Hearts Inn Read online

  Rosalie nodded.

  “My cousin and I do each other’s hair. She does a nice job, huh?” Shelley studied Rosalie for a minute. “Your hair’s real simple. If you want, I could take a crack at it.”

  Rosalie tried not to laugh at the suggestion. She’d never let an amateur near her hair. Not since her mother had sat her on top of the dishwasher when she was five during her mother’s cosmetology school phase.

  But she’d never been in Ashhawk when she needed a haircut.

  Rosalie chewed her lip and squeezed her hands together for a second before surprising even herself with a shrug. “Sure.”

  Shelley’s eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

  “Why not? If you mess up, I can find someone to fix it.”

  Shelley gave a rapid nod, gleeful at the prospect of cutting Rosalie’s hair. Rosalie had her reservations but knew she couldn’t back out now without damaging their budding friendship. Who did she have to look nice for, anyway?

  Shelley draped a hotel sheet around Rosalie’s shoulders and spritzed water through Rosalie’s hair, tugging at it with a comb. Rosalie thought she would be babbling nervously through the whole thing, but Shelley was focused.

  Rosalie felt a little dangerous, letting someone near her head with scissors. But it wasn’t like she had people at work to impress or girls to look hot for. If Shelley messed up, it wouldn’t really matter.

  “I promise it’ll look good,” Rosalie heard right before the first snip. She felt her stomach give a little zip at the sound.

  Shelley held a brush tip of wet hair before Rosalie’s face. “This much?”

  “Yeah,” Rosalie said, soothed to see Shelley was trimming less than an inch off.

  “Nothing feels quite like getting a haircut,” Shelley said. “That little bit of lightness. You wouldn’t think it makes a difference, but it does, you know?”

  Rosalie held her head still as Shelley focused on the next snip.

  “Long hair is easy,” Shelley mused, running the comb through Rosalie’s hair before snipping again. “I wouldn’t be messing with your hair if it were shorter. You need a professional for short hair.” She paused and made a few more snips and a few more tugs of the comb. “My friend has hair about to here,” she gestured below her chin before disappearing behind Rosalie again. “She let some girl who didn’t know what she was doing cut her hair once, and she looked so dykey. It was awful. She came over to my house and cried for, like, three hours.”

  Rosalie felt punched in the gut at Shelley’s casual hatred. Her body froze, angry and fearful. She was helpless under the sheet, at the mercy of Shelley’s shears. She feared they might plunge into her back if she did or said the wrong thing.

  If she’d been a braver person, she would have swung the sheet off her like a matador’s cape, plucked the scissors from Shelley’s hand, and defended the honor of every lesbian who had ever been hurt by that word. But sitting in the late afternoon light, alone and at the mercy of the desert and the few people in its clutches who had been kind to her, Rosalie couldn’t find any more bravery than it took to manage the hotel. She shriveled, shamed by her cowardice. The snipping of her locks behind her felt like the snipping of her clothing, exposing her so that she might be laughed at and ridiculed, the soft, lovely parts of her painted ugly and bad. She felt tears push up into her eyes, and she batted them away fiercely. For once, she was grateful for the desert heat that dried them before they could fall.

  When Shelley finished, a satisfied and eager smile on her face, Rosalie could hardly face the mirror to look at the even line Shelley had managed to cut while snipping away at Rosalie’s pride. She nodded and muttered a few vague compliments, fetching a ginger ale from the refrigerator before mumbling something about needing to check that Susan had finished sorting the towels. Shelley didn’t seem to notice Rosalie’s sullen state and flounced out to the parking lot as though she had been rid of the small weight that was Rosalie’s hair trimmings.

  Rosalie watched her trimmings stir and scuttle across the desert, scattered like small sacrifices to the land in exchange for her continued survival.

  Somehow, the sacrifice felt too big.

  Wanting to distract herself, Rosalie pulled out her phone. Though she knew Alex would be back soon, she texted her:

  Next weekend cannot come soon enough.

  Chapter Seven

  Bed and Breakfast

  Rosalie hoisted herself up into the cab of Alex’s truck. The bench had been reupholstered with a colorful Southwestern tapestry. She hadn’t known what to expect from the inside of Alex’s truck. She didn’t think Alex would have beer cans and beef jerky wrappers littering the floor of her car, but the well-kept interior was a pleasant surprise.

  She looked up, noticing a small dreamcatcher hanging from the rearview mirror. She didn’t peg Alex as the superstitious type and didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Do you think those things work?” She nodded toward the dreamcatcher.

  “Do you?” Alex volleyed back. It was half challenge, half curiosity.

  Rosalie shrugged. “I haven’t thought much about it.”

  Alex gave a contemplative nod as she started the car. “I got it when I was living on the Navajo reservation a few hours north. It’s the real deal. Not like those souvenirs you find in Santa Fe.”

  Rosalie felt guilty for bringing up Alex’s dreamcatcher when she knew nothing about it. Maybe she had offended Alex without meaning to.

  As the truck jostled out of the parking lot, Rosalie reached for something to hold on to, finding only the edge of the upholstered bench. Without a bucket seat to hold her, she felt exposed, as though she might fall out of her seat accidentally.

  “Where are you taking me?” Rosalie asked, eager to change the subject.

  Alex smiled. “A little corner of New Mexico called Corte del Cuervo,” she said.

  As she looked both ways before pulling onto the main road of Ashhawk, she caught Rosalie’s eye. “You’ll have a good time, I promise. There’ll be lots of good people.”

  Alex was quiet as they drove, and Rosalie realized she couldn’t imagine what her friends were like. Rosalie imagined Alex as a brooding loner. Perhaps Alex preferred to surround herself with books or knowledge or tasks, as she did at the inn. Or perhaps Alex had a large group of friends Rosalie was unaware of.

  Alex kept her gaze fixed forward and steady, as though determined to bore a hole through the windshield. Sweeping through the rubble of rocks and sage and dust, Rosalie wanted to know why Alex was so serious. Rosalie found the vast dryness of the desert overwhelming, but Alex seemed calmer and even more contemplative than she did at Hearth.

  Rosalie knew it was a stereotype, but she wondered if Alex’s stoicism had come from her time on the Navajo reservation. Knowing little about any of the local Native cultures, she fell back on the Hollywood caricatures she’d seen. She felt bad about it; she knew the portrayal of Natives as serious and quiet might be unwarranted. Wanting to mask her ignorance as she corrected it, she said, “Tell me more about your time on the reservation.”

  Alex tilted her head to the side and adjusted the angle of her hands on the steering wheel. “It was a long time ago,” she said.

  Rosalie considered; Alex had been thirteen when she’d gone to live on the reservation, putting over twenty years between then and now. Rosalie wondered if the monotony of small-town life might have burned those memories brighter into Alex’s memory than they might have in Rosalie’s, or if time was an equal-opportunity eraser.

  “I do remember this one ceremony,” Alex said. “The Navajo believe when a baby is born, it takes a few months for it to fully descend from the Spirit World. After a month or two, people in the tribe start asking the new parents if their baby has laughed yet.”

  “Laughed?” Rosalie asked, wanting to make sure she’d heard right.

  “The Navajo believe when a baby expresses joy in something found on earth, it has fully descended from the Spirit World and is ready to begin it
s lessons in generosity, which is a highly valued trait in Navajo culture.”

  “Huh.”

  “So it’s a big deal when a baby laughs for the first time,” Alex said. “Whoever makes the baby laugh throws a party, and the baby symbolically gives gifts to everyone as its first act of generosity. Everyone in the community comes to celebrate.”

  “What if a person didn’t make them laugh, though? Like, what if it was a dog or a squirrel?”

  “Whoever was closest to the baby throws the party.”

  Rosalie looked at the sweeping desert before them and wondered how old she’d been when she laughed for the first time and what had inspired it. She made a note to ask her mother—if her mother ever returned her calls.

  “You look like her.”

  Rosalie started, looking over to see Alex glancing between her and the road. “Like Marisol?”

  Alex’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Marisol?”

  “My mom.”

  Alex’s brow peaked farther, and Rosalie realized they hadn’t been talking about Marisol. Her mind had wandered there.

  “I meant Estelle.”

  “Oh.” Rosalie was further perplexed by this statement. No one had ever said she looked like her grandmother. They had different skin, different hair, different eyes, and different smiles.

  But her memory of her grandmother was hazy. Perhaps Alex saw them both more clearly.

  “What was she like?”

  Alex adjusted herself on the bench. “Sweet. But also no-nonsense. Calm, but also kind of…” She hitched her shoulders and a smile flashed across her mouth.

  “Joyful,” Rosalie said, memories of Gran’s steady happiness coming back to her. Despite the weariness of the desert, something was perennially joyful about Gran.

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “She never lost her sense of wonder.”

  Rosalie smiled a thin-lipped smile, wondering if she had ever had a sense of wonder or joy. She certainly hadn’t wondered at anything in Ashhawk since she’d arrived. She had assumed the rest of New Mexico was like Ashhawk, but as they drove farther and farther away from it, she realized she was wrong. Besides desert, there were mountains and valleys and cities Rosalie hadn’t considered before.

  Rosalie could tell when they neared their destination by the way Alex sat up straighter in her seat, gripping the steering wheel with more intention than she had along the long, lonely highway. Rosalie was glad Alex was driving; this weekend, she had no responsibilities for the first time in a long time.

  Alex slowed and turned onto an unassuming dirt road with a thin metal gate framing it a few yards in. Corte del Cuervo, it said, with intertwined horseshoes resting between the words. Alex put the car in park, hopped down out of the cab, and pushed the gate open before motoring through. When she stopped the car again, Rosalie unbuckled herself, mumbling something about shutting the gate for Alex. But Alex was quick, and soon they were each pushing half of the gate closed behind the bed of the truck.

  They drove up the smooth dirt road a quarter mile toward where it disappeared behind a hill. Rosalie grew nervous. Would they get cell reception here? Would there be hot water? Would she be forced to live in a “rustic” cabin with Alex for a night? She had imagined the hotel to be decorative and comfortable, not outdated.

  “How long has your brother owned this place?”

  “’Bout ten years. He and Logan have done good things with it.” She glanced at Rosalie with a brief smile. “You’ll like it.”

  Rosalie hummed, anxious as they crawled farther into the desert, leaving a wake of dust behind them.

  The land was almost identical to Ashhawk’s surroundings—vast and dusty, dotted with sage-colored shrubs and rocks. Though they drove for a full five minutes, the hill before them seemed to creep only a few inches closer. There was nothing to scale the surrounding earth formations with; the only objects were rocks and shrubs and clouds. Rosalie felt lost in it.

  As they finally drove around the hill, a set of neat adobe buildings came into view. It was beautifully landscaped, with dramatic, transplanted cacti and abundant succulents surrounding the entrance. There were several large steel and glass sculptures Rosalie assumed were by local artists. Despite the heat and dryness, a fountain bubbled between what appeared to be the main building and block of guest rooms. The parking lot was laid with clean, even white gravel.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Rosalie said quietly.

  Alex smiled triumphantly and pulled into a parking space, and Rosalie’s head swiveled back to keep her gaze on the sculptures and buildings. She hadn’t seen anything so nice since she’d moved west.

  Alex swung out of the cab, heaving Rosalie’s bag up from the truck bed before Rosalie realized what she was doing. Rosalie hopped down from the cab, feet crunching on the sun-bleached gravel. She followed Alex toward the main building, thirsting after the fountain, realizing she needed water.

  The heat only scorched her the few paces it took to enter the lobby, but once she was inside, the perfect amount of coolness wrapped her in its graces. The blinding sun from outside was dimmed by tasteful tapestries wrapped around the windows, air circulated the room from a wide-leafed fan, and the sound of running water soothed her as panpipe music warbled faintly from hidden speakers. There were overstuffed leather chairs in several formations around the lobby, an unlit stone fireplace, and a wine bar prepped for afternoon tasting.

  Alex had brought her to heaven in the desert.

  Alex set their bags down before striding around the counter and receiving what Rosalie assumed was her brother in a crushing hug. Rosalie watched with amusement; she had never seen Alex so enthusiastic about seeing someone or being somewhere. Rosalie supposed she had a special bond with her brother. It was nice, knowing that about Alex. It made her seem less distant.

  “You must be Rosalie,” Alex’s brother greeted. He was shorter than Alex and at least five years older, his head shaved and his clean white shirt untucked without a tie. He wore pressed slacks and nice leather shoes. He looked relaxed, yet stylish.

  “Hi,” Rosalie said, extending her hand. “You must be Malcolm.”

  “What is this, a handshake?” Malcolm said, glancing at Alex in disapproval. “We hug here at Corte del Cuervo.”

  He drew Rosalie into a hug as crushing as the one he’d given Alex. He braced her shoulders with his hands, studying her.

  “She’s adorable,” he said to Alex. “We’ll have to be sure we don’t handle her too rough this weekend.”

  Alex didn’t get a chance to respond.

  “Usually, I make my kid sister stay in the back near the maintenance shed in case I need her to fix something, but I can do better for you, bijou,” he said, taking Rosalie’s chin between his thumb and index finger before letting her go.

  “You two take the suite,” he said, flicking his hand toward Alex. “No one sprang for it this weekend anyway.”

  Alex gave a nod and heaved up their bags again as Malcolm scurried behind the counter, producing a key attached to a miniature horseshoe with the number six hammered into it.

  “Now, Rosalie, there’s no cell reception here, so if you need to give anyone an emergency contact number, give them the front desk. We do have Wi-Fi, though. We’re not complete barbarians.” He winked. “You ladies get settled. Logan will be around with the bus in about an hour. Wine tasting starts at five, and you don’t want to miss it. We have a fantastic selection we picked out on our latest trip to Napa. Rosalie, do you like wine?”

  Rosalie nodded, relieved to be around people who drank something other than beer.

  “Fabulous,” Malcolm said. “See you soon.”

  Alex turned toward the door, and Rosalie followed.

  Alex clearly liked her brother, but Rosalie was bewildered as to what they had in common. Malcolm was outgoing and cultured and effeminate, while Alex was quiet and content with her small-town surroundings. Rosalie wondered why Alex had wanted to bring her here in the first place, though she appreciated it.

&n
bsp; Alex led the way to their suite, Rosalie trailing behind, feeling lame carrying nothing but her purse and the room key while Alex shouldered both their bags.

  “I can carry my own stuff,” she offered.

  “I got it,” Alex said. Rosalie could see sweat forming on her brow and knew she was sweating, too.

  Their feet crunched in the sun-washed gravel for a few hundred yards until Alex stopped in front of an adobe cabin with the number six nailed to the wall by the door. The number was hammered metal, unlike any uniform hotel door number she’d ever seen.

  “This place is fantastic,” Rosalie said.

  “I know,” Alex said with a smirk. “You were worried I was gonna make you go camping or something, weren’t you?”

  Rosalie bit her lip over a smile, not wanting to admit she’d made such an assumption. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

  Rosalie unlocked the door and opened it and almost cried with happiness.

  Inside was a gorgeous lounge room with overstuffed chairs, a sofa, a table with a glass mosaic set into the top of a halved barrel. A glass credenza rested against the wall near the door, holding a sweating pitcher of cucumber water flanked by two glasses. Everything was clean and white and soft turquoise. It was light and airy and filled with the delightful chill of an almost-silent air conditioner. In comparison, Hearth looked like a homeless shelter.

  Alex set down their bags, dropping her keys on the credenza with a delicate clink.

  “Alex, this is incredible,” Rosalie gushed. She walked over to the coffee table, running her fingers over the glass pattern set into it.

  Through two separate doors, Rosalie saw a bathroom with a freestanding tub and detailed tile work against the wall and a bedroom with a clean, pillowy white king bed.

  Rosalie eyed the bed, suddenly anxious. Did Alex expect them to share the bed? What exactly were Alex’s intentions in bringing her here?

  As if reading her thoughts, Alex said, “I’m fine sleeping on the couch if you want to take the bedroom.”

  Rosalie nodded vaguely, trying to pretend she hadn’t been so worked up about the matter.