Rosalie looked up at the sky, almost as black as the water beneath her. She turned herself so she was floating away from the exterior lights of the hotel, seeing only the sky.
As the pinpricks of stars popped out of the thick wool blanket of the night, Rosalie knew this sky wasn’t visible anywhere else in the world. Ashhawk’s sky was bigger, its stars brighter than the stars of Philadelphia. The sky was always alive here, while it struggled for air and color everywhere else. Rosalie lay there, suspended between the two darknesses and felt a seed of peace plant itself in her. After a few minutes of contemplating suns billions of miles away, Rosalie slipped out of the pool and tiptoed back to her room, quickly falling into a deep, rejuvenating sleep.
****
The inside of the casino glittered and flashed with garish enthusiasm. It was unnervingly noisy compared to the desert surrounding it. Even the highway, with its swiftly passing trucks, seemed calm in comparison to the cacophony within.
Rosalie had passed this casino a handful of times but never gone in. Seated on a nearby reservation, it was the source of much local debt and woe. Yet it was thriving; at two o’clock on a Monday, half the seats at the slot machines were full, and the tables, busy by night, were never deserted.
Rosalie had questioned why the corporate real estate agent from All Nite Inn wanted to meet in a casino but figured it made sense. After a quick walk-through appraisal of the property the week before, Coral had given Rosalie a swift nod and told her to expect an offer within the week. Meeting to finalize the sale of an Ashhawk institution to a large corporation should be done discreetly, in a place where Rosalie was less likely to attract attention or be overheard by locals. A business transaction in the restaurant was one of the less concerning happenings in the casino.
Rosalie held the pen in her hand, looking down at the documents one last time before she signed anything. Beside her, Coral Hatfield flicked her tongue over her lipstick-flaked lips and ran her hands over her pasty arms, brushing off the Freon chill of the air conditioning. With her faux snakeskin purse, she looked like a fleshy, corpulent lizard poised to seize a fly from a cactus.
Rosalie thought back to Hearth, with its peeling paint and dated décor. Once she signed the documents in front of her, All Nite Inn would begin to take it over, plastering its surfaces with corporate-approved shades of white and beige and blue, ripping up its carpets and replacing them with industrial blandness. The sign above the parking lot would be replaced with a glowing plastic sign that held none of the life or care Gran had poured into the business for forty years.
Perhaps more disturbing was that Coral and her associates had no concern for Susan or Shelley or Alex. They would be dismissed, thrown back into the unrelenting desert to fend for themselves.
Rosalie found it hard to breathe. Something was twisting in her gut, and she wanted to double over or wriggle out of her seat to get it to stop twisting. She put her free hand to her forehead, wondering if she was coming down with something. She took a deep breath.
And then, clarity: Something was stopping her from signing.
The real estate agent had no personal investment in Gran’s property. If the hotel couldn’t profit to the corporation’s standards, it would be sold, converted, or razed, and nothing would remain of Gran’s legacy.
“I’m sorry,” Rosalie said, releasing her breath in a giant exhale. “I need a few more days to think about this.”
Coral’s tongue flicked out over her lips, and her brow furrowed in discontent, impatient. “Is there something making you hesitate?”
“Yeah, I’m—” Rosalie kept her hand on her clammy forehead, hoping it would steady her. “It’s been a lot of adjustment since I lost Gran,” she said, fudging the truth.
“Of course,” Coral said, donning a saccharine tone and leaning forward to put her hand near Rosalie’s arm. “You poor thing. You must be all torn up about it.”
Rosalie gave a faint nod, glad she had bought herself time.
Coral’s plump, weathered hand flattened on the table over the contract Rosalie had been about to sign. “I’m just trying to help take a few things off your plate, you know.”
“I know.” Rosalie scooted back in her chair a few inches. “But I need a few more days.”
The woman gave a stiff nod. “Fine,” she said. “Give me a call when you’re ready, and I’ll bring the papers over. But I have to be honest with you: you’re not going to get a better offer. With the state the property’s in, you’ll be lucky to sell it at all.”
“I know,” Rosalie said, already rising and collecting her purse. She couldn’t believe how quickly Coral had gone from concerned to predatory. She knew she’d made the right decision, even if she had no idea what she was going to do now. “Thanks anyway.”
She turned, never so eager to leave a room.
She rushed out to the parking lot, climbing into Gran’s Oldsmobile and cranking the engine. The air conditioner blasted on, accosting her with hot air. Rosalie felt herself surge with an urgency she couldn’t place. Putting the car into gear, she pulled out of the parking lot. She was almost back to the hotel when she turned around, heading for the other side of town.
By the time she pulled up to the Cocheta property, the sun was low in the sky, casting long, ashen shadows over the desert. The cacti and tumbleweeds loomed long where they stood, the distant hills glowing purple in stillness. Rosalie stopped the car and got out, looking over the land, searching for something. A breeze graced her face, and she wondered if it could carry a message from her to Gran or vice versa. Looking over the land that was seemingly barren but secretly alive, she understood why the Native people believed in spirits the way they did. The earth breathed of its own accord, creating magic in its stillness.
The land hadn’t changed in generations. Perhaps that was what bound people to it. Most of the ancestors of Ashhawk had been driven out of their land, forced to relocate time and time again. Generations of displacement after displacement should have made the space feel fraught with tension and pain. Yet it was peaceful, grounding, and reassuring.
It was ironic, Rosalie knew, that she’d been so desperate to flee this place. Had she been born in a different time and place, her anguish might have been converse: pain at being forced off her land, her people tortured and killed. Instead, she’d been displaced into the desert. She wondered if that had been a mistake after all. Perhaps she was meant to be here.
She inhaled the dry, cooling desert air and felt her body calm from its previous frenzy. She stared at the land, watching the shadows lengthen until the sun was halfway behind the horizon. Knowing the last of the heat would start to lift soon, she got in her car and drove back to the hotel.
She had made a decision she never dreamed she’d make. She was going to stay.
****
Rosalie had almost fallen asleep that night when she heard the distant calls of the coyotes. The pups’ cries had deepened, their yipping turned to earnest howls in the distant hills. A panicked thought seized her: What if the small gray cat was attacked by one of the coyotes? The cat may have been quick and able to blend in with the desert, but coyotes were skilled hunters. What if the cat died because she’d been too cruel to allow it to come inside? What if she never saw the cat again? What if her one reliably comforting thing was gone?
Rosalie sprang out of bed and ran to the door, flinging it open. An empty tin of food and little dish of water sat on the doorstep, half drunk. Rosalie took a few steps out, feeling the nighttime chill of the desert send flares of goose bumps over her skin. She scanned the parking lot and glanced under the chairs in front of the rooms for the small ball of fur. She saw nothing but a few beer cans she’d need to pick up in the morning and the empty space where Alex’s truck usually was.
Rosalie felt awful for rejecting so much of the beauty around her. She’d been a terrible steward of the land and a begrudging servant to the people of the town. She wanted to be better than she’d been, to show she deserved the good for
tune she’d been given. And above all, she wanted to apologize to Alex.
Not seeing the cat anywhere, she went back inside and climbed in bed, feeling heavy. As she tried to fall asleep, her heart howled like the coyotes in the distance.
Chapter Twelve
Honesty Bar
Early the next morning, Rosalie went to find the small gray cat. She was frantic to see him—if he was a him—and know he was okay. When she saw the faithful creature creep up to the building, she walked out to meet him with grateful urgency. Rather than tentatively stroke him or talk to him first, she scooped him up, feeling him purr immediately.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” she mumbled. “I was so worried about you.”
The cat purred louder, as though to reassure her.
“Do you want to come live with me?”
Even though she knew it was silly, she was hoping for some sort of affirmation or response. The cat purred on as she opened the door and carried him inside, holding him to her chest as she walked to the cupboard to get a can of food for him. She set him down beside her bed and slid down to sit next to him while he ate.
“You need a name, don’t you?” Rosalie asked, hand draping down his back and extending over his tail.
She thought of her happiest memories in the desert. Most were with Alex. Sturdy, quiet Alex, who had built her a fireplace to relive her favorite desert moments from her childhood. Those summer nights with Gran had been dearer than she knew. She thought of how the smoke had rested heavy and hot in her lungs. Yet there was a comfort to it, a feeling of being somewhere open and full of possibility, of perpetual summer, of light.
“Smoke. That’s what I’m gonna call you.”
The cat ate on, unresponsive to Rosalie’s chatter. Rosalie admired him, noting his fur was exceptionally soft.
Once Smoke had finished, he turned around a few times and climbed decidedly into Rosalie’s lap, settling down and starting up his motor. Rosalie smiled, grateful for his forgiveness.
Rosalie heard Alex’s truck pull into the parking lot, making her feel guilty. Repairing things with Alex seemed almost as overwhelming as repairing the hotel. Rosalie decided to deal with other matters first: She needed to make Gran’s room her own, to start laying down roots here. She would own and manage the hotel no matter what happened with Alex, and she needed to take ownership now.
Rosalie texted Shelley to see if she could cover the desk for a few hours. She hardly waited for Shelley to pull into the parking lot before getting in Gran’s car and speeding out of Ashhawk. She drove until she got to the closest Target. Filled with excitement and a rare willingness to spend some money, she headed toward the home décor section.
Two hours later, Rosalie loaded her purchases into the trunk of Gran’s car. She’d done well—a new area rug, new sheets and a duvet, a new lamp, new window treatments, new dishes, new art, and an order of larger furniture to be delivered later that week. New life for her suite. She spent the next few hours clearing out Gran’s remaining possessions, packing them into boxes to take to the local church to be divvied up for the neediest residents of Ashhawk. She put up the new curtains and an under-cabinet rack for wine glasses. She took down Gran’s old art and put up bold new prints. Her suite was still small, but it no longer felt sad and stale.
Rosalie unlocked the door leading to the adjoining room, yanking open the curtains to let the light stream in as she pushed the bed far against the wall, making space in the middle of the room for the furniture and bookshelves that would be delivered in a few days’ time. Her tiny suite wasn’t space enough for the life she wanted to live in Ashhawk. She deserved a living room where she could relax, read, and enjoy Alex’s company. If Alex’s company was to be had, of course.
She removed Gran’s ashes from the card table and brought the table into her new living room with the chairs. She took down the heavy drapes from around the window, leaving only the blinds for privacy. The fresh paint Alex had applied a few weeks earlier made the room seem brighter and more stylish. Rosalie adorned the table with a cloth, matching dishes and metal cutlery, napkins, and a candle.
Rosalie didn’t know where her burst of energy had come from, but she had a sneaking suspicion it was the desert’s first gift to her as its newest long-term guest. No one owned the desert; the desert simply permitted him or her to live there for a few decades. Rosalie hoped her tenure would be a good one.
Rosalie gathered some old desert brushwood and put it by the fireplace Alex had built, then walked across the street to buy beer. Back in her room, she steeled herself to use Gran’s kitchenette to make food that wasn’t microwaved. She boiled water for spaghetti and heated sauce and managed to defrost some meatballs without incident, then slipped into the dress Alex had persuaded her to buy on their first date. She felt too loud in it. She was so used to neutral button-downs and dress pants; bright colors and patterns made her feel like a visitor in her own body. But perhaps she could get used to it.
As a final touch, she dabbed a hint of perfume behind her ears, hoping it wasn’t too overwhelming.
There was nothing left to do but find Alex.
Rosalie felt her heart pound, her hands shaky, as she walked the short corridor from her room to Alex’s. She paused, wondering if there might be a better time to do this. But she’d wasted enough time already. If she had any chance for Alex’s forgiveness, it was now.
She raised her hand, taking a shaky breath before she knocked. She heard the muffled TV inside, then shuffling before the door opened.
Alex’s face was blank and defensive when she saw Rosalie on her doorstep.
“Hi,” Rosalie forced out.
“Hi,” Alex said, the word tougher than usual, though probably normal if she were speaking to anyone else.
“I…um…was hoping you’d join me for dinner?” Rosalie asked, her words curling up at the end with her uncertainty.
“For dinner,” Alex echoed, as though challenging Rosalie to say what she meant.
“To talk,” Rosalie elaborated. She tried to find some foundation to speak from.
Alex leaned against the door frame, giving no indication she would be agreeable to dinner or conversation.
“I made spaghetti and meatballs,” Rosalie said, feeling her throat clutch around the words. “And a fire in the fireplace for after, if you want.”
Alex pursed her lips, studying Rosalie, noticing the dress she was wearing. She dropped her arms. “What do you want to talk about?” Her voice was softer and more forgiving.
“About…about us. About being more than friends.”
Alex chewed on the thought for a minute before she loosened. “Okay.”
She turned back into her room and shut off her TV, grabbing her keys and closing her door behind her. Rosalie led the way back to her room, wishing Alex would say something to soothe her frazzled nerves.
Rather than open the door to her room, Rosalie opened the door to the adjoining room. When she revealed the semi-romantic spread she’d laid out on Gran’s card table, Alex stopped in her tracks.
“This is nice,” she said, as though it pained her to admit.
“I’m trying to be nicer.”
Rosalie ventured back into her room to get a beer out of the fridge for Alex, filling her wine glass perhaps more than she should have to calm her nerves.
Alex took a seat, glancing up at Rosalie. She kept her knees spread but made an effort to straighten her posture.
With no more to do, Rosalie sat, draping her napkin over her lap.
“That dress looks good on you,” Alex said, shifting in her seat.
“Thanks.” Rosalie tried not to fidget as she searched for the words she should have planned ahead of time. When Alex made no move to start eating or drinking, Rosalie knew she had to start the conversation.
“I owe you a big apology. I got overwhelmed with everything here, and I took it out on you, which wasn’t fair or cool,” she said, trying not to sound frustrated with herself.
Al
ex’s forehead curved in acknowledgment as she studied the food before her. She nodded. “Apology accepted.”
“I…um...I was hoping you’d go on a date with me,” Rosalie said, feeling her insides ratchet up with the speed of a cicada call.
Alex gestured to her plate, as though to say, What do you call this?
“No, a real date. To a restaurant or the movies or something. I want…I want to be better about defining things.”
Alex bit her lip. “I mean...yeah, I’d like that. But if you’re gonna be skipping town soon, I’d rather keep our relationship professional.”
Rosalie nodded, glad Alex had said more than three words. She was even more glad she had an immediate response. “I know,” Rosalie said. “That’s why I was so noncommittal before.”
She paused, picking up her fork and rolling some spaghetti on it to give herself something to do. She didn’t raise it to her mouth. “I met with someone who wants to buy Hearth yesterday.”
Rosalie saw Alex’s face fall.
Rosalie took a breath and kept talking. “The whole time, I had this...I don’t know, this pain in my stomach. I couldn’t make myself sign anything. All I could think of was: This shitty hotel is mine. I can do whatever I want with it. I could make it a roaring success, or I could fail miserably, but either way, it’ll be because I did something. I won’t get anything like this again. I thought about what you said about trusting my gut. So I did.”
Alex stared at Rosalie hopefully.
“When I think about going back to Philadelphia, I get the same icky feeling. As much as I talk about hating Ashhawk, a little piece of it is mine. I don’t want to throw it away because it’s a lot of work. And I don’t have much to go back to anyway. So...I’m gonna give running this hotel everything I’ve got.”
Alex froze in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
Rosalie was finally able to crack a nervous smile. “Yeah. I even signed up for a hotel management course online.”
Hearts Inn Page 22