Getting Warmer by Carol Snow

door.
    “I need to haul a lot of stuff for work,” Jonathan said casually, stepping up to the driver seat.
    Jonathan drove us to the Hyatt. What a difference five minutes made. The place was all glass, slate, wood, soaring ceilings and warm lighting. I immediately felt like an imposter. The back wall was open, with misters cooling well-dressed guests like a field of tropical flowers. We stepped down into a bar full of comfy chairs clustered around candlelit tables, then walked across manicured lawns and past lit swimming pools until we reached the landing, where a gondolier from Fresno informed us that the girl with the blond hair and the guy with the big muscles had left at least a half an hour ago. “They seemed really in love,” he added helpfully.
    We tried Nicolette’s cell phone, which, predictably, was turned off. We returned to the bar on the off chance that she had simply dropped Rodney at his hotel and returned to pick us up. She hadn’t.
    “You let her drive?” Jonathan asked. “I’m surprised she still has a car.”
    “It’s her mother’s,” Jill said. “By letting her drive, we were trying to send the message that we trusted her.”
    “I’d be happy to drive you home,” Jonathan said.
    “We’ll take cabs,” I said, just as Jill chirped, “That’d be great!” She and I locked eyes. I blinked first. Jill and I lived in opposite directions, and neither of us lived near here. A cab would cost a fortune.
    “If it’s not too much trouble,” I said.
    As we left the resort and turned onto Scottsdale Road, the thoroughfare that divides Scottsdale and Phoenix, Jill casually asked, “So, Jonathan, do you live far from here?” I sat sandwiched between them on the bench seat.
    When he said not really—ten or fifteen minutes—she said, “Why don’t we go to your place for a cup of coffee, then?”
    My face burned in the dark. I felt suddenly, hotly angry. I stared straight ahead at the taillights in front of us.
    “Sure. I can make you cappuccinos.” Jonathan sent me a brief smile before blinking in surprise when he saw my expression.
    “We wouldn’t be disturbing anyone?” Jill asked.
    “Nope. I live alone. Don’t even have any pets.”
     
     
    With a few exceptions, the Valley of the Sun has two basic house styles: Spanish and territorial. Spanish houses are white or beige stucco with peaked red roofs. Inside they have high ceilings, open floor plans, fancy kitchens and tiny bedrooms. Territorial houses look completely different from the outside, with flat roofs, wood beams and front courtyards. But inside? High ceilings, open floor plans, fancy kitchens and tiny bedrooms.
    Jonathan’s house was Spanish style. It looked like a Taco Bell. Well, a Taco Bell with a garage. So did the one on its right. And on its left. And across the street.
    “How do you know which one is yours?” I asked.
    He laughed. “It’s the one with the cactus out front.” Jonathan’s cactus was a nicely formed saguaro, far superior to the saguaro across the street or the chollas and prickly pears on either side. A concrete driveway took up most of the front yard; the remainder was landscaped with gravel. Grass does not do well in the desert.
    He clicked the garage door opener on the truck visor, and the beige door magically slid upward, revealing a tidy two-car garage lined with cabinets and a pegboard covered with hanging tools. He slid his truck into the center of the space and left the garage door open.
    “I have to get either a smaller car or a bigger garage,” he said. He was right: his truck stuck out a good foot beyond the door. “I just got a letter from the homeowner’s association. I’m not allowed to leave my garage door open. But parking in the street is an even greater sin. Maybe if I parked diagonally . . .” He squinted at the wall.
    My mind was whirring. On the way over, I’d decided the house probably belonged to a friend who was out of town. But if that were the case, would Jonathan