-night text, and even that gesture might be too creepy.

People could be funny with text messages. He used them like shorthand radios. His past girlfriends spent so much time picking out emojis that the bouncing dots triggered his headaches. They could have saved themselves the trouble, picked up the phone, and called to get his attention. No matter what he was doing, he would have answered, because people came first.

But Kada wasn’t a past girlfriend. Despite his liberties, as she put them, he didn’t want to scare her. He also didn’t know where his intentions lay. Dinner seemed like a given, but he couldn’t commit to three kids and a vacation house. A kiss clarified his interest, but if Los Angeles haunted her, then he refused to leave her saddled with more regrets.

Exhaling, he prepared to face his family. Behind the Starlight Motel, his family farm fanned out in either direction beneath the moonlight. He could draw the layout from memory. The white, remodeled ranch home had a tall roofline and a pretty fountain anchoring a circle drive. To the right of the main house, Walter’s house sat atop a small rise. A large pasture, a ten-stall barn, and an arena filled the space reserved for a lawn.

To the left of the main house, farmland and outbuildings began and followed the desert’s curves. The family-owned-and-operated date farm and packing facility encompassed thirty-five acres. Nearly fifteen hundred date trees produced four hundred to five hundred thousand pounds of dates each year, and Palmer dates were the best. At other sites in the valley, his family grew a variety of vegetables, and each plot had its own story.

His great-grandfather started with the first thirty-five acres, but as his fruit trees stabilized, he leased additional acreage, plowed profits back into the business, and purchased small plots of land for as little as four hundred dollars per acre. Today, an acre of active farmland went for somewhere between seventy-five and one hundred thousand dollars. No wonder Dane slept poorly at night.

Walter put the truck in Park. “I’ll take care of the horse.”

Unloading Smoky was as important as getting him into the trailer in the first place. He was a creature of habit, and teaching him to unload slowly and quietly was the key to success. He preferred to back him out of the trailer because it was safer for both parties, and a slow, easy rubdown would do them both good. “No, let me.”

“Mariah gave me explicit instructions,” Walter said. “If she sees headlights, and you’re not in the house five minutes later, she’ll fire me and throw my things onto the highway.”

“No wonder the kids fear her.” Shaking his head, he opened the passenger door and stepped down. This late in the evening, standing on family land, he could stop worrying about losing his hat, but he might wear it to protect his head. Mom had a healthy arm. “Thanks, Walter.”

“No problem.”

He faced the main house. Lights shone from every window. Stripped of lights, the tall Christmas tree filled the family room like a shadowed sentinel. Unlit, big-bulb Christmas lights followed the roofline like lurking gargoyles. For a kick, he flipped on the lights, brightened the view, and walked inside the house. Removing his boots to keep mud from the freshly swept floors, he set his hat on a rack.

“Dane Palmer, where have you been?” Mom yelled from the kitchen.

Composing himself, he worked his jaw. No wonder Kada kicked him out. He needed a shower and a good shave. Turning, he smiled. “Delivering packages like you asked.”

Mom stood in the foyer, wearing an apron over jeans and a red blouse. Judging by the flour decorating her cheeks and her dyed hair, the annual cookies extravaganza was still in full swing. She delivered the holiday cookies after Christmas, when spirits slipped, and she refused to offer stale sweets to friends and neighbors.

Lifting his nose, he caught traces of cinnamon and ginger. Maybe I should have fought harder to take care of Smoky. Walter was probably pulling my leg.

“I asked you to drop off a date cake, not spend half the day sweet-talking Kada Ritchie.”

Her level pitch precluded anger. Hearing affection behind her scolding, he walked up, dropped a kiss on her cheek, and brushed flour from her shoulder. “Isn’t that exactly why you sent me down to the Starlight Motel?”

“Dane Palmer!”

Maternal indignation never got old. Whistling, he walked through the house. Leather and clean, 1950s furniture reupholstered in performance fabrics occupied large rooms. Abstract art hung on the walls, and bronze sculptures kept books straight on the bookcases. The occupants changed, but much of the house looked like it did seventy years ago. Sometimes, he caught a whiff of cigarettes and wondered where Mom kept her contraband brass ashtray.

Once a guest stepped into the kitchen, hints of the past faded, and modern conveniences abounded. White cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances made the room an efficient workspace and the heart of the home. A lavender-scented candle flickered on the countertop.

His younger brother, Jud, sat on a barstool at the kitchen island. A pendant light shone over his jet-black hair. He still had a football star’s broad shoulders, but he spent his days selling cars instead of walking vegetable rows. In front of him, a red rolling pin and a bowl of dough waited.

He sat next to his brother. “What are you making?”

“No idea,” Jud said.

Mom glared. “Gingersnap stars.”

He considered a standoff between Mom’s mood and Jud’s resignation. Choosing sides always landed him in hot water. Looking over his shoulder, he found Dad reading a newspaper in front of the fire. In recent years, his father had slowed, but his worn, leather chair remained a favorite spot for relaxation. Seeing no sign of a business excuse, Dane turned back to his mom. “Well, that’s exciting.”

A haphazard push from Jud sent the rolling pin clattering to the floor.

Mom picked up the rolling pin and rinsed it in the sink. The running water seemed to wash the stress from her frame. She exhaled and wrapped a kitchen towel around the tool. “Are you sure you played football?”

“Ha ha,” Jud said.

“Boys.” Demonstrating, she stretched out the gingersnap dough with long, sure strokes.

The flour dusting her nose lightened the mood, piano music swelled in the background, and Dad’s rustling paper made the scene familiar. Dane spent a fair amount of time occupying this barstool, and the tussles and half-hearted arguments he used to stretch the limits of his adolescent freedom summoned a grin. “Would all this have been easier if you had girls?”

Mom paused the rolling. “I hear daughters are as stubborn as sons.”

“Possibly.” He scratched the back of a hand against his eyebrow and dropped it to the counter. Linking his fingers, he waited for his assignment.

“Maybe I would have heard fewer locker room jokes, but I would have put in the same amount of effort.” Using the back of a hand, she pushed wisps of hair off her forehead and rubbed her chin against her shoulder. “Daughters might have hated baking as much as you do.”

“I don’t hate it.” He hated weeds. Baking was inefficient. He happily ate Mom’s creations, but the local bakery made a damn good chocolate chip cookie. “It’s your thing.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Every one of her students feared her and performed for her attention. She was never mean or catty, but she was demanding, and she expected excellence. If she hadn’t beaten Dad at the livestock competition in high school and pointed out the flaws in his yearling, they might never have fallen in love and produced such strapping, male offspring.

He looked at his brother.

Jud dug a knuckle into his nose.

Flour hovered in the air. No wonder every one of them wanted to sneeze, but he wasn’t about to taste Jud’s snot.

Throwing out an elbow, he knocked his brother off balance and hoped a hot oven killed whatever Jud retrieved. Scooting closer to the island, he leaned his head on a hand and looked at Mom’s rolling pin. “Why the cookies?” he asked. “Every year, you make them, but you hardly eat them, anyway.”

Jud gripped his arm. “Dude.”

He gave his little brother a challenging stare.

“It’s all on you. Nice knowing you.” Jud stood, shook his head, and walked to the seating area. Moving a stack of books, he dropped into the chair across from Dad.

Dad lowered the paper. “Wise man.”

Jud snorted.

Abandoned by his potential wingman, Dane faced his mother. After baking the flat cookies, she would stay up all night icing them and double-down on morning coffee. “I’m serious, Mom. If this month is our designated family-feel-good, we could go into town and volunteer, write a check, or watch other people make themselves crazy.”

She slipped a cookie onto a prepared baking sheet. “You weren’t always this cynical. You used to like making cookies. You used to be my little boy.” Her voice cracked. Looking up, she dusted clean her hands. “Now, you’re a force of nature, but I remember changing your diaper. I remember your sweet, chocolate-covered face.”

He found her sentimentality endearing and inexplicable. Children grew up. He rubbed his rough jawline and tempered his cynicism. She was right. The cookies once rocked his world. “Do I still have chocolate on my face?”

“Ha!” She pointed a finger. “When you were five, you wanted to ride the tractor instead of blowing out your birthday candles. That’s fine. You would always be who you were meant to be, but let me have my cookies. You can eat them, or you can shove them up your…”

Dad coughed.

Clamping down her lips, she nodded.

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, dried them on a dishtowel, and wrapped her in a side-hug. “I wasn’t an easy kid?”

“A terror.” She laid her head against his chest.

“All right.” Would she always smell like sugar, hairspray, and cleaning products? Squeezing her shoulders, he resolved to stay in the kitchen until the sun rose or his fingers went numb from rolling out dough. “You know, I could eat some carrot cake. On my birthday, I mean.”

Pulling back, she slapped his chest. “It’s not all about you. Some kids at my school don’t have a sweet, restful holiday.” She dropped her chin. “They appreciate the cookies I make.”

“I’m sure they do.” He crossed his arms. “They appreciate you.”

She raised her eyebrows.

He matched the gesture. “I appreciate you.”

She drummed her fingers on the counter. “You want cream cheese icing?”

He grinned.

“Boys.” Shaking her head, she braced her hands on the granite. “Do the kids really need the cookies? I can’t fix their lives or make their days stress free, but I can give them tools to succeed, and I can show them a little love.”

He reclaimed his barstool and waited. She poured so much time into her school and her students, he assumed she found it rewarding. Maybe the rewards came with a heavy burden. “Are problems cropping up at school? Jud and I can scare the shit out of troublemakers.”

“No, but all kids need the same basic building blocks.” Straightening, she slid the cookie sheet into the oven and leaned against the appliance. “Just because my tiny tyrant turned into a full-grown force of nature doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a sweet tooth. I know you sneak cookies at midnight. Why can’t you sleep through the night? Maybe I should have gone easier on you and your brother.”

“Don’t bring me into this!” Jud yelled. “Both of you! Ignore me.”

Biting back a smile, Dane rolled out the next dough ball and reached for the cookie cutter. Based on his limited experience, pushing the metal cutter all the way against the countertop worked best. He placed the star on an empty cookie sheet. Domesticity wasn’t terrible.

“I see thousands of students, but I only have two sons. Just admit you like the cookies.”

He looked up. “I didn’t ask for an easy life, but I appreciate your perspective. I don’t have to be a tyrant. If the holidays put everyone in a good mood, I can participate.”

She pursed her lips.

“Cheerfully,” he said. “Hell, Mom. You know I like the cookies.”

She stepped away from the oven. “Tell me about Kada.”

“Mariah Palmer!” Dad said. “Leave the boy alone.”

Mom threw up her hands. “What did I say?”

“You lured that boy into a trap is what you did.” Dad shook the paper. “Any fool could have seen it coming.”

“Well, we all know Dane’s a…”

Dad kicked Jud’s shin.

“Aw, come on!”

Laughing, Dane brushed the flour from his hands, wrapped his arm around Mom’s shoulders, and squeezed tight. “I loved walking into school and knowing half the kids were scared of you. When the farms give me trouble, you listen like a champion. If you want to make cookies, I’ll stay up all night and frost the little monstrosities until we’re bleary eyed and surrounded with twinkling stars. Hell, I’ll even make your coffee.”

She shrugged out of his grip, fixed his shirt’s collar, and patted his cheek. “You’re a sweet boy, Dane, but you smell atrocious. Go wash up.”

Shaking his head, he walked down the hall toward the suite he occupied. One day, he and his parents would switch bedrooms, but for now, he didn’t need more space. Stepping out of the shower, he slipped on a pair of drawstring pants and dropped onto his wide bed. He often rose before dawn, and his family expected him to tumble into bed near nine. He doubted they knew how he spent the hours between midnight and two o’clock. Mom’s cookie count might expose his secret, but she let him be. At the end of the day, he ran the farm.

Tonight, he closed his eyes and waited for exhaustion, but Kada’s sassy, bossy laughter and smiling management style brought a smile to his lips. No wonder she and Mom became friends. The women approached life head-on, but where his mother corralled high school students, Kada managed motel guests. Closing his eyes, he calculated how many lives each woman impacted. He could spout facts about modern agriculture, but a perfect bell pepper had far less impact than a kind heart.

****

Twenty minutes after midnight, Dane stared at the bedroom ceiling. He tried not to think about anything in particular, but crop rotations, personnel management, and impending tasks flooded his brain. Weary of the nightly occurrence, he threw back the covers and padded toward the sliding doors leading to a small porch. Settling into a white rocking chair, he sorted through his thoughts.

Kada’s distant shadow moved along the mural wall.

For months, he watched her floodlit motions without knowing what she looked like or why she painted at night. Having met her, he understood midnight provided the sweeping solitude and uninterrupted peace she needed to paint, but he wondered if the cover of night hid her fears, too.

She expressed disappointment with her time in Los Angeles, but he needed to understand her grievances. Grabbing his glasses and powering up his cell phone, he found the mural she painted with a bevy of vocational students. The vivid, wave artwork didn’t look like a disappointment. It looked like an ode to a community bursting with pride and ambition. The students clustered around her in press releases looked fascinated by the process and proud of the outcome. He couldn’t help but admire her work.

He worked around men and women who valued hard labor, tight families, and near-perfect produce. They reinforced the farm’s commitment to quality, and he paid them a livable wage. The valley’s water management issues mattered, but as long as he maintained profitability, he refused to rock the boat. Courting Kada defined rocking the boat. “I don’t know what she needs, and I don’t know if I have the resources to give her what she needs.”

A fat, fringe-toed lizard lunged for a moth.

“I can’t walk away after one date.” Her unnamed presence lingered in his memories. Having seen and tasted her beauty and passion, he cursed the anonymity of his sleepless nights. “If I go to her, I’ll stay. Should I stay?”

The lizard cocked its head.

“You’re not helping.”

His phone vibrated.

— Are you awake? —

— If I wasn’t, you just woke me. —

— Jerk —

He smiled.

— I was awake. —

He wanted to climb back into bed and fall asleep smiling, but the distance between the old farmhouse and the Starlight Motel felt insurmountable. Given another few feet of stretch, the connection might break, and he would wonder if the desert winds haunted him.

— Are you painting? Are you happy with the result? —

— These desert plants burn so brightly, and then they go dormant. It’s ephemeral and close to magic. I wish everyone could see them. Maybe with these paintings, they can. Too much, right? —

If she feared peaking and spending her passion, she should look in the mirror and see what everyone else saw. Under the right conditions, she would blossom. If their attraction went to hell, he would be a friend she could trust. In hard times, he was a phone call away. If he couldn’t give her love, he could give her friendship. Stability mattered.

In his heart, he knew she wanted more. So did he.

The realization floored him. The acreage and productivity kept him engaged, but Dad and Walter ensured he could run the operations blindfolded. Kada surveyed his achievements and challenged him to find his passion. Head thrown against his pillow, he took measured breaths. Her presence upended his orderly systems, and he didn’t need a laundry room liaison to confirm his attraction. Her existence was a risk, but it thrilled and intimidated him. He could invent a thousand excuses to see her over the coming weeks. Like a moth to a flame, he could hover.

He rolled his eyes. Subtly was pointless. She would see right through him. Working his jaw, he exhaled and took a risk.

— You make my worries seem silly. —

— What keeps you up? —

He rubbed his stubbly jaw. His mind rarely rested. If he somehow trained his brain to take a cat nap and regroup, he could learn to live with nine o’clock bedtimes and quiet, midnight hours. The silence gave him time to think about the things in his life that mattered the most.

— Tonight, it’s you. —

Response bubbles danced and receded on his phone. He could give her time to digest his honesty. Raising his head, he looked across the starlit expanse. The sand and plants stood sentinel, but her motionless silhouette captured his gaze. He imagined her looking right back.

— I don’t want to be a problem. —

He snorted. Local residents clamoring for Community Supported Agriculture were problems. Packing weekly boxes of fresh, seasonal produce for quirky, locavore residents gave his employees a feel-good buzz. It gave him efficiency nightmares. He wondered what Kada would think of his resistance.

You’re not a problem. You’re an unexpected luxury. You’re water in the desert when I forgot how much I thirst. He closed his eyes. Acres of lush productivity, fickle weather, aging parents, and hungry consumers clamored for his attention, but Kada held his interest. If he walked away from Palmer Farms, then someone else would take his place. Let the jackass try. He knew this land and its quirks like the back of his hand. Nobody could farm this brutal, barren, beautiful land better than he could.

If pride was a sin, he learned the trait the same way he learned to sit back and let the land guide him. A person couldn’t rush productivity. Staring down a date wouldn’t make it ripen. Patience and perseverance would. He could carve out time for a personal life. He could carve out time for his draw to Kada. Whether she became a trusted friend or a romantic partner depended on her desires. He could handle either outcome.

— I rarely kiss my problems good night. —

— Maybe you should. You might sleep better. —

He laughed.

— Maybe so. I heard the Starlight Motel has a killer breakfast. —

— The best in the valley. Should I save you a table? —

Taking a deep breath, he let cool, clear air fill his lungs and acknowledged his commitment. The holidays weren’t his thing, but if his attraction to Kada Ritchie bore fruit, he would treasure the gift. Whether that gift meant another mind-blowing orgasm or a full-fledged relationship remained to be seen. He had only known the woman for one day. Surely, a day couldn’t upend his life. He drew a deep breath. It already had.

— Please do. —

— Great, I’ll see you at six. —

He stared at his phone. Maybe she went to bed at nine o’clock, too. Maybe he should get down on his knee and propose before she slipped away. Pouring himself a drink might be the saner choice.

— When do you sleep? —

— What’s sleep? —

Smiling, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Tomorrow was nearly a holiday. He barely tolerated New Year’s Eve festivities, but they gave him an excuse to step away from the farm and spend more time with her. He would take the selfish gift, gain a better understanding of his newest neighbor, and find a way to bring a smile to her lips. Based on her unique gifts and talents, flattery probably wouldn’t be enough. He scratched his chin. Picking up his phone, he settled for a soft sign-off.

— LOL, I’ll see you tomorrow. —

— G’night, Dane. —

— Night, Cicada. —

He stood, stretched his arms over his head, and listened to the desert. The wind rustled the twisted, shrubby trees surrounding the house. Date branches swayed, pumps hummed, and a hawk screeched.

When the wind lulled, the fat lizard making use of the balcony darted after a tasty treat.

He paused and listened to the inky darkness beyond the drive. Stone amplified acoustics, and somewhere in his acreage, the desert held its breath and waited to bloom. January and February triggered the profusion of color that brought tourists pouring into the valley, but he didn’t want to wait until the New Year. Feeling like a clever man, he headed inside and hoped his hunch played out.