Patrick suggested Great Shakes, a milkshake place whose straws came festooned with a small cake donut. The extra confection was no more than two bites, but Clara opined it seemed opulent when slurping twelve hundred calories of ice cream from a cup (a cup, in Patrick’s case, lined with homemade butterscotch). Grant gnawed on the straw of his Oreo milkshake, while Maisie nursed a date shake—a dessert Palm Springs was famous for. Clara ordered something particularly Clara, honey lavender vanilla or some such nonsense (a combination more suited for soap than dessert), and made an increasingly sour face with each sip. She seemed horrified by the whole experience, but found employment for her milkshake by pressing it against her neck in a vain effort to stay cool.
“How do you live like this?”
“It’s cleansing, the heat.” The kids ran ahead undaunted, fueled by sugar, Grant’s little body in particular vibrating pure cookies-and-cream energy. The arrival of family, if anything, made it seem more like Christmas, not less, and Patrick insisted no Christmas was complete without gifts. They arrived downtown with a mission: to find presents to open with the roast turkey dinners Patrick planned to have delivered from Billy Reed’s.
“Cleansing?”
“Like seasoning a cast-iron pan. It bakes off the hardened layers of grime.” Clara didn’t look like she was buying it, so Patrick added, “You get used to it.”
They paused in the shade under the misters that the business district blasted from the concrete awnings in summer; the fine drizzle they produced made them feel like wilting vegetables in the grocery produce section. Patrick eyed a gaggle of tourists puttering by in an ill-fitting pastiche of pastels. A splotch of Grant’s whipped cream sloshed over the side of his cup when he wasn’t paying attention and landed with a splat on the ground. He handed his nephew a napkin.
“What are these thtars?”
Patrick glanced down at the Palm Springs Walk of Stars. “With the people’s names?” The stars honored celebrities with a connection to the city, whether they were residents or frequent visitors. People from Mary Pickford to Clark Gable, Elvis to Sinatra. Even presidents, Eisenhower and Ford. “Those are famous people who lived here.” Or that was the idea, originally, a sister walk to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Lately, they seemed to give a star to anyone, news anchors and philanthropists, or just anyone with money to buy one.
“Can we see your star?” Maisie asked.
Patrick paused. “I don’t have one.”
“But I thought you were famous.”
“I am.” It was a minor point of contention. A bony whippet trotting by looked up at Patrick as if to say, Can you believe it? The dog wore little booties to protect his paws from the hot pavement and Patrick looked back, Can you believe those? and the whippet, in fact, could not. “But in order to get one, I’d have to get involved in the community, and you know me. I don’t like getting involved.”
Clara scoffed, like that was the understatement of the century.
“That’s not fair, you should!” Maisie spun around in front of a gift shop selling vintage-looking (but decidedly modernly mass-produced) knickknacks. “Can we look in here, GUP?”
Her outrage was, apparently, short-lived. “Go for it.” He ushered Clara into the shade until they could watch the kids through the window, then leaned in to whisper, “Whatever they find in there will be total shit, but act excited anyway.”
“You want to know some of the presents I’ve received from Darren’s kids? A tongue scraper. Those bags you use to vacuum-seal sweaters. Paprika, I think, once.” Clara wandered toward the opening of the store and fanned some of the air-conditioning her way.
“I’m glad you’re here, Clara.”
Clara cocked her head, caught off guard.
“This is good. The kids need a motherly presence.”
Clara agreed. This was the easiest they’d been on each other all day and it felt agreeable. “It takes a village.”
“With a thriving gayborhood,” Patrick agreed.
“I’m not sure this ice cream is good for my tummy.”
Patrick groaned, upsetting their fragile peace.
“What now?” Clara had risen early, due in part to the time difference, perhaps more from the sun that streamed aggressively through the guest room windows. She was surprised at how long Patrick and the kids slept; she wondered if that was due to their being up far too late for the party or if this was evidence of a new, bohemian schedule. Up all night, down all day. And he was going to further criticize her?
“If I could genocide one group of people it would be adults who say tummy.”
“What should I say, then? What does it say in Patrick’s Guide to Being Perfect?”
“Stomach. What’s wrong with ‘stomach’? I’m not seeking perfection, I’m just wanting to have a grown-up conversation with another adult.”
Clara shook her head. No, nothing’s wrong with stomach? Or no, I’m not doing that? Even she didn’t seem sure. “Welcome to being a parent.”
Patrick walked to the corner and tossed the last of his milkshake in the trash. “Look over there.” He pointed across the street on his way back. “New Palm Springs. The Rowan, one of our more recent hotels. H&M. Kiehl’s. One of those Starbucks that serves wine.”
Clara followed his arm to see a beautiful new hotel at the base of the mountains and the pristine facades of fresh construction along the main drag. Even the palm trees looked fresh, upright, a vibrant green, perfectly trimmed. The sidewalk on which they stood was comparatively trapped in time, connecting storefronts that mimicked the look of a small-town Main Street from decades ago.
“This side of the street? Old Palm Springs. I like this side, but I’m afraid it won’t be here for long. If it were actually Christmas, we would camp out here for the annual Christmas parade. Local marching bands. The fire department. Floats with drag queens. You’d like it.”
“Is it this hot at Christmas?”
“No. It’s downright cold. Highs in the sixties.”
Clara scoffed again; on what planet was sixty downright cold? Still, that did sound pleasant—even
