Chapter Three

Daniel pulled up in front of room six and cut the truck engine.

Too bad she had to stay in such a dive, he thought, allowing himself to feel a little sorry for her. Not her in particular. He’d feel sorry for anybody who had to stay at The Palms. But she had no choice, since it was the only place in town.

At one time it had been a nice mom-and-pop establishment, and while the rooms had never been luxurious, they’d been clean and safe. Daniel knew for a fact they weren’t either one anymore. There wasn’t a lot of crime in Egypt, but when there was, the motel was usually involved. Before Daniel moved back, a prostitute from St. Louis had been murdered at The Palms. The case went unsolved, the few clues leading the police to believe that both the prostitute and perpetrator had been passing through and by chance stayed at the motel. It was something Jo liked to pretend never happened. According to her way of thinking, the murder didn’t really count because the people involved hadn’t been from the circle that constituted Egypt, Missouri.

Daniel had hung out at The Palms when he was little. He didn’t remember how he and the original owners, Millie and Babe Johnson, had become acquainted, but on hot summer nights, he’d sometimes ride his bicycle past the edge of town where The Palms sat by itself. It had been new then, and to a child it held the promise of far-off places. Daniel had never seen an actual palm tree, but he’d often imagined climbing one, planting the soles of his bare feet against its curved bark.

Millie and Babe always talked about retiring in Florida. So when they opened the twelve-room motel, they’d named it The Palms. Even when he was little, Daniel used to think, Why do you keep talking about it? You’re getting old. You’re running out of time. Why don’t you just go?

Not that he wanted them to leave. He knew he’d miss them. But still, it kind of irritated him, because even as a kid he’d known they were wasting precious energy talking instead of doing. Old people only had so much gas. It wasn’t until he himself got older that he realized people had to have dreams, even if they never had any intention of fulfilling them.

Out there at The Palms, he and the Johnsons would shoot the breeze. They’d sit in brand-new white metal lawn chairs under a brand-new neon sign that glowed like the future. But then Millie died, and Babe had a stroke that sent him to a nursing home. Daniel had been to see Babe a few times, but Babe hadn’t recognized him, having already moved to a place where nobody could follow. The Palms was sold and it had been nothing but downhill ever since.

Daniel got out of the truck and stepped up to the door, weeds brushing the legs of his pants. It had quit raining. The sun had even come out a little, creating what Daniel referred to as the fucking steam-bath effect.

He knocked. Nobody answered, so he knocked again.

He heard the slide of the safety chain then the door opened.

Her eyes were kind of puffy. Had he gotten her up?

She kept the door partially closed; all he could see was her face and her hand against the door. “I’m not going to be able to make it,” she said.

She’s backing out, he realized, astounded, anger beginning as a tiny spark in his brain. So Miss Clara Voiyant isn’t coming. It didn’t surprise him. Not one bit.

Daniel thought about how excited Beau was, how he’d been working on some special secret dessert all afternoon, something made with Cool Whip and ice cream from a recipe their neighbor, Mrs. Abernathy, had cut from a women’s magazine. Everything was a big deal to Beau, but for some reason Cleo Tyler’s visit was an especially big deal, sort of like a visit from the president. Or Captain Kirk-Beau was a real Star Trek nut.

The spark of anger flared, ignited.

Daniel shoved open the door.

She took a few steps back, a hand to her chest, eyes wide, her mouth open in surprise and indignation. He followed her in, slamming the door behind him. The room was dark. Worse than that, it smelled of mildew and an ancient stench he associated with locker rooms.

“Listen here,” he said, pointing at her. “I would be thrilled to find out that I don’t have to put up with your presence. Unfortunately, Beau didn’t come equipped with a bullshit indicator that detects people like you, people who might not be good for him. Beau likes everybody. He likes you. He’s been working his ass off for the past two hours, so you’re not going to disappoint him. You’re going to go, and you’re going to act like you’re having a good time, and like you’re enjoying the food, no matter what kind of strange concoction he’s put together.”

He stopped to catch his breath. Man, where had that come from? What was the matter with him?

He turned his back to her so he was facing the door. Hands at his waist, head bent, he took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry. Forget about it.” He waved one hand to demonstrate the insignificance of her joining them, or to try to erase the tantrum he’d just had. “Just forget about the whole thing.” He had his hand on the doorknob, ready to step out into the Missouri heat, when her voice stopped him.

“Wait. Give me a minute.”

He turned in surprise to see her rummaging through her suitcase. She dug out a brush and began tugging it through her hair. She should have left well enough alone; brushing it only made it wilder, puffier. She had a lot of hair. Then she found a black stretchy thing and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She grabbed something else out of the suitcase, a small cloth bag and maybe a shirt. Then she hurried to the bathroom, shutting the door. Two minutes later she was back, wearing a black T-shirt and bright red lipstick that stood out starkly against the paleness of her skin. It made her look even more foreign, even more exotic-like a whisper of the life he might be missing. Still wearing the skirt she’d had on when she got off the train, she slipped her feet into her sandals then followed him from the room.

Chapter Four

Cleo felt much better after getting out of the motel room.

They cruised through town, moving down tree-lined streets where a little blond kid, fresh from his bath, wearing print pajamas, pedaled furiously down the sidewalk on his Big Wheel, looking as cool as a five-year-old in pajamas could look.

An old woman sat out on her porch swing, bundled up in a sweater even though the temperature was still above eighty. It was a pleasant town, a sweet town, Cleo decided.

Daniel and Beau’s house wasn’t anything like Cleo had expected. It wasn’t the kind of place where two guys lived. In fact, it was something a person might term a widow house, one of those cute little places where things had just gotten out of control-where vines grew wildly, and flowers grew wildly, and before you knew it, the yard and house kind of became one.

Red roses cascaded around the porch, some of the blooms so low they had to duck their heads to get in the door. Inside, the living room had shiny wood floors covered with throw rugs. The overstuffed chairs and couch were decorated with doilies. There were blooming African violets in front of windows with lace curtains. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air. On the wall near the door, a cuckoo clock ticked softly.

It was a wonderful house. A comfortable house. Not a man’s house. Cleo looked around, expecting to see an older woman appear at any moment. Instead Beau showed up, his face shiny and smiling, Premonition at his heels.

“Charcoal’s ready.” He seemed proud of that announcement.

“I told you to wait until I got back,” Daniel said.

“I can do it. I did it. You worry too much.”

Daniel apparently had no answer to that. “Wanna beer?” he asked Cleo.