This would be fine. It’s not like the people who lived at the Chickadee could stay on forever. One way or another, she’d find a way to sell so she could keep her anonymous life in an anonymous city and forget all about the small town where she’d been born.
Chapter Three
CORDELIA STOOD ON THE PAVEMENT OUTSIDE THE CHICKADEE, LILACroller suitcase propped up beside her. Flat land and flecks of pale green from dry scrub brush spread out as far as the eye could see, with only a single winding dirt road to break up the deserted landscape. A hot wind blew a tiny twister of dust around her ankles and she cringed as it clung to the fabric of her most responsible pair of pantyhose. The ones she wore for job interviews and trips to the DMV.
The motel didn’t look like any she’d ever seen before. With a cotton-candy-pink exterior, white scalloped trim, and the front walk of each room sectioned off with spindly iron fencing, it looked more like a dollhouse than a flophouse. Flowers in sunset hues bloomed from giant terra-cotta pots, and at the center of the L-shaped parking lot a sparkling and well-cared-for pool stood out like a jewel in a concrete wasteland. Even Cordelia couldn’t find fault in the aquamarine oasis, and she abhorred public swimming facilities. They ranked right up there with nail salons, playgrounds, and bus stations.
She’d been informed before arriving that there were six rooms for rent, but only three were occupied. When she’d inquired about renting out the other three rooms, Mr. Jenkins made a noncommittal sound and said she’d have to take that up with the current residents. The more questions she asked, themore he deferred to the residents. As if she were the owner in name only. What kind of lease did her Great-Aunt Penelope sign with these people?
As Cordelia rolled her lilac suitcase toward the short end of the L, where the front office and her adjacent apartment were located, she took in her surroundings. She had to admit the Chickadee was much nicer than she’d been expecting for a motel ten miles outside of town, but she still didn’t understand what made it such a treasured institution. As a business, it didn’t make much sense. They weren’t close to any kind of tourism or facilities that would require an overnight stay. The only scenery to be found in this part of Texas was tumbleweed, gravel, and scrub grass. People could get that kind of view anywhere.
The sign for the Chickadee was painted a powder blue, and underneath the motel’s name, in scrawling cursive, it readROOMS BY THE HOUR, BUT WE GUARANTEE YOU’LL NEED A WHOLE LOT MORE THAN THAT.
Cordelia certainly hoped people would need a room for more than an hour, especially as it would take them nearly fifteen minutes just to get out here from town.
She walked past the third room when a gentleman of about sixty-five, wearing a wrinkled white linen suit, a wide-brimmed Stetson, and a satisfied smile stepped into the sun from the fourth room. He tipped his hat to her, looking her up and down as if she were a fattened calf at the county fair and he was handing out blue ribbons.
She turned her nose up and kept walking. She was not about to accept judgment about her appearance from a man in a wrinkled suit.
The blinds behind the fifth room rustled, but she kept her focus straight ahead. Before she could steel herself to meet the residents and see exactly what kind of mess she’d gotten herself into, she needed to get her bearings. Unpacking and putting things in their proper place would calm her nerves. As would a spot check with her trusty lint roller. If the apartment was in a state of disarray, she’d probably spend a full two days cleaning before she could be expected to attend to anything else. It was a good thing she’d packed trail mix and carrot sticks. She didn’t know if a grocery delivery service would come this far.
She’d just rolled her suitcase over a sidewalk crack in front of the sixth room when the door burst open to reveal a busty blond who couldn’t have been younger than her late fifties, wearing a practically transparent black lace bodysuit with dangling garters that swayed as she squealed in delight. With soft brown eyes, sky-high Texas hair, ruby-red lips, and a beauty mark on her left cheek, she looked like a pinup model getting ready to collect her first Social Security check. She wrapped Cordelia in an enormous hug that threw her off balance.
“You must be the new madam.” The older woman smelled like Love’s Baby Soft, as if she had aesthetically stopped aging in 1985 even as her face and body kept on going. She squished her sizable chest against Cordelia. “My name is Daisy. Belinda Sue and Arline told me to let you get settled in first, but I was so excited to meet you. I just couldn’t help myself. Miss Penelope, rest her soul, was the only madam I’d ever known. Though we were all sad to see her pass, it will be exciting to see what someone new will bring to the table. I hope it will be parties. We’ve missed having parties around here.”
“I haven’t decided to stay in an official capacity yet,” Cordelia said. “I’m only here for a few weeks right now, to take stock of what’s being asked of me.”
Daisy bounced on her toes. “But you just have to stay. Sarsaparilla Falls is the sweetest little town. Safer than a bank vault. Except for that nasty break-in over at Porter Sheldon’s place lastweek, but he was visiting his niece, wasn’t even home. And the only thing that got stolen was a dusty old book anyway, so really no harm done. Let me show you around.”
She talked a mile a minute, and Cordelia only picked up on every other word. She nodded as Daisy pointed out the pool, Belinda Sue’s and Arline’s rooms, and kept using the word “madam.” Was that what they called the motel manager? Strange title, but it wasn’t the oddest thing about the Chickadee, so Cordelia could hardly let herself dwell on it for too long.
The more Daisy talked about the other ladies, the more Cordelia had begun to understand that aside from being a motel, the Chickadee served as a retirement home for single women of a certain age. That must’ve been what Mr. Jenkins had been talking about when he called it an institution. He could’ve just told her as much. Cordelia wasn’t heartless. She wouldn’t throw senior women in their golden age out on the street. She’d be willing to use some of the proceeds to make sure they got set up some place just as nice, but she also had no problem leaving the Chickadee be until it was time for the residents to move on in a more permanent way.
“Please take a breath.” Cordelia put a hand on Daisy’s thin upper arm to still her fidgeting, nearly shuddering when she came away with what appeared to be rolled-on glitter. “I have no intention of changing things. I have a job at a library in Dallas, and I assume the motel can run itself, as it seems to have been doing since Great-Aunt Penelope’s... departure.”
“See. The thing is.” Daisy nibbled on her bottom lip as she tilted her head, studying Cordelia like she’d just fallen off the turnip truck. “The Chickadee don’t really run itself.”
“Nonsense.” Cordelia removed a wet wipe from her purse and meticulously scrubbed between her fingers to remove all traces ofglitter. “I saw a gentleman leaving on my way in, and the pool is immaculate. I’d say things have been running just fine around here.”
“Belinda Sue gives Antonio Reyes a monthly discount for changing the filter and general maintenance. He’s a real whiz with mechanics. The pool was Miss Penelope’s pride and joy.” Daisy’s eyes filled, but before a tear could fall, she returned her gaze to Cordelia with a bright smile. “I’m sure you’re itching to get unpacked and settled in. We’re having happy hour by the pool at five if you’re feeling up to it. It’s Belinda Sue’s thing, she likes us to have time together to wind down.”
With that, Daisy flounced back to her room and shut the door with a soft click. Cordelia tipped her sunglasses down and continued to roll her suitcase toward the front office. Her great-aunt’s lawyer had given her a key on a flashy keychain that resembled lips. She’d be replacing that first thing with something more understated and utilitarian. Like a Swiss Army knife or a spoon from one of the fifty states.
After Cordelia unlocked the door and stepped inside the small office, she took in her surroundings. For a front office, it didn’t appear to be all that functional. The air reeked of dollar-store potpourri. Several old steamer trunks stood against the wall, with feather boas and sequined garments spilling out of the open lids. A mannequin wearing a floral wreath and an electric-blue wig had been propped in the corner. The back wall that should’ve held the room keys was papered over with a gaudy palm tree design. The counter where guests should’ve been able to check in held dusty boxes filled with an odd assortment of party supplies. Balloons, plastic champagne glasses, cheap replica tiaras, and a ten-foot-long rubber snake.
It looked like the backstage of a cabaret. Where was the computer system? The keys for the empty rooms? The little bellcustomers could push if there wasn’t anyone at the front desk? Daisy had said the Chickadee didn’t run itself, but it looked as though it didn’t run at all.
How had that older gentleman in the wrinkled suit paid for his room? Or had the residents just let people come and go as they pleased in the absence of an owner?
But Great-Aunt Penelope’s lawyer said she’d passed just six months ago and had been running the Chickadee all on her own, right up until the day she was T-boned outside the H-E-B. How could the front office have become so disorganized in such a short time?
Feeling her skin prickle from the layer of dust she’d stirred up by opening the door, dust that was surely settling on her as she stood there in horror, Cordelia made her way to the side door, which had a slightly crookedEMPLOYEES ONLYsign hanging over it. She passed through a short hallway that held the boiler room and a bathroom she couldn’t bring herself to inspect just yet. The door to her new apartment was painted bubble-gum pink with white trim and she couldn’t help but be charmed despite herself.
Holding her breath, hoping Great-Aunt Penelope kept plenty of Lysol on hand, Cordelia turned the key, pushed open the door, and exhaled.
Much to Cordelia’s relief, it appeared she’d shared a tidy gene with her deceased great-aunt. The air was staler than discount deli bread, and it held the old notes of a fruit basket turned sour, but nothing a little airing out wouldn’t fix. A mauve couch sat against a wide window adorned with goldenrod curtains that had little tassels at the hem. A lamp with a stained-glass hummingbird shade hung on a chain over a moss-colored velvet chair. Next to the chair, a copy ofWoman’s Worldand a pair of paisley print readers sat on a mid-century modern end table.
The little kitchenette featured cherry-red appliances anda dining nook that held a table for two. At the back of the small apartment, a narrow space with a double bed covered in a hot pink bedspread and a sewing machine served as the only bedroom. It had a connected bathroom with just a corner shower stall, no tub. That didn’t bother Cordelia much. She hated the idea of cooking herself in what amounted to a large bowl of water.
