The trip to Palm Springs was booked long before their relationship’s descent into what was assuredly its last harrowing gasp. That’s how she pictured their relationship anyway. Packing her blue polka dot bikini into her vintage covered straw swim bag, she’d tried to pinpoint their status and an image of a faceless man sucking in his last breath came to mind. Nonetheless, the money had simply been spent. And Two Palms Inn awaited.
Two Palms Inn was built in 1933 by Milton Kramer. He owned a string of mercantiles all over the growing suburbs of Los Angeles: Alhambra, Whittier, Downey, and Gardena. He was from Chicago and had moved out West for it’s invigorating coastal weather. But now that he was older, he needed to retreat to the healing powers of the desert. His friends at the club recommended he build an estate out there. But where was the fun in that? Milton thought. Even though it couldn’t be further from his business, he avidly read the showbiz trades and the gossip rags. There were mentions of stars, glamor, and intrigue in Palm Springs in both. A resort? No. A DESTINATION could be his way into better health and social circles. The day they broke ground he wore his custom pinstripe suit and flashed his crooked smile wide. Photographers had been called. He was delighted by the flashes of their bulbs.
Two Palms Inn 