The Starlight Motel

Chapter Fifteen

Riding with Dane felt easy, but Kada couldn’t relax in the moment. She evaluated her reasons for taking in Lucky. Assisting with puppy delivery worried her, but long-term concerns stressed her more than wiggling bundles of fur.

After her residency in Los Angeles, she doubted her motives for grand, empathetic gestures. Failure had a way of burning doubts into a woman’s memory. She wanted to give Lucky a home, but would the dog find a better home with a rambunctious family?

Sneaking a peek at the rangy farmer driving the truck, she admired his profile and his kissable lips, but he might be a step too complicated for a woman who ran herself ragged from sunup to sundown. If her attraction to Dane petered out, she had other options. Carrying on with an employee would land her in hot water, but some handsome guest might catch her eye. She suppressed a grin. Too bad I want Dane.

Drumming her fingers on her knee, she hoped Lucky’s delivery went smoothly, the puppies were cute, and she could look back on this holiday and laugh. Peppermints and tinsel were cheerful decorations, but puppies?

“Are you warm enough?” Dane adjusted the vent.

She glanced at him. Too bad Mariah hadn’t produced a school photograph like a good, old-fashioned mama. Kada would have asked for Dane’s number and invited him to the Starlight Motel for a drink. Maybe her dating game needed a refresher, and she would have asked him to a local brewery. What if the conversation went flat? She scratched her nails against her denim and flexed her fingers. Instead of thinking about negative outcomes, she reached for the radio knob. A remix filled the cab.

He jerked his chin toward the radio. “What is this? The top forty? When did they let people start saying words like that on the radio?”

“Would you prefer jazz?” She fiddled with the knob and tuned in to a local station. “Public radio? The weather report.”

“Anything is fine. I’m usually alone with my thoughts.”

“Walter leaves you in peace?”

“Walter and I do companionable solitude like peanut butter and jelly.”

She laughed and relaxed her seat. Sliding forward her feet, she settled into the cushioning. “He seems like a good guy.”

“He is.” Peering through the windshield, he looked up. “The weather looks good.”

“The weather always looks good.” She adjusted the radio and settled on modern hits. “Earlier this month, I had a guest cry because rain ruined her hike, but everyone is happy with the cool nights.”

“We’ve had a few wet months. I recorded about four inches at the farmhouse.”

She scratched her head. “That’s a lot.”

He smiled. “Relatively.”

Adjusting the vent, she directed the soft, warm air away from her face. “Are you sure Mariah can spare you?”

“She has my younger brother, Jud. They’ve always been closer. The minute Mom delivered me, Dad claimed me for the farm. Mom took Jud. You would have to ask him whether he enjoys being the spare kid, but he has no interest in the farms.”

She knew Mariah as a mentor and an educator. If his parents divided their attentions, then they probably responded to their kids’ talents. She always wanted a sibling. Would they have shared interests or been as different as night and day? She turned her head and admired his profile against the scrolling desert landscape. “Did you always enjoy the farms?”

He worked his jaw. “I enjoy the sense of accomplishment. I’ve always been competitive. If my dad brought me up in another industry, then I probably would have pursued it as aggressively.” He slowed the truck for an intersection. “But farming shapes a man, too.”

Oh, it shaped him just fine. She shifted on the springy seat and refocused her thoughts. “What does your brother do?”

“Sell cars.”

Laughing, she leaned back and closed her eyes. “Mariah said he’s a good guy.” Peeking, she gauged his reaction for a hint of sibling rivalry.

“Oh yeah?” He glanced over and raised his eyebrows. “Did she dangle both sons and let you choose?”

She expected friendly competition, but he looked genuinely interested in his mother’s antics. The thought of Mariah arranging her sons’ love lives provoked a smile, but she jerked her chin toward the highway. “Hardly, and I haven’t picked one yet. Keep your eyes on the road. Shouldn’t you be wearing your glasses?”

“I think you like the glasses,” he said.

“I do.”

He laughed. “I have a mild case of farsightedness, but I can usually compensate without my glasses. Am I speeding?”

“A little. If you hit a rock, I don’t have roadside assistance.”

Slowing the truck, he tapped the steering wheel. “Short of hitting a cactus, I doubt we’ll encounter any obstacles. I can change a tire.”

“Of course you can.” She let the truck eat up the highway asphalt while she imagined him shirtless and wielding a wrench. “When did you realize you needed glasses?”

“How’s your vision?” he asked.

She wet her lips and tried to focus. “Perfect.”

“I’m jealous.” He pressed the accelerator and picked up a little speed. “For a while, I didn’t know I had a problem. Common vision screenings rarely detect hyperopia. Every time they tested me in grade school, I could identify the letters on an eye chart and pass the test, but I had headaches. I worked my eyes too hard trying to make letters come into focus.”

She exhausted herself trying to bring her life into focus. “Your parents made the connection?”

“Well, Mom told me I was an ornery kid, and if I wanted to come home from school every day in a bad mood, I could stay at school.”

Covering her mouth, she tried not to laugh.

“One day, I picked up my dad’s reading glasses, and everything came into focus. The eyestrain, headaches, and irritability were all symptoms of my vision problems. Mom held her breath, took me to an optometrist, and cried all the way home. I told you she surrendered me to my dad, but I think she loves me more than Jud.”

“My friends say the same thing. Every kid thinks they’re the favorite.”

He grinned. “I am.”

“Poor Jud.” She eyed the speedometer.

“You keep away from Jud. Finders keepers.” He dodged roadkill and let the truck’s tires bounce along the rocky shoulder.

She wanted to laugh, but she questioned the truck’s shocks. “Seriously, slow down. Is this how you drive in the fields?”

He eased his foot off the accelerator. “Wide, open spaces have benefits. They’re easy driving, and they give a man room to breathe.”

A club hit played on the radio.

“Are you planning to stay in the valley?” he asked.

She let the question settle. Her answer, like her artwork, depended on too many variables. She could plan and sketch until her muscles ached, but the outcome depended on skill. As long as the Starlight Motel flourished, she could see herself stewarding the reception desk for a year or two, but she needed to paint more than a casita wall. “I’ll stay in the short term.”

His grin spread into a wide smile. “Lucky bought me a few months?”

Without worries etching lines into his face, he was as handsome as any Hollywood star. His kisses and his smiles could cure her midnight wanderings. He affected her like a calorie-laden desert. Armed with that knowledge, he might become more of a nuisance than an indulgence. She tucked away the memory of his smile and stared out the windshield. “Lucky might prefer the ocean. We have no idea where she lived before landing in the Coachella Valley.”

“I have a few guesses,” he said.

So did she. She checked the side view mirror. The combination of blue skies, sweeping vistas, and close proximity left her itching to feel the wind. “Do you mind if I roll down the window?”

He shook his head.

Cranking down the window, she let the crisp air soothe her warm cheeks.

At the stoplight, he adjusted his sunglasses.

She opened the glove compartment, withdrew a pair, and settled them on her nose. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“You said you had errands. I assumed you wanted to drive into Palm Springs.”

“I don’t need a driver. I thought we were getting lunch.”

As he settled into the seat, the worn springs creaked. “We are. Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“Absolutely not. I’m healthy as a horse.”

He laughed. “All right then.”

She liked how he scanned the intersection for traffic, but she cautioned herself not to read too much into his enthusiasm or his moderated behavior. The laundry room liaison thrilled her, but she refused to be the kind of woman who poured out her problems to a man and hoped he would pick up the slack.

Going into town would be a welcome diversion. People made a town great, and Palms Springs’ citizens congregated at local cafes with an ear for gossip and good jokes. Restaurants rolled out new dishes, and the gardening club spruced up the medians. The last time she went into town, barrel cacti with bright-yellow centers, prickly pears with tangy hot-pink fruit, and aloe vera with speckled white flecks overflowed from medians, but the town’s residents couldn’t conjure snow. She chose her words and kept her gaze averted to miss the judgment in his expression. “I have an appointment with my therapist at three.”

“A real therapist or the kind who serves coffee and listens to your woes for a good tip?”

His joke eased her concerns. Turning from the window, she flung out an arm and slapped his thigh. She hit solid muscle. The man would look good in shorts. Taking a deep breath, she waited. “A real therapist. I see her every other week.”

He frowned.

She tensed.

“Even on New Year’s Eve?” he asked.

She released her breath. “I can cancel the appointment and check on Benito. Stephanie said he pinched a nerve, but she’s not the most reliable narrator.”

“Do you want to do both?”

“No.” She coughed and banged her chest. “The therapist is a precaution. Benito might need help.”

“We can swing by after lunch and do both.”

“Thanks.” Exhaling, she wondered if his family talked about mental health, or he juggled so many problems a quirky muralist with a therapist on speed dial hardly registered. Content to live in the moment, she decided she didn’t care. He was a grown man, and if he asked her out to lunch, he could live with the consequences.

He skirted Indian Canyons. The 1960s neighborhood boasted midcentury-modern homes designed by architects like Dan Palmer, William Krisel, and Stan Sackley. Back in the day, the town was a magnet for celebrities like Bob Hope, Sinatra’s Rat Pack, and the roommate starlets who wanted to marry rich. Now, the neighborhood hosted aging snowbirds who associated Palm Springs with their misspent youths. They kept a lively scene, but when they passed, she wondered who would take up the sleek, glass-walled homes.

A sandstone cove protected the Indian Canyons houses from the desert winds and the summer sun. Beyond the canyon, the world’s largest grove of wild palm trees grew in a lush paradise. Homes sold for top dollar, but she wondered who splashed out the cash. If she stuck around to see who carried the flag at next year’s Christmas parade, she might find out. “If you didn’t live in the valley, where would you live?”

“I have no idea.” He shifted his seat.

He fidgeted like she asked him to choose between a snake bite and a scorpion sting. She turned away from the window and considered his evasive answer. “None? Haven’t you been on a vacation and loved the locale?”

He smiled and passed a farm truck with flashing yellow lights. “No. I left the valley to attend Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, but after graduation, I returned to the farm. Maybe you should sell me the motel, and we’ll head to Hawaii Island.”

“Maybe you should hit a pothole, go off-road, and wander into the desert.”

He laughed. “Harsh.”

“What would you do with the motel land, anyway? Plant more date palms? You have plenty.”

He scratched the side of his lip. “I hear you, but plenty is subjective. As long as I can turn a profit, employ workers, and fulfill community needs, I’ll keep farming.”

People had to eat, and she couldn’t fault his successful profession. If she didn’t have resources and a vibrant family business, she couldn’t take in Lucky. And despite her relative wealth, she still painted. “What about you and your needs?”

He slowed for the first traffic light, turned his head, and stared. “What about me?”

“Don’t you have secret hobbies? Wild Tanzanian safari fantasies? Buried artistic tendencies?”

His brow wrinkled. “I’ve thought about planting varieties beyond the Medjool family. Date trees can only produce fruit in dry, arid conditions, but to withstand the intense heat, they need water at their roots. Not all dates are created the same.”

She wrinkled her nose. Dates had their charms, but if Dane thought a different variety comprised an adventure, she and the man were on two different wavelengths. Then again, she had never shared a kiss with a man in a laundry room.

Thinking about the motel, she wondered what she would do without dates. Stately trees and their finger-like crowns provided a lush backdrop for the motel’s publicity photographs, and the fruit charmed tourists. Together, the 1950s casitas and the green canopies gave the motel the appearance of a charming oasis. No wonder the National Date Festival chose Arabian Nights as their first theme. She could embrace the fruit, but Dad had a point. Without irrigation, Dane’s wealth would shrivel up and leave behind sporadic palms that existed before farmers sunk their wells.

He made a left turn.

“I’ve seen my life play out a dozen ways,” she said. “I could have grown up here.”

“We would have already had a date. Maybe even prom.”

She laughed. “I’ve also seen myself in a high-rise tower.”

He shuddered. “I’ve thought about making changes, too, but on a much smaller scope. Palmer Farms has been a family business for four generations. We’re committed to growing superior produce, embracing changing technologies, and furthering the farming profession with an emphasis on ecologically friendly techniques, low pesticides application, natural fertilizers, and a solar-generated electrical system.”

“Is that your website synopsis?”

“Yes,” he said.

She laughed and doubled over until her sides ached. “Come on, Dane. It’s good. It’s beautiful, but what gets you up in the morning?”

He drew a deep breath. “Family. Responsibility. Pride.” Turning, he made eye contact. “Today, it was you. What gets you up, Kada?”

Shying away from the intensity in his gaze, she watched a parade of houses and crisp, green lawns slip past the truck window. “People.” She smiled. “I love people. I love the motel guests, the artists I met at university, and the joyous students I worked with in Los Angeles.”

“What happened in LA?”

She knew the question was coming, but she had buried it beneath Lucky’s needs, the motel’s guests, and the magnetic attraction she felt whenever he walked into a room. Taking a deep breath, she gave thanks he drove the old truck and she had the freedom to stretch. If she sat face-to-face with him or held the wheel, she couldn’t tell the story without crashing the truck. “I attempted something big.”

“Ambition isn’t a bad thing.”

“It is when you fail.” She took a deep breath. “My parents raised me in Laramie, but you know Mom grew up at the Starlight Motel. I mean, she literally grew up tripping around Pops’ ankles. After Grandma Nana died, Pops and Mom ran the motel the best way they knew how, but Mom wanted more. Dad rolled into town with long hair and big ideas. She married him and eloped in the course of a day.”

He tugged on his shirt collar. “It’s a sweet, crazy story.”

“Well, we’ve known each other more than a day. You can’t top it.”

Putting on the truck’s blinker, he checked the side mirror and took the highway exit toward downtown Palm Springs. “Noted.”

Their relationship started as a hookup. Now, she was cruising the main drag in broad daylight. Twenty years ago, word would have gotten around. She was glad she had the freedom to find her way. “My parents loved me and told me I could do anything, but I’m not sure they understood how much trouble I could find in the world of printmaking and paints. After I left the University of Wyoming with a B.F.A. in Studio Art, I wanted a bigger stage.”

“Why?” he asked. “Laramie is a decent-sized town.”

She worked her jaw and thought of the type-casting she encountered in the small town. “I’d already seen plenty of cowboys.”

He snuck a gaze. “And here you are.”

“I swore you were a farmer.”

He laughed.

Their easy camaraderie eased her ability to talk about more than dinner specials and local attractions. “After graduation, I moved to San Francisco, lived in the Tenderloin neighborhood, and worked in advertising. Across the Bay, protestors questioned the roles corporations play, and their rallies prompted me to think about my choices. I worked at a design firm, and the job paid my bills, but I wanted artistic freedom. My boyfriend wanted to settle in the East Bay.”

“Is that bad?”

“Only if you’re a wandering hipster with a bent toward public art.”

He laughed.

“I applied to grad schools and savored my acceptance letters. My boyfriend refused to move. I said good riddance and chose California State University, Long Beach to study printmaking and complete my MFA. My final project was ‘Printmaking: Nature’s Promises,’ and it was good.”

“I’m sure,” he said. “I pulled up your work on my phone. It’s beautiful and powerful.”

She let the compliment wash over her, but if she lingered too long with his praise, she couldn’t finish the story. “Thanks. The project was good enough to land me a residency at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

“All of a sudden, I had name recognition and financing as an artist-in-residence. I organized a multipart community mural project at the Los Angeles Technical Vocational High School. Engaging student collaborators in the work’s conception and art direction broadened my understanding of nature’s power in urban environments.”

He glanced out the window.

If he could reconsider a familiar landscape, he might be able to understand how much she lost. “Dane, the students were so fierce. They were the same rowdy kids I grew up with, but concrete boxed them into their neighborhood. I wanted to show them they could find freedom.”

“You obviously had a connection with them.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. The mural was good, but whether its power came from her or from the students remained to be seen. If she couldn’t give up the desert for her art, did she deserve it? Shifting, she watched the clouds cast shadows on his profile. “The kids taught me about local creeks buried underground for progress. Their grandparents remembered playing in the creeks, but the students saw them bubbling out of catch basins or flooding encroaching neighborhoods. I took so many notes on their discussion and scribbled so many ideas about the mural that a theme emerged. Every generation wants to embrace nature and fight their way to the surface.”

He slowed for a tractor. “When people see the natural world, they understand their significance. That’s why everyone loves a starlit sky. Serving your peers and fostering connections are some of the best things you can do.” He glanced over and smiled. “I mean, short of growing food.”

“Yeah.” She returned his smile, but she swallowed and wondered if he might be more than the rangy, languid cowboy who rode onto her property at sundown and offered to buy it out from under her. Did he have a poetic streak buried under all that buttoned-down brawn and sun-kissed hair?

She took a deep breath. “After the mural, I fundraised on a crowd-funding platform for a follow-up project. A few reporters carried the story, the students distributed flyers, and the museum posted on social media.” She took a deep breath and prepared for condescension. “At the end of the campaign, I had six hundred dollars.”

“That’s not so bad.”

Eyes wide, she stared. “Dane, I needed thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands of dollars. If I want to treat art like a hobby, I have to hold down a day job. If I want to treat art like a calling, I have to eat.”

“Oh.” He turned onto a small side street. Angling toward a parking spot, he stopped in front of The Desert Empire Café and put the truck in Park. He shifted on the seat. “I’m sorry your campaign came up short. Is that why you don’t like to talk about it?”

“I mean, yeah, I failed. The day the campaign ended, Mom called and asked me to check on Pops. I was so disappointed in myself I fled. Pops was slowing and sleeping in, but he took me on the long, cathartic walks I needed. The scenery brought me right back to my childhood and the belief I could do anything. I rallied and decided to try again, but Pops told me to work on logistics.”

“And then he died.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Grief came in waves, but the desert left little margin for sentimentality. “He left me half the motel, but my mother inherited the other half. With my artist-in-residence gig ending, and my crowd-funding campaign flat-lining, I stayed in Palm Springs and took over his gig while I worked on logistics for my art. Maybe I’ll stay here forever.”

“Maybe.” He rested a forearm on the steering wheel and exhaled. “Then again, maybe the valley is a pit stop. I might be a simple farmer, but even I know you have talent. I can see the passion and the technique behind your work. You can stay here and make local people happy, or you can do great things.”

“You sound like my therapist,” she said.

He smiled and inclined his head. “My advice is probably cheaper.”

Laughing, she pulled out her phone to text Stephanie.

— Is now a good time to visit Benito? —

— He’s sleeping. Should I wake him? —

— No! —

Kada added a few emojis.

— Let me know when he wakes up? I’ll swing by the grocery store. What are his favorite snacks? —

— Those cheddar cheese puff balls. He’s right above the boulevard market. I’ll text you the address. —

Staring at her phone, Kada wondered if Benito had a twin brother. The cook she knew preached the merits of small family farms located in community centers. Faced with a choice between price and proximity, he lobbied for the fruits and vegetables grown without the use of synthetic fertilizers, herbicides, or pesticides. Well, except avocados. Sometimes, he cut side deals to secure the green gold, and she avoided asking questions. But cheese puffs? She would enjoy teasing him about his neon-orange indulgence.

Shaking off the incongruity, she rehomed her phone. “Change of plans. Benito’s not up for visits right now. Maybe we can do your hike and return for lunch? We just can’t stay out all day.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You said you needed lunch, now.”

“I ate.”

“A ginger cookie.”

She patted her stomach. “Give Mariah my regards. It was delicious.”

Shaking his head, he backed out of the spot. “Are you worried about Lucky?”

“Yes and no,” she said. “Benito’s sleeping, so I legitimately don’t want to wake him, but I’m trying not to get too worked up over Lucky’s litter. The vet gave me a pamphlet.” She picked at her nails and avoided thinking about the familiarity she observed between Dane and the pretty vet. “She was generous to come.”

“She’s empathetic and astute. I think the animals respond well to her.” He slowed and detoured around a group of vultures pecking at carrion below a billboard for a big dollar boutique.

Detouring from downtown Palm Springs brought the desert back into sharp focus, but she kept the conversation grounded and ignored the vet’s looks. Mimicking another woman’s style never worked. “She’s empathetic, but she seems unflappable, too. I can’t do all that Buddhist, living-in-the-now stuff she mentioned.”

“Why not?”

“After all the global stressors like 9-11, school shootings, and climate change, my friends and I openly talk about mental health, but I can’t pretend everything will be okay.” She shrugged. “Everybody has their struggles.”

“My dad’s not the talkative type,” he said.

“But your mom?”

He rubbed his thumb along the steering wheel and nodded. “She would listen.”

“She is a good listener, but when she comes to visit, I usually focus on the future. I don’t know why we talk about mental health so much more than our parents. Awareness has grown, so maybe we recognize the problems.” She listened to the truck’s tires crunching over gravel. “Maybe the stigma just isn’t there.”

“Maybe.”

Scratching her scalp, she tugged her fingers through her hair. If she couldn’t pick up a paintbrush and paint away her worries, talking helped. “I guess I feel like my therapist is a medical professional. If I had hypertension, I wouldn’t ignore it.”

“Has Mariah been talking?”

“What?” she asked.

“I meant, good.” He adjusted the sun visor. “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

Humming to herself, she enjoyed the contentment that came from being heard and tried not to dwell on his limited responses. They shared a mutual appreciation for hot sex, but they were barely friends. “Are we close?”

He nodded.

A worn, brown sign with engraved white letters marked a green metal gate and a dusty gravel road. Palmer Farms Property , the sign read.

She looked down the road, but it twisted behind an outcrop. After tourism, agriculture was Greater Palm Springs’ second largest industry, but she saw zero signs of the area’s iconic, waving palm trees. She craned her neck, but she sat on her hands to avoid ruining the outing. “This is your family’s land?”

“Some of it.” Putting the idling truck in Park, he opened the door and walked around the hood. He withdrew a set of keys, opened the gate, and swung it wide.

She scooted into the driver’s seat to save him from repeating the moves after he secured the gate.

He curled his fingers and beckoned her forward.

Easing into Drive, she stopped past the gate. She still couldn’t see a thing except for the scrubby desert plants, the waving brown sand, and the winding gravel road.

Approaching the driver’s side window, he tapped the glass. “Will you let me drive?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I wouldn’t mind getting a close-up look at how you plant, cultivate, and harvest your massive, majestic, manly crops, but I have errands. I thought you said this was a hike?”

“Kada, scoot over. If I wanted to take you on the dog and pony show, I could have walked down the hill and met you halfway from the Starlight Motel.”

“Okay.” She made a show of untangling her legs and slipping back into position. “I cede control of the truck.”

“Did you have a hard time saying that phrase?” he asked.

If it took one type-A control freak to recognize another, she would accept the label. Instead of deflecting his question, she stuck out her tongue.

He raised his eyebrows. “Mature.”

“Sometimes.” Tilting her head, she wondered if she could scrap the sightseeing for a second bout of sweaty sex, but he listened to her drama, and he deserved the same respect. She waved toward the road. “Lead the way, boss.”

Following the road, he navigated around the outcrop.

Rows of lush, green vines appeared in a shadowed valley. During midday, the vines would receive full sun, but the outcrop provided intermittent shade. “Grapes!”

“Table grapes.” He stopped the truck. “They’re too thin-skinned, sweet, and juicy for wine.”

She rubbed together her hands. “I love grapes. Have you ever roasted them? Benito makes this kicking dish of fresh chorizo, roasted sweet grapes, and vinegar-tossed onions on a bed of polenta.” She reached for the door handle.

“Maybe we can set up Benito with Vo H?nh.”

Pulling back, she turned and grinned. Maybe she would get her second kiss. “I think Benito’s already taken with Stephanie.”

“Good, but this isn’t the stop.”

She pulled back a hand.

He accelerated the truck.

As the road circumnavigated piles of brown mulch and black topsoil, she watched the vines disappear in the side mirror. So much for the grapes. Where is he taking me? Content to ride, she realized she trusted him enough to go joyriding in the desert, and she looked forward to his plan.

Then her phone pinged.

Opening her email, she stared.

Kada Ritchie, please submit your grand acceptance no later than 11:59 on December, 31. Again, congratulations.

Reading the reminder fifteen times, she forgot the grapes and struggled with the implications of her looming decision. She had poured her heart into the grant application and had devised contingency plans for the motel. Now that her parents were on-site, she was so close to handing control of the motel back to her mother. The mild email reminded her wildest dreams had come true, but the handsome man in the passenger seat tempted her to upend her plans.