LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Hey, Bernie,” Buck said.

      “You get your truck repaired?”

      Buck stopped. Destiny’s Harley still sat parked in front of the bar. “Broken axel.”

      “Sounds expensive.”

      “Destiny had to order a new axel, so I’ll be in town for a few days.” He motioned to the Flamingo. “I was on my way to see about renting a room.”

      “Melba’s in the bar. Wait here.” Bernie disappeared inside then a minute later the motel owner appeared.

      “Bernie said you need a place to stay while your truck’s being fixed.”

      “Destiny said you might have a room to rent.”

      “C’mon.” Melba sashayed across the road, the strands of her black wig swinging back and forth across her face. She entered the lobby, and Buck swore he’d stepped into the late 1950s.

      “Most people get that look on their face when they come in here,” she said. “My mother put her heart and soul into decorating this place, and I haven’t changed a thing since I took over.”

      Green carpet with tiny pink flamingos woven into the design covered the floor. A pair of white bubble chairs sat in a corner next to a modern olive-colored sofa and rectangle coffee table with stick legs on which a large chrome pelican ashtray rested. And there was a no smoking sign above the couch next to a mirror made of overlapping circles.

      A vintage solid-state radio took up half the space on the pink laminate check-in counter. A starburst chrome clock that had stopped ticking at three-fifteen who knows how many years ago was mounted to the wall next to the desk. And above his head a large chrome Sputnik chandelier hung from the ceiling. Buck opened the guest register and perused the names and dates of past motel guests, noting George and Mildred Hunter from Saint Louis, Missouri, had been the motel’s first customers and had stayed the night of September 5, 1953. The last guest to sign the book had been Howard Nicholson June 12, 2013. Melba held out a pink flamingo-shaped pen. Buck scribbled his name and the date.

      “Mr. Nicholson was a reporter for a travel magazine called Out West,” Melba said. “He wanted to include the Flamingo in a feature story covering Route 66 motels.” She reached beneath the counter and selected a pink bath towel, washcloth, bar of soap in the shape of a flamingo and small bottle of shampoo. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

      “You wouldn’t happen to have a razor, would you?”

      “I’ll check.” She left the lobby through a back door and reappeared a few minutes later with a lady’s pink disposable razor.

      “Thanks,” he said.

      She walked out from behind the counter and went to the lobby door.

      “Don’t you want my credit card number?” he asked.

      She waved him off. “We’ll settle the bill when you leave.”

      Trusting woman. He followed Melba along the walkway to the last door. “This is the only room I rent to guests.”

      “What about all the other doors we passed?” Buck had counted seven.

      “I knocked down the walls between those rooms and made the space my private living quarters.”

      “Wait a minute.” Buck blocked Melba’s hand before she slid the key into the lock. “Is this the room where Victor and Antonio died?”

      “How’d you hear about that?”

      “Destiny told me the story behind the people buried in the cemetery.”

      “Don’t worry.” Melba opened the door. “The blood was cleaned up years ago and my parents replaced the carpet and repainted the walls.”

      Buck entered, wondering if he was about to embark on a Caribbean adventure. The room had a floor lamp in the shape of a palm tree, flamingo bedspread and matching curtains, bamboo headboard and nightstand and the same green-and-pink flamingo carpet that was in the lobby. He peeked behind the bathroom door—a pink shell-shaped sink, pink toilet and tub with pink-and-white tile.

      Melba turned on the air-conditioning unit beneath the window. “If you keep the room at eighty, I’ll give you a break on your bill when you check out.”

      Eighty? “Sure,” he said.

      “Lucille’s is the only place that serves food in town—unless you just want to eat pastries.” She went to the door. “The Lizard Gulch pool party and barbecue kicks off at four tomorrow.”

      “Destiny mentioned the party. Where’s the pool?”

      “Behind the motel.”

      “I’ll be there.” He had nothing better to do while he waited to see what Destiny was up to.

      After Melba left, Buck stared at the flamingo bedspread, wondering how many people had slept beneath the cover or if it had ever been dry-cleaned in the past two decades. His phone jingled, reminding him that he hadn’t answered the text his sister had sent earlier.

      Guess what? Marsha’s teaching physics at the Yuma Junior College and Ryan got accepted into the accelerated program at the high school. Come home. We miss you.

      Even though things had worked out between Will and Marsha, that didn’t mean his brother was ready to forgive Buck.

      He texted back.

      Thanks for the update. Hope little Nate is well.

      Buck figured he had two brothers pissed at him now. Will, and Johnny after he’d missed the birth of Johnny’s daughter Addy in June. He left the room and headed back to the garage to fetch his rodeo gear and duffel bag.

      One of these days he had to go home—whether he was ready or not.

      * * *

      DESTINY REMOVED HER dinner from the microwave and sat outside on the stoop to eat. From her vantage point above the garage she had a great view of the town and the Flamingo Motel at the opposite end of Gulch Road. Her gaze zeroed in on the room farthest from the main office, and she imagined Buck moving around inside. Was he taking a shower? Or resting on the bed watching TV?

      What in the world had gotten into her—loosening the axel on Buck’s truck? Maybe Daryl ditching her at the altar bothered her more than she cared to admit. No. She honestly believed he’d done them both a favor by not showing up at the chapel. He’d yet to respond to any of her calls. He might not have his act together, but he wasn’t heartless and eventually he’d show up in town with an apology.

      Daryl was the least of her worries. Without health insurance, finding care for her and the baby had been difficult. At least she’d located a women’s clinic in Kingman that had charged her next to nothing for her first prenatal appointment. Afterward, they’d sent her on her way with a free bottle of prenatal vitamins and several pamphlets on nutrition and the stages of the baby’s development, which she was instructed to read before her next appointment.

      A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she squinted into the darkness. The door at the end of the motel opened and Buck emerged. When she’d come across his truck on the side of the road, she’d suddenly forgotten about Daryl, the baby she carried and the town’s problems. And then he’d smiled and her heart had stumbled.

      Buck walked across the street to Lucille’s—he probably needed a drink. The first thing she’d learned when she’d moved to this town was that there was never a shortage of alcohol. According to the residents, whiskey cured hundreds of old-age ailments.

      Destiny finished her dinner then showered before settling into bed and reading Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Melba had loaned her the book, insisting Austen was a highly acclaimed author. Destiny didn’t understand the book at all

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