my eyes again until we touch down in Phoenix. As we taxi to the gate, I sit up and stare out the window at a row of palm trees along the rocky brown hills.
This is the first time I’ve seen palm trees up close, and they’re not what I expected. In movies, they’re always full and green, bending and brushing against the wind. These are wilted sticks, like blown dandelion stems, desperate and weary under the constant sun.
Once the plane reaches the gate, I get out and head for the baggage claim. My suitcase is one of the last to appear. I grab it and go stand in line to rent a car.
The man behind the counter gives me several forms to fill out. I sign in all the right places and hand him my credit card. He slides it through the reader and sets it on the counter along with a set of keys and a map of the city.
“Enjoy your stay,” he says.
I take the keys and the map and walk outside into the afternoon heat.
I follow the signs to I-10, then switch over to I-17 and head north. Once outside the city, the highway cuts through miles of rocky brown hills littered with saguaro cactus before flattening out into empty desert. A couple hours later, the desert turns green and rolls into hills.
When I get to the Sedona exit, I pull off the highway and drive into town.
Right away I see why Diane loved the place.
Every turn reveals something new, sharp spires and shadowed canyons, layered red rocks set against emerald-green trees, all of it framed by a warm turquoise sky.
The beauty of it makes me want to forget.
But I can’t.
I drive through town until I spot a small hotel just off the main road. I pull into the parking lot and stop just outside the office. When I walk inside, the woman behind the desk looks up from her book and studies me over her reading glasses.
“Looks like you forget to duck,” she says.
At first I don’t understand, then I remember my nose and I do my best to smile.
“Car accident. Air bag didn’t open.”
“American car?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because American cars are garbage.” She turns down the corner of her page to mark her spot, then drops the book on the counter and moves to the computer. “I owned a Ford once, years ago. Nothing worked right.” She looks at me and smiles. “Do you have a reservation, hon?”
I tell her I don’t.
She nods and starts typing.
Her fingernails are long and painted pink. They rattle against the keys like bones.
“I can give you a room with a king bed, nonsmoking, of course. Will that work?”
“Perfect.”
I watch her while she checks me in, then I look down at her book. The cover is red and glossy. There’s a man and woman on the front, both half naked and windblown.
“Good book?” I ask.
“Nope.”
I wait for her to go on. When she doesn’t, I cross the room to the window and look out.
There’s a long sloping hill behind the hotel, covered in scrub oak, and I can just see the silver blur of a fast-moving river through the branches. It’s hypnotic, and for a moment, I lose myself.
Behind me, the woman rips a page from the printer and says, “I’ll need a signature and a deposit on the room.”
I walk back to the counter and sign the pages. I take Gabby’s money clip from my pocket and peel off several bills and hand them to her.
She counts the bills then slides them into the cash drawer under the computer. “You’re in room 217, at the far end.” She hands me a plastic punch key. “If there’s anything you need, go ahead and call the front desk. Someone’s always here.”
I turn the key over in my hand.
The woman picks up her book and opens it to the marked page. When I don’t leave, she frowns. “Something else I can help you with?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Is there a place around here where I can buy a cell phone?”
She gives me directions to a convenience store in town that sells prepaid phones. It’s easy to find, and when I get back to the hotel, I drive around the side of the building and park next to the dumpster.
I walk up the stairs to the second floor and unlock the door to 217.
The room is hot.
I drop the suitcase on the bed, then switch the air conditioner to high and stand in front