God, I was going to miss this car. I would miss all it represented.
The Cadillac hadn’t always been a gleaming red classic. Once, it had been Londyn’s home, more rust than metal and home to a few mice. Her bedroom had been the backseat. The trunk had served as a closet and pantry. The passenger seat had been the guest room slash living room slash dining room.
What a wonder it was now.
Londyn had started the Cadillac’s journey on the East Coast. A flat tire had landed her in West Virginia and in the arms of a handsome mechanic. When Gemma had gone in search of her own fresh start, Londyn had insisted she take the car.
That had been the first handoff.
Gemma had gone to find Katherine at a guest ranch in Montana. Two friends reunited. And two flames. After Gemma had found love, she’d encouraged Katherine to take a trip of her own. Kat had come to find me, and when she’d headed home with her new husband, Cash, it had been my turn with the Cadillac.
Londyn wanted this car to go to Karson, who lived in California, but since I had no desire to return to the Golden State, I was giving the Cadillac’s keys to my sister.
One more handoff.
One more trip.
Londyn. Gemma. Katherine. They’d each had their road trip. Mine wasn’t as eventful, but it was mine. They’d all found something seated behind the Cadillac’s steering wheel. I had no hopes that a car would lead me to the love of my life, but I did hope to find the piece of myself I’d been missing lately.
I’d spent months driving this gorgeous vehicle around Heron Beach. The two-day trip to Arizona was my last hurrah and I was savoring this last hour behind the wheel. Once I arrived at Clara’s, there’d be no more driving. I’d fly home in two weeks and get back to work.
Work. I glanced at my phone and debated calling to check in. I dismissed that idea immediately. Before I’d left, Mark, the owner of The Gallaway, had told me to enjoy my well-earned time away. He’d finally brought on a general manager so I could relinquish my temporary command.
Some women, like Gemma and Katherine, wanted to be the boss. They thrived on it. They excelled at it. Not me. All I’d ever wanted was to tend to my plants, watch them grow, and if there was a chance to make a living doing just that, then I was happy.
Especially for The Gallaway. The hotel was a dream.
Before Oregon, Clara and I had lived in Nevada. We’d left the junkyard for the glitz and sparkle of Las Vegas. As two eighteen-year-old girls with nothing to lose, a gamble on Sin City had seemed like a good idea.
I’d lasted a month.
The hotel where I’d worked had been teeming with fake people, both on staff and as guests. So I’d decided Vegas was not my final destination and got busy job hunting. The Oregon coast, where the world was lush and clean, had instantly appealed.
I’d started as a housekeeper at The Gallaway and worked for about a year cleaning rooms. About six months into my employment, I noticed the flowerpots were in need of some pruning. So I came to work early and tackled the blooms, shaping and cultivating them.
One day, the head groundskeeper found me weeding in my maid uniform. He took me under his wing, requesting a transfer from housekeeping to his staff. When he retired, his job became mine.
I worked so The Gallaway overflowed with pink and white flowers in the spring. Peach and purple flourished in the summer. And when the fall came, sprays of yellow and orange and red were everywhere to be seen.
That was the job I wanted. Not management.
But Mark had been good to me, and after the former GM had retired months ago, finding a replacement had been more difficult than expected. Mark had burned through two candidates, one of whom had clearly lied on his résumé and another who’d been a great fit, but her fiancé had proposed one month into her employment and she’d quit to move to Utah.
I crossed my fingers and sent up a silent prayer that this latest hire would stick. Months of doing two jobs had run me dry.
A couple weeks with Clara and August were sure to fill the well.
This drive had filled it some too.
When Clara and Gus had come to Oregon in June, she’d offered to drive the Cadillac home, but I’d insisted on taking it to Arizona myself.
Life had been too stressful. Too frantic. Too busy. This had been my chance to reset and think. I’d never wanted to be the woman who worked endless hours, the woman whose success was defined by the zeros on her paycheck and the title on her business card.
Money was not the end goal of my life.
I focused on the road, my energy spiking with every mile. Today was not the day to kick my own ass for working too hard this summer. Today was for fun and freedom and family.
It took me less than the hour I’d promised August to reach Welcome, Arizona. Rolling down the highway, I took only a brief glimpse at the small town Clara loved. Then I left it in my rearview as I sped toward her home.
A metal security gate greeted me at the driveway entrance. I punched in the code on the keypad and eased down the single lane.
The landscaper had gone for a natural look on the grounds. Mostly rocks and some native shrubs, but there were a few desert willows and velvet mesquite trees to mask the monstrosity at the end of the drive.
Two stories of gleaming glass as sterile and lifeless as the cement walls. Other than a small scrap of green no one could consider a proper front yard, the house was devoid of life, much like the barren and dry landscape that made up the estate.
The modern mansion was only five years old. It had been built around the time August had been born, yet it looked new. It was too clean. Too lonely. It wasn’t a home, lived in and loved. It was a showcase. A display of wealth and arrogance.
The house fit its owner.
Broderick Carmichael was all about flash and flaunting his money.
“At least he’s not here,” I muttered.
It was easy for me to hate the man. Brody had been rude and pompous during our every encounter. How could Clara stand his presence? I’d been asking her that for years without an answer.
When we’d moved to Las Vegas after the junkyard, I’d gone into hospitality while Clara had scoured the classifieds for an office job after getting her GED. She’d started as a receptionist for Brody’s company, Carmichael Communications, and had quickly climbed the ranks. When Brody’s personal assistant had quit—probably because his boss was spoiled and needy—Clara had been offered the position.
They’d worked together for years. Besides me, Brody was her best friend. Another thing I couldn’t make sense of. She was everything he wasn’t. Kind. Loving. Compassionate. Clara swore he was all those things, but I wasn’t buying it.
When Brody had decided to relocate from the city to this nowhere, tiny town in Arizona—something about a satellite office—he’d offered to bring Clara along. And when he’d built the museum that was his house, he’d also built a small home for Clara and August too. Thank God her house didn’t look like its parent.
I turned off the main driveway and parked in front of Clara’s garage.
Her home had a modern vibe, like Brody’s, but on a subdued scale that rendered the look fresh and simple. The slanted roof allowed for a long bank of windows that overlooked the property. The white siding was clean and bright. The stone accents, along with the plethora of potted succulents and ornamental cacti—my doing—gave it character and color.