Hearts Inn Read online

  In the corner of the room was a small bar, complete with sink. Alex washed her hands and poured two glasses of cucumber water. She brought one over to Rosalie before slumping down on the couch with the other.

  “This is exactly what I want the Hearth to look like,” Rosalie said quietly. She worried if she spoke louder, the scene before her would start to crumble.

  “Hearth might look better with a midcentury modern tone, but you could do it,” Alex said. “Hearth has good bones. The rest is just sweat and a good color palette.”

  Rosalie knew Alex had had something to do with transforming Corte del Cuervo from whatever it had been before.

  “How long do you think it’d take?” Rosalie asked, coming to sit on the couch opposite Alex.

  “Years,” Alex said, smirking when she saw Rosalie’s dismay. “But with the right team, you’d get it done.”

  Rosalie nodded, knowing the only person she had on her team was sitting beside her. She didn’t have money to hire anyone else.

  “The important part isn’t the fancy tables or the snobby light fixtures,” Alex said, pointing overhead where Rosalie saw a state-of-the-art chandelier made of white antlers, painted white horseshoes, and candle-shaped bulbs.

  “What’s the important part?”

  Alex took a long sip of her water before smiling. “You’ll see.”

  Rosalie took a long drink of her water. It was sweeter than Ashhawk water.

  Rosalie went to freshen up in the bathroom, studying the tiles around the sink, the elegance of the bathtub, the fine thread count of the sheets on her bed. She asked Alex about the work she’d done, making note of how skilled Alex was; she could wire electrical systems, frame cottages, design built-in furniture, and restore almost any antique Malcolm collected. Rosalie felt lucky to have been unknowingly bestowed with a woman of such talent, but at the same time felt herself sink with the realization she wouldn’t be able to use it to the degree Malcolm had. Her hotel was shabby, and she didn’t have the money to facilitate any magic Alex might have been able to work.

  ****

  When they walked back to the lobby an hour later for wine tasting, Rosalie noticed the lot had many more cars parked in it than when they’d arrived. The shuttle she assumed Logan had driven was parked near Alex’s truck. She was eager to see the clientele; would they all be like Malcolm, social and fabulous and preened? Would they ignore her because she was a girl and probably younger than them? Or would it be the lively, welcoming crowd Alex had promised?

  Alex opened the door, and the merry sound of men drinking swelled into the late afternoon air. Peering inside, Rosalie saw the room was filled with every kind of man she could imagine—tall, short, fat, hairless, scruffy, tan, pale, old, and young. Most had wine glasses in their hands, the occasional clink sounding as they made conversation with one another. Some greeted each other with handshakes, others with slaps on the back. There was a jovial energy to the room.

  As they entered, several men turned to the door to see who had walked in. Their faces lit up.

  “Alex!” they called. “Come here, girl!” Alex was drawn into hug after hug, and Rosalie warmed again to see her being so affectionate. There was a sweet, soft side to Alex in certain situations, like when someone was excited to see her or when Rosalie was hurt.

  “And who do we have here?” a man in a flannel shirt asked.

  “This is my friend Rosalie,” Alex said, gesturing across her body with her hand.

  “Can I get a friend like her?” another man piped up.

  A few men laughed before someone asked Alex what she’d like to drink, and Malcolm swooped over to Rosalie, taking her by the hand and drawing her toward the bar.

  “How do you feel about merlot?”

  “Um…it’s okay,” Rosalie stammered.

  “No,” Malcolm said. “We don’t serve any of that crap here.” He stepped behind the bar, lifting a bottle with a flourish and pouring an ounce into a large, thin-rimmed glass. “Try this. Let’s see if we can’t refine your palate a bit, hmm?”

  Rosalie forced a grin and lifted the glass to her nose, giving the obligatory sniff before tilting her glass up and her head back to sip. She smiled and nodded in what she hoped was a convincing signal of approval.

  Malcolm seemed satisfied with her response, slapping a hand against the counter. “When you’re done with that, we’ll start you on something a little more robust,” he said. “In the meantime, bring this to my stubborn little sister,” he said, reaching below the bar and producing a sweating bottle of craft beer. “We stock it just for her.”

  Rosalie indicated she would deliver the drink and stood on her tiptoes to find Alex. She wasn’t hard to find amid the clusters of men with her long curly hair drawn back. Her lean shoulders were prettier than any of the overworked muscles of the vainer men in the room.

  No sooner had she handed Alex her beer, a man came up to Rosalie and began talking. She found herself swept up in conversation after conversation, her glass continually filled with tastings. Malcolm and Logan circled the room with bottle after bottle and plate after plate of crackers and nuts. The volume in the room grew louder as the guests became more uninhibited.

  When she inquired about the history of the men’s weekends as a way to continue a discussion she was having with a lawyer from Tucson, she learned Malcolm and Logan had designed the hotel to be a gay desert oasis that assembled several times a year. The rest of the year, the resort hosted conferences, retreats, and trainings for various corporations and businesses in nearby cities, which paid the bills, but the heart and pulse of the place had always been the men’s weekends.

  While at first Rosalie had been taken with the decorations and ambience, she came to realize—like Alex had said—it wasn’t the decorations people came for. The company, camaraderie, and tradition of bringing gay men together to bond in the desert was the heart of the ranch.

  As the wine tasting died down, Malcolm got everyone’s attention and announced, “The wagon is ready!”

  When Rosalie looked at the man next to her quizzically, he explained Malcolm and Logan always set up a traditional chuck wagon in the parking lot for their guests to eat dinner.

  Outside, the sun was about to set, and the worst of the heat had abated. In the shade of the buildings, rows of picnic tables sat, linen cloths hanging limp save for an occasional breeze. A great chuck wagon smoked near Alex’s truck, and the men formed a line, hands on wine glasses and in pockets, still conversing and laughing with gaiety, eager to eat.

  Alex appeared at Rosalie’s side.

  “This is great,” Rosalie said for the dozenth time. “I needed this.”

  Alex bobbed her head. “How do you think Susan’s doing with the desk?”

  “Don’t talk about that,” Rosalie whined, loose from the wine. “I’m on vacation.”

  “Sorry,” Alex said. “You deserve a break, Ros’lie.”

  Rosalie couldn’t quite tell, but she thought she’d heard Alex call her Rosie. Or maybe Alex had drunk too much and was slurring her words. Rosalie looked her up and down, noting her stance wasn’t wavering, her eyes sharp and alert as ever. She didn’t even have a bottle with her.

  A couple of men linking arms walked past them and said something to Alex in Spanish. Alex nodded and smiled, responding with a short, rhythmic phrase Rosalie didn’t understand.

  Perhaps the alcohol had loosened her, perhaps the beautiful surroundings had relaxed her, perhaps the warmth of a carefree summer night had pried her open, but Rosalie felt the urge to get closer to Alex.

  “I have a confession,” she whispered, leaning toward Alex as they slow-stepped forward in the chuck wagon line.

  “What?” Alex asked, leaning closer.

  Rosalie flushed with momentary shame at what she was about to say. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

  Alex stifled a laugh. “What?”

  “I know, it’s embarrassing,” Rosalie mumbled. “I took Mandarin in high school because I didn’t wan
t my classmates to know.”

  “Why are we whispering about it?” Alex asked, smiling.

  Rosalie shrugged, realizing Alex wasn’t shocked. “It’s embarrassing because everyone assumes I speak Spanish.”

  Alex tilted her head, admitting Rosalie had a point.

  “You could take a class or get Rosetta Stone or something,” Alex suggested.

  Rosalie had toyed with those ideas, but the shame she always felt when she tried to pronounce foreign words she was supposed to know stopped her.

  “It’s not just that,” Rosalie admitted. “I still wouldn’t know where I’m from.”

  Alex gave a confused frown. “Aren’t you from Philadelphia?”

  “Yeah,” Rosalie said, embarrassed she had tried to talk about anything as intangible as her identity crisis while tipsy. “Never mind,” she said, swatting the air and then gesturing to her wine glass.

  But Alex didn’t let the subject go.

  “You mean you don’t feel spiritually connected to any place?” Alex offered.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Rosalie was relieved Alex understood so well.

  “I get it.” Alex took a step closer to Rosalie to reassure her. “That’s why I always end up back in Ashhawk.”

  Rosalie nodded, trying not to judge Alex for being spiritually tied to such a depressing place. It wasn’t like Alex had a choice. Rosalie was jealous Alex felt tied to somewhere, while Rosalie, with her vague ethnic appearance and relative lack of culture and language, only confused people, most of all herself. Rosalie wanted to feel like she fit in somewhere, like she belonged unequivocally to a place and community. She was starting to wonder if such a feeling was a myth.

  Before she could get more bogged down by her spiritual vagrancy, they reached the front of the line. Alex helped Rosalie balance her plate with her wine glass as their plates were piled high with beans, meat, rice, and a handful of other fragrant, steaming dishes ladled through the thick chuck smoke. Once they’d been served, Alex gestured with her chin to follow several clusters of men who were making their way toward a bonfire in the center of the property.

  The smoke from the fire was warm and heavy as it wafted up into the huge desert sky. Rosalie settled down on a tree stump meant to serve as a seat beside Alex, who had offered to carry their plates. Rosalie looked down at the thick ooze of beans seeping into the spiced rice, admiring the tenderness of the meat, sliced thin and steaming beside a tuft of salad. She thought of the meals she usually shared with the small gray cat. Though she missed her little companion, this meal was preferable to anything in Ashhawk.

  “Did you grab any napkins?” Alex asked.

  Rosalie shook her head, looking down at the beans as she scooped up a spoonful. Alex hitched herself up off her stump and went to find napkins. She returned moments later, body turned toward Rosalie, offering her a napkin. Rosalie accepted it with a tipsy hum of appreciation.

  “Want me to refill your drink?” Alex pointed at Rosalie’s empty glass.

  Rosalie nodded eagerly. The only thing better than a good meal was a good meal with a great glass of wine. She didn’t want to lose her buzz with the absorbing weight of her meal. She planned to try to stay in the doorway between buzzed and drunk for as long as she could maintain the balance.

  Alex returned with a beer, a fresh glass of white wine, and a hunk of bread.

  “Malcolm gets this fresh from a local pueblo. It’s one of my favorite things about coming here.” Alex ripped off a piece of bread and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing in big, circular bites. She ripped off a smaller piece and held it up to Rosalie’s mouth.

  Rosalie paused. She wasn’t accustomed to being fed. In fact, she couldn’t recall a single instance in her adult life where someone had done what Alex was doing. She kept her lips closed and looked at Alex’s face.

  Alex had a playful grin on her face, and Rosalie felt something stir in her stomach that had nothing to do with the beans or campfire smoke. She realized with a jolt Alex might be flirting with her.

  Alex still hadn’t said or done anything conclusively proving she liked girls, but there was a sense about her beyond appearance and associations. As Rosalie looked at the way Alex’s gaze grazed her face, lingering on her lips as she held the bread up, Rosalie thought it was the strongest clue she’d had.

  Rosalie hadn’t considered Alex as a potential date. Not because Alex was different from the polished femmes Rosalie usually dated. Rosalie simply didn’t waste her time wondering whether people liked her in that way unless she was certain they were inclined toward her gender in the first place.

  Alex wasn’t a bad catch. She was handy and caring and smart. She didn’t entertain gossip or trivial chatter. She was employed and reliable and easy on the eyes.

  But she was also unlike anyone else Rosalie knew or associated with.

  Not wanting to stall in her reception of Alex’s gesture, Rosalie smiled and opened her mouth, allowing Alex to place the fresh-baked bread in her mouth.

  Rosalie chewed and hummed, taking a sip of her wine to wash down the bread before looking back at her plate.

  She was probably imagining things. Alex was being friendly, and because she didn’t talk as much as other people, Rosalie was likely reading too much into her playful gesture.

  “So tell me about these guys.” Rosalie gestured with her spoon to the men gathering around the campfire. “How’d they hear about this secret desert oasis?”

  “Logan’s a social media genius,” Alex explained. “One celebrity tweet and they’re booked for the season.”

  Rosalie nodded, wondering how she might find an affordable social media expert to help her put Hearth on the map if she ever managed to overhaul the place and make it something she was proud to promote.

  But Alex was one step ahead of her. “I bet he’d help you out once we make a few more repairs to Hearth.”

  “I can’t afford him, I’m sure.”

  Alex shrugged. “I can come work here for a weekend or two. Make it a trade.”

  Rosalie took a bite and chewed on the idea. “Maybe,” she said, swallowing.

  “Sorry, no more talking about work,” Alex said. “You’re on vacation.”

  “Cheers.”

  Rosalie lifted her glass toward Alex’s beer bottle.

  Once most people had eaten their dinner, Rosalie heard a guitar strum a few chords. She looked behind her and saw musicians setting up to entertain the guests. Rosalie saw a mandolin, a fiddle, and several percussive devices. From the outfits, she knew the guests were about to be treated to some variety of musical fusion. It seemed exciting to her; she hadn’t had a chance to see any of the cultural draws of the Southwest.

  Within minutes of the band starting to play its quick, scraping music, men got up to dance. Some knew what they were doing; graceful arms found partners and feet moved quickly against the gravel in practiced samba or salsa or rumba steps Rosalie didn’t know.

  “You gonna dance?” Alex asked after a few minutes.

  “I’m not drunk enough to willingly embarrass myself,” Rosalie grumbled.

  Alex smiled and took a sip of her beer, looking relieved.

  They sat and watched the merry men move around them, content to watch rather than experience it firsthand.

  Two glasses of wine later, the dancing had grown frenetic as the sunlight had extinguished and the sparks of the fire darted about. Rosalie begrudgingly allowed a friendly older man to lead her in a dance, hoping his expertise would make her look less foolish. She laughed at her clumsy feet, grateful for the many glasses of wine she’d drunk.

  Rosalie was passed from man to man, never having to do more than follow their lead. They seemed to take great pleasure in dancing with one of two women on the property. Rosalie felt as though she were an accessory or pet they were passing around to coo over. Men offered her more wine between songs, and soon all the men and songs and steps blurred together.

  Finally, breathless, she plopped down on a stump to rest her feet and
allow her dance partner to find another novice to tutor.

  Rosalie teetered on her stump, leaning out of the way of the campfire smoke when it drifted her way. It was dark now, a fuchsia and gold sunset having faded around the edges of the resort. Rosalie was loose with wine and good company, glad to throw off the responsibility of Hearth for a weekend. But as she sat, she felt disoriented. Which way was her room? How would she get back there? Where was Alex?

  Through her anxiety, she saw Alex’s face across the campfire, flushed gold in the dancing light. Her gaze was boring into Rosalie, her shoulders hunched as she leaned her elbows on her knees, fingers tapping on the neck of a beer bottle. Rosalie was disarmed to find Alex staring at her, yet after a few seconds, she softened. How lucky was she to have someone like Alex, who knew Rosalie needed a break from the hotel and had orchestrated a weekend away for her benefit? She wasn’t sure she’d ever had such a good friend. Even Tara hadn’t done anything so nice.

  Rosalie felt all warm inside, like a perfectly toasted marshmallow pressed between two graham crackers. She grinned, feeling it spread lopsided across her face. Across the fire, Alex mirrored her smile, and despite all the noise and boisterousness around her, Rosalie felt peace. She was suspended in quiet joy. Maybe inheriting the hotel and being forced to move across the country wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen to her.

  Too quickly, a man stepped between Rosalie and the fire, chatting about something they’d conversed on earlier. Rosalie looked up, half engaged in the conversation, bringing her wine glass to her lips before she found herself being tugged to her feet, forced to dance again. She didn’t mind. She liked dancing, and the night felt as limitless as the starry sky above.

  As the campfire wore on and she consumed another glass of wine, Rosalie felt herself getting drowsy. When she decided to sit back down, she almost fell off her stump. The man next to her caught her, helping her right herself and giving her a watchful eye. He wasn’t judging her for getting sloppy drunk; if anything, a gathering of gay men was the safest place for Rosalie to overindulge. She had been temporarily adopted by the flock; they were protecting her. She shook, muscles contracting, and realized she was cold. The heat that baked into the earth during the day had lifted, and the night chill of the desert was settling in. Rosalie had almost forgotten how cold the desert grew at night. Gran used to bring sweaters out behind the hotel where they roasted marshmallows, helping Rosalie into hers once the heat flew up into the sky to come back in the morning.