Chapter One
Daisy, Now
Sweat slides down my temple, and I tug the wrench a final time, exactly like the online tutorial instructed. “I’ll hop in my truck right away,” I say into the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, turning up my ultra-sweet customer service voice. “We’ll get you taken care of and have you and your wife checked in to enjoy your weekend, Mr. Hollis.”
I hang up and do a lightning-quick check of my handiwork in the terra-cotta bathroom. A couple of years ago, these fixes would have had me frantic and calling a handyman. Now, I understand why Mom insisted on doing these repairs on her own—that shit’s not cheap. I have no clue how those soulless homeshares keep popping up, charging half of what we do per night.
I close my eyes and grant myself the briefest respite. As I exit the tutorial on my phone, my brain stutters over an incoming call.
Max Weber. My Max, not that he was ever mine.
That familiar freight train of mixed emotions pummels me in the chest, and the temptation to pick up has my thumb hovering over the green icon. But I don’t have time to answer, and that’s not what we do. He’ll leave a voicemail. He always does.
“Six is all set.” Stacey appears in the doorway, holding a pile of folded towels.
“Great.” Startled, I tuck my phone into my back pocket. “Gotta run. Alma strikes again.”
She rolls her eyes in exasperation, and I can relate. I send multiple emails to remind guests to follow my directions and not their GPS, which will lead them down an uneven, dangerous dirt road called Camino del Alma. But I can’t show up to help the Hollises with an attitude. A happy guest is a returning guest, and we could use lots of those. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never made mistakes in my life.
“Remember,” I say, “serenity, warmth, and—”
“Wonder,” Stacey mumbles, following me on the dirt path to the lobby. Even when she’s grumbly, I adore her. “These people make mewonderif they know how to read. You could teach them a lesson. Let them sit out there and bake in the Mojave Desert for a bit.”
“Stace.”
“It’s only the end of April. Not that hot yet.” Her eyes gleam with mischief, like little sparks in the soft lines of her face, and I shake my head with a laugh.
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m here for housekeeping, not all the being-nice-at-the-front stuff.”
We swing into the open-air lobby of The Mirage, and the jagged mountains on the horizon fill me with wonder. Nineteen years, and I still never tire of this view. It’s not just the landscape that I love, but also the prickly cacti, the jackrabbits and the field mice scurrying over dry ground, and the treasure trove of stars glittering in the night sky. This place is as close to magic as it gets. I understand why Mom hauled me and Dad to Harlow when I was seven, trading the chaos of Chicago for a Southern California town of only five thousand.
That hollow ache returns at the thought of her, and I fight the tightness in my throat.
When I push the housekeeping cart against the wall, Freddie, my mom’s blind, geriatric tuxedo cat, stirs in the fluffy bed by the monitor. My hustle has disturbed his dozing, so I apologize by running my hand along his back. A flurry of purrs begins, and I am forgiven.
“I’ll refill amenities,” Stacey says.
“Already did ’em.” I grasp for my keys underneath the counter, ignoring her admonishing look.
“Daisy Johnson, I swear on my left tit.” She drops her basket in a huff, knocking into a display shelf with some art and decor. A purple rock—amethyst, I think my best friend Gwen told me when she placed it there for optimal energy cleansing—goes off-kilter. I don’t buy into the woo-woo stuff, but I move the gemstone to its optimally energetic place. Some extra help for The Mirage can’t hurt.
“Doc says I’m one hundred percent cleared for all the heavy lifting I want,” Stacey continues.
“She told me seventy-five.”
“Tomato, tomato.”
“I think you’re supposed to pronounce those differently.”
“If you’re gonna take over my work, then you mind tellin’ me why I’m here?”
“Because I need you.”
Stacey has worked here from the beginning, and although she’s in her early sixties, I can’t picture running this place without her. On days when operating The Mirage runs me ragged, she brings levity into my life. I’ll look into having interns or other employees again soon. Right now, though, I just want to get by until the end of the summer with the loan I took out. Once we manage through our slow season, I can continue tackling my never-ending to-do list.
I give Stacey a quick peck on the cheek, then turn to leave to save our guests from a blazing-hot afternoon. “Water,” I say to myself, turning on my heel to fetch two bottles from the mini fridge.
