“Hey, Mom,” my daughter, Isabel, wrote last winter, “check out this cool house in Palm Springs on Airbnb. I think we should rent it and invite G-ma and have a family vacay there for the Fourth of July. Whatcha think, momz?”

Isabel lives in L.A., and her dad and I’d recently moved from Boston to Bloomington, Indiana, so we mainly see her on special occasions. What a sweet kid, I thought, clicking the link—she misses us and wants to have a plan in place to see everyone. Plus, I knew she wanted us to get to know her boyfriend, James, better, that she wanted to include him on a fun family event.

“I’m in,” I wrote back. “Check with G-ma.”

I knew what G-ma, Isabel’s Connecticut grandmother—my husband Jim’s mom—would say because she’d taken Isabel on a special trip every year throughout Isabel’s teenage years, and Isabel had lived with her during the college semester she’d interned in New York at MTV. They’re tight. A team.

“Coolz,” she wrote back. “I’ll give Dad the dates and tell him when and where to be. Right?”

“Yep,” I said, “that’ll work.”

“He’s in!” she replied. “Party on, Momz!”

“Okay! Love, Mom xo”

The day we left for the Fourth of July trip, it was 102 degrees in Palm Springs. So we’ll have to use a little imagination to forget how hot it’s gonna be, I thought. Isn’t Palm Springs kinda old school Hollywood? Perhaps we’ll fall down a rabbit hole and end up in Wonderland. Maybe stumble into Sammy and Dean and Frank‘s Tea Par-tay, like it’s 1972. Eat the mushrooms. Drink the tea. Like we’re trippin’!

Isabel and her boyfriend, James, drove down from L.A., picked us up at the airport, and delivered us to our Airbnb rental house, giddy like only kids in their early twenties can be. The moment we walked through the door, I felt I’d swallowed a magic mushroom—just like Alice—and slipped underground, far beneath the desert, into a cool cave-of-a-house, tricked out with quirky art and a groovy vibe.

A sculpted golden hand, palm-up on the table in the foyer, beckoned us in. Was the Cheshire Cat inside? I wondered. The scene was indeed psychedelic in the living room, where a larger-than-life Seventies lamp promised to light up our lives. Poolside, a candy-striped umbrella shaded a cabana bar—the ideal spot to sip afternoon tea. (Well, after sundown.)

But in the pool house, where Isabel had planned to sleep, an ancient, in-wall, Frigidaire air conditioner was blasting hot air and no fiddling convinced it to cool the air in there below 102 degrees. Ever the Mom, I rushed to the rescue, phoned the owner, and left a message to see about getting it fixed. In the meantime, we went to dinner downtown while we awaited the verdict.

About an hour later, the owner phoned back. Happy to hear from her, I soon lost hope—she didn’t think the air conditioner could be fixed that night. Upset, I wasn’t going to argue with her, so I asked her to speak to my husband, Jim—a professor, a reasonable-type guy—whom I felt could help solve the situation. He took the phone outside. To the hundred-degree street to talk. When he returned, Jim told us that she’d yelled at him, called him unreasonable to demand the air conditioner be fixed that night—on a holiday weekend—that there was nothing she could do because her house manager didn’t think it could be fixed either. However, she’d offered to refund our night’s rent and see about a repair in the morning. We agreed to wait it out and double up in the bedrooms in the main house.

The next day the owner emailed saying she’d been unable to find someone to fix the air conditioner in the pool-house bedroom, that she wouldn’t be able to have it fixed over the weekend, and that she felt uncomfortable letting Jim stay in the house as he’d been so unreasonable as to demand that the AC be fixed. We could stay, but he’d have to go! Like the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland, she’d swiped her croquet mallet in the air and declared: “Off with his head!” How dare he demand that the air conditioning be fixed on a hundred-and-two-degree day on his vacation?

Then, Airbnb called, also to inform us that Jim’s request had angered the owner, that everyone in the party could stay, but he could not. The owner was kicking him out.

Of course we couldn’t stay without the husband/father! We had to have him with us! Dismayed, Isabel felt like she’d somehow messed up, done something wrong. We reassured her that she’d done nothing wrong, that we’d done nothing wrong.

With the traumatic realization that we’d been kicked out, that we’d rented a home from a…well, from an interesting woman to say the least, we jockeyed on the phone with the Airbnb agent, who scurried about like the White Rabbit, attempting to relocate us, fearing it was too late for another house to be had. At last, he secured us accommodation at a hotel. Although it wasn’t the dream destination Isabel had planned—one where we’d be together in a house—we bucked up and packed our stuff, confused by the strange folk in this unreal world who seemed not to operate like folks in Real-land. Our stay in Wonderland had taken a surreal turn, indeed. So curious!

Reeling from being exiled, we loaded the car. Isabel’s lovely boyfriend, James, who never lost his cool, drove us to the Saguaro, which turned out to be a hip hotel with a diorama of Barbie dolls in candy-colored convertibles decorating its lobby.

We checked in and slipped down another rabbit hole to find a tea party, one that was big, mad, and on full blast. Poolside. Cool Cheshire Cats lounged on pink and orange towels beside a turquoise bay, sipping “tea,” chattering. Caterpillar-like, one of the humans lounged on a leafy green chair smoking a hooka. When we asked for directions to the rooms, he blew smoke rings and waved at the hotel’s rainbow façade.

“All the rooms are over the rainbow,” he said.

Somehow his nonsense made sense. So curious!

The Saguaro|Palm Springs (Photo: Jim Shanahan)

Our rooms had a stunning view of the mountains that ring the valley, cradling Palm Springs, the palm trees glamorous, slinky attendants guarding the scene, announcing that, indeed, you’ve arrived in Wonderland and these are our special trees.

To celebrate G-ma’s birthday, Isabel had researched the hot spots and made a reservation for dinner that night at the Parker, a glamorous hotel masked from the street by a wall of lush green shrubs, its massive double orange doors vibed out by Hollywood. Had the White Rabbit given us a golden key—an Alice key—to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party? It felt so, indeed, as we passed through the orange doors.

Mr. Parkers, the restaurant—a treasure chest of Seventies cool sunken under the desert—was worth the trip down the rabbit hole. This Wonderland was lined with polished mahogany paneling, jewel-like paintings … and dreams: Was that Sammy Davis, Jr. we spied in the discrete corner banquette with his gorgeous Swedish wife? Would Frank and Dean show up to sing alongside the white grand piano in the middle of the restaurant?

With a birthday present for G-ma in tow, Isabel was grinning ear-to-ear, like the Cheshire Cat. “Happy Birthday, G-ma!” she said.

G-ma beamed. “Thank you, dear!”

We were seated at the large banquette that dominates the center of the room. A charming waiter appeared and explained that the three-foot-tall peppermill adorning the table was called the “Rubirosa,” after famed Fifties playboy Profirio Rubirosa. So curious! Seeing our interest in his stories, he regaled us with a tale of the hotel’s wild, storied past. Evidently, Gene Autry, who built the hotel, liked to throw secret, swanky debauches for his Hollywood friends. And, later, flashy talk-show host Merv Griffin, bought the hotel and squired the bejeweled, be-feathered actress, Zsa Zsa Gabor, about in a swirl of glamour.

The waiter’s Mad Hatter, let’s-get-this-party-started tale engaged G-ma, a child of the Fifties, who told us all about her love of Gene Autry—the Singing Cowboy—and the cowgirl outfit complete with cap-fired six-shooters she’d had back in the day.

We toasted G-ma’s birthday and counted our blessings that we were together—a special occasion for our bicoastal family—that Isabel had graduated from college, was working and living on her own in L.A. And now, here she was—all grown up—accompanied by a charming, polite, how-can-I-make-myself-useful? young man.

I raised my glass to thank my lucky stars, my lucky rabbit’s foot, the lucky rabbit’s hole I’d slipped down that some difficult times were behind us, that we were sitting on top of a grand, otherworldly day that added up to something real. To family.

The next day—the Fourth of July—we ventured into the desert to the canyon station of the Palm Springs Tramway that scales Mount San Jacinto. A bus picked us up in the parking lot and hauled our group through the twisty, switchbacks that wind through the canyon to the valley tram station. The going was steep; the driver a little fast. I looked at my feet, the ceiling, the side of the mountain. At anything rather than the drop-off below the peppermint-swirl-of-a road.

Up at the station, I spied the tram’s silver, Swiss-made capsules swinging on a hefty steel cable. Once on board, if I averted by eyes from the sickening view, could I escape the dreaded vertigo, my existential fear of falling through space? The Swiss-made part reassuring, I hoped so because I didn’t want to be a wet blanket and back out.

Loaded, all aboard, “Fly Me to the Moon” on the sound system, the silver capsule began to rotate. Perched on a seat, holding on for dear life, I felt myself tumbling down another rabbit hole. “Aren’t you gonna be hot?” I asked some folks in long pants and jackets who were lugging camping gear. “It’s sixty-eight degrees on the top!” they replied. “Whaaaaaaaaat???” I said. Ah, Alice Land, indeed. A motor began to hum, and we were launched on a 9500-foot trajectory up Mount San Jacinto, the steepest vertical face in North America.

I peeked out only once or twice, and fifteen goose-bumpy minutes later, we alighted in an Alpine forest. Pine trees, squirrels, cool air. Snow in winter. Who, knew? Honestly, some days it’s a pleasure just to wake up, to see what’s gonna happen. “Happy Fourth of July, Folks!” the Earth seemed to say. “Check out my jaw-dropping view across the desert valley below, while you sit in this cool enclave beneath one of my beloved pine trees. In a mountain forest high above the desert. You’re in Wonderland.”

“Wow,” is all I could think of to reply to the Earth. I looked up into the pine tree to see if the Cheshire Cat was smiling. And, indeed, he was. So curious!

Atop Mount San Jacinto (Photo: James Madejski)

On the way back, celebrating our summit, we sang America’s song about their journey into the desert on a “horse with no name.” A Wonderland sing-a-long. Wish I could’ve bottled that moment in time with Jim, G-ma, Isabel, and James—a “Drink Me,” Alice-in-Wonderland tonic for whenever I feel blue.

In town we discovered the perfect libations to celebrate our adventure—at a Tiki Bar, that fantasy incarnate, that unreal-life walk on the wild side that says, “Life’s good, an adventure. Drink up. Through a straw. With a floral, paper umbrella ‘cause this tea party’s on lock. On high octane.” Oh, yeah, we did.

Resuscitated by the Tiki Bar potions, we headed out for the fireworks show, which came highly recommended by our Mad-Hatter-of-a-waiter at Mr. Parker. Circling the neighborhood near the ballpark, we felt the excitement. Folks had decorated their front lawns with lounge chairs, grills, picnic tables, flags. At the baseball diamond where the Palm Springs Power plays, we plopped down on the grass outside. Families with elaborate set-ups—blankets, coolers, portable chairs, all manner of picnic gear for a night of fireworks—lit up the scene. Then the fireworks exploded like a shower of jewels in the sky. Ah, Wonderland.

By that time we’d totally forgotten we’d been kicked out of our Airbnb…

That’s all from Palm Springs, folks! Wish you were here! Love, Lisa

* * *

(This article originally appeared on The Huffington Post.)

Header Photo Credit: Ryan McGuire/Gratisography

I PEERED OUT A FROSTY WINDOW from the bar in the hotel on the hill above the Olympic Center, the highest point in Lake Placid. A snowstorm brewed on Whiteface Mountain in the High Peaks. Lights dotted the village like fairy dust—winked at me, put a spell on me. I picked up my glass and gulped a potent ale, concocted at a local brewery. A fire hissed in the thirty-foot-high, granite fireplace. A copper sculpture of a stag and his mate stood guard on a table in the middle of the room. The walls and the pitched-roof, made of peeled logs, formed a live shell, a forest lodge, a refuge from bad things that happen to creatures lost in the woods at night.

I was in Lake Placid for my boarding school’s reunion. It was after midnight, and everybody wanted to ski Whiteface the next day, so my former classmates downed a last shot and left the bar. Except Mark Sotto. And me.

I’d been in love with Mark since high school. We were dating now, kind of, in Boston, where we both lived. Often, after work we’d meet up at Daisy’s on Newbury Street, but I wasn’t sure where it was leading. I seemed to be holding onto a collection of random hook-ups.

“I miss skiing with ya, Francie. Those were good times, huh?” Mark said.

“Oh, yeah, I know. I miss those days, but can we talk about what’s going on now?”

He looked down at his pint. “What do you mean?”

“You know I’ve always loved everything about you.”

I treasured a picture of Mark and me at Whiteface from when we were in school. I kept it on my desk at work. Like a daredevil, like a heartbreaker, he had one arm around his K2s and one around me.

He slid over a seat, next to me.

I put my hand on his knee. “I think I’m in love with you.”

He shut his eyes, tilted his head back. “Oh, my god, Francie, you’re kidding.”

I pressed my cheek to his. He felt hot, tense, wild—like an animal. “Seems like there’s something real between us. You know, with a capital R.”

Shaking, breathing hard, he tapped my thigh. “I never thought you’d be long-term interested in someone like me.”

“I am. I want to have a relationship.”

“Well, we’ve been having fun, right?” he said.

I tugged on his hand and led him to the corner of the room, to the other side of the fireplace. My feelings for him were eating me alive.

In high school, I was more into figure skating, but I tried to keep up with Mark on the slopes. He’d explode down the mountain and spray me with snow, leaving me weak-kneed, sliding down an icy trail out of control, my hair matted with snow crystals. Or, we’d ski off trail into the forest and fool around. A hook-up. After he was gone, I’d sit on a rock underneath the dark emerald thatch of pine tree boughs, sheltered from the real world, and smoke a cig to regain my balance.

He blew out his knee on the icy backside of Whiteface our senior year and ruined his chances to ski the World Cup circuit. I blew out my heart.

I put my hand on his chest. “Remember those times in the woods? Back in school?”

“How could I forget?”

“Want to do it again for old times’ sake? See if we like it?”

“I know I’d like it.”

“Kiss me?”

He glanced at the door, then back at me.

I linked my arms around his neck, closed my eyes, kissed him.
He clenched his jaw and didn’t open his mouth, his lips a hard firm line. A nothing kiss. Like

I’d never tasted. Confused, I stepped back.

He rubbed my upper arm. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

Outside, in the snow, he held my hand while we hiked down the steep hill into town. Joy drunk I’d finally told him I was in love with him, I kept spilling my guts: “Why do I always want to sleep with you so badly?”

He smiled, shrugged.

“You think I’m sexy?” I said.

“I think you’re sexy as hell.”

We crossed Main Street, and I pressed on, looking for a reality check. “Wanna go dancing?”

“Okay, sure.”

I led him down the steps into Roomers, the club where we drank back in the day with fake IDs. I felt the bass thump of hip-hop, heard pool balls clack. We sat at a table near the bar, and he scoped out the room.

I grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

On the dance floor, he looped my arms around his neck, slipped his hands around my waist. I don’t know how long we danced like that, pressed together. A slow grind. Dizzy drunk, I felt him, wanted him so much . . .

He tapped my hip. “Let’s go. Get your purse.”

We walked down Main Street, headed to my hotel. Snow swirled in a wild white dance.

I had to know. So I told him again. “I love you.”

He looked sad. “Love you, too, Francie, but I gotta tell you I started seeing this girl.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda complicated.”
Mark put his hands on my hips, pulled me close, and hugged me tight. Why?

I slapped him.

He rubbed his cheek. “I’m sorry.” Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to go, but looked back over his shoulder. “See ya around.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Complicated? No, it wasn’t. More like end of story. The moral? Crystal in the frosty air.

I concentrated on putting one fur boot in front of the other down the snow-bound steps to the hotel’s parking lot, where I wandered around, shivering in my white parka, not wanting to go to my room alone.

Stunned, my heart a bloody mess, I lit a cig from my stash I kept for emergencies and sucked the nicotine. I bawled, emptying tears until my feelings bled out too. I looked down. Pieces of my heart littered a patch of dirty snow, gritty with car tracks. What a foolish woman I was. Self- harming. I always knew what Mark was like.

I stumbled to my room, where I took off all my clothes in the dark. Naked, I jerked back the curtains and looked out at Mirror Lake, which was frozen solid, covered in snow. I pictured myself: the Snow Queen gliding over the lake in a sleigh pulled by a white horse. I pictured Mark: under the ice in the freezing water in the middle of the lake, trapped, banging his fists on the underside of the slab. As if I’d pushed him in.

***

Next morning—packed up, skis loaded—I skipped the last day on Whiteface. I wanted to get back to Boston as quickly as I could. I didn’t want to see Mark again, didn’t want to ski with him ever again. And I couldn’t face my old classmates. They wouldn’t sympathize with me. They’d listened to all this before and would tell me how stupid I was—a stupid woman lost in the woods where very bad things happened indeed.

On my way out of town, I parked at the base of the Olympic Center beside the outdoor speed skating oval where Eric Heiden won five gold medals in the 1980 Winter Olympics. I had time for the public skate. I grabbed my skate bag out of the trunk, paid the admission, and laced up. A speed skater practiced his starts, while I practiced ice dances I’d learned in high school, fitting them into the mammoth track. I skated the patterns of the Argentine Tango, the Viennese Waltz, and the Midnight Blues in the falling snow, while teardrops, snowdrops, froze on my cheeks.

Off the ice, I drank a hot chocolate outside by the rink like Mark and I used to do until I couldn’t take being there anymore. I got in my car, hoping the trip through the snow-capped Adirondacks would cleanse me, maybe heal me. When I got out of town, on the two-lane, the scene morphed in my mind. The mountains, covered with slag heaps of snow, taunted me. Was I a slag? Or, did I just need an attitude adjustment?

About ten miles out of town, I pulled over by the side of the Ausable River at a trailhead, got out of the car, and walked out on the frozen river. I tested the ice near the middle of the flow. Would it hold? Would I fall in? Would I slip under the ice? I heard the water gurgle and bubble under the ice like the rage in my chest. Mark had been cheating on me all along. I felt so bad, like something had died, like I was never going to get my heart’s desire. Part of me wished he hadn’t told me, that we were going on as before, but then the murderous rage gripped my chest again as I watched a climber on the other side of the river grip the mountain face: a body, a heart versus a sheer wall of ice, hanging on for dear life.

Back in my car, I banged on the gas and swerved onto the mountain route to the Northway, thinking about how I’d murder Mark, how I’d get away with it. I could ask my da, who was the boss of the Irish Mob in South Boston. He’d make the arrangements. He’d put out a contract.

* * *

If you loved Chapter One, click: Murder by the Book: A Boston Publishing House Mystery to learn more or to order the paperback or e-book from Christopher Matthews Publishing in Boston (Also available here: Amazon and Barnes & Noble.com)

Image credit: Michael Canales