Design for Loving

by Doug Sanford

  “Is he right, Marc?” asked Leslie.

  “Yeah, I guess it is. I’d deny it to him when he said anything and even deny it to myself, but much as I’ve tried to fight it, I think I’ve always had lingering doubts deep down about whether he’d stay with me or whether I was just a phase.”

  “Then you should have been there the Friday night of Bart’s big revelation to me. If you’d heard the way he talked about you, you’d have no doubts at all about how deeply he feels about you. I certainly didn’t.”

  Bart squeezed the back of my neck.

  “I was terrified of meeting you that next night, Marc. As it turned out, it was clear from our conversation pretty early on that you really were as caring as he said, and then, when you got drunk and became totally human—not to mention funny, I could finally relax around you.”

  We all laughed. “That was some night,” I said.

  “This is getting a bit sloppy for me,” said Bart. “The point I was trying to make was that I want to enjoy what we’ve got. I don’t care what anybody thinks.”

  “If this is what turning twenty-five does to you, what are you going to be like at thirty?” said Leslie.

  “The important part to me,” Bart answered, “is that we’ll all three be together to find out.”

  “That’s fine, and I’m honestly happy you feel this way. But to deal with the really important issue,” said Leslie, always organized, “I’ll need a new dress.”

  “That’s definitely not my department,” I said.

  “Blue,” said Leslie, ignoring me. “It’s my favorite color. Maybe something like sapphire blue to match the ring.”

  “Does that mean we’re going to have to wear sapphire blue tuxedos—or white tuxedos to match the white gold?” I asked with a smile. “They’d sure notice us then!”

  “White gold is more like silver than white,” Leslie said, holding out her finger.

  “No way I’m going anywhere in a silver tuxedo,” Bart said, laughing along with me.

  “No, that would be a bit over the edge,” said Leslie. “But how about bow ties and cummerbunds to match my dress?”

  “How would we do that?” asked Bart.

  “Mom has a dressmaker who would be up to it. She’s done some amazing things.”

  “Maybe just ties?” I suggested. “A bit more subtle and appropriate for our debut appearance?”

  “That would work,” she replied.

  And that’s what we did.

  * * * *

  The experience of attending an Emmy awards—even though they were only the Daytime Emmys—was still exciting. Daytime TV fans are every bit as enthusiastic as their prime-time counterparts, and in the case of soap operas, maybe more so. Mt. Sinai Heights provided limousines for the nominees, their guests, and anyone else in the show who was going, so we arrived in style. The fans were there in force, and Bart’s arrival was greeted with much applause, yelling, and screaming—especially from his key demographic: young girls. And although there wasn’t the same “red carpet” treatment with on-camera interviews back then, there were plenty of photographers.

  Leslie’s dress was perfect, and Bart and I, both in tuxedos, wore the matching bow ties her dressmaker had provided. We were a striking threesome. There was no way people could not have known that we were together—though how together we really were and in what combination, none of them probably could have guessed—and at least from what we learned later, almost none of them did.

  After presenting the award that night, Bart had to stay backstage because his category was next. To no one’s surprise, he won, and his speech was, as always, well written and delivered flawlessly, mentioning cast, crew, writers, director, his agent Norm, his parents, his fiancé, Leslie, and his manager Marc “who had been so much more than a manager over the years.” Leslie and I laughed at that one as did, they told us the next day, Jack and Ada who were watching at home.

  Dropping double entendres like that and dressing the way we did that night were part of what Bart meant by wanting to be more open about our relationship, and he enjoyed that evening much more than I would have expected. But Norm put a rather sudden and abrupt end to it.

  The Monday evening after the Emmys, he called Bart who signaled me to pick up the extension.

  “Norm,” he said, “Say that again. I put Marc on.”

  “I got a call from Jay this afternoon. He wants to see us, you and me, in his office tomorrow at ten A.M.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s about the Emmys, the ties, and your manager who’s so much more than a manager. He didn’t like the way that all looked or sounded was the way he put it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He didn’t get to be executive producer for his good looks alone. He’s very sensitive to anything that might affect the show, and he asked me what all that was about. I told him that he’d have to talk to you, so we’ll see him in the morning.”

  “Damn. Was it that obvious?”

  “Maybe not to most people, but Jay’s not most people. And even though he’s straight, he’s got a pretty finely tuned gaydar, and he’s more aware of things than the average person might be.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We—meaning you—tell him the truth—all of it. Look, Bart, he likes you a lot. Not only are you a good actor and a hot-looking guy, you’re good for the show. You’ve increased ratings, which was why they hired you, and the ratings have held. Your Emmys are another notch in their belt. Jay’s a good guy, tough but understanding, and you don’t want to fool around with him. You’re going to have to be completely honest. I don’t think it will hurt you.”

  “So, tomorrow at ten?”

  “I’ll meet you on the set a little before then.”

  “Thanks, Norm.”

  The meeting with Jay Tarsen, executive producer of Mt. Sinai Heights, went off very well according to Bart when he described it to Leslie and me that evening.

  “I did tell him the whole story about us, and he was totally cool about it all. He said he’d never run into a situation like ours and that it was one of the oddest stories he’d heard. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘If it works for you, it’s fine with me.’

  “But for the sake of the show, he wants me to keep a low profile—on the set, of course, but even more, in public. The story is I’m marrying Leslie, and you’re just my manager and a very close friend. He’s afraid if word got out about the true nature of our relationship, the publicity could hurt the show. Then he actually wished me—well, us—good luck.”

  “Did you tell him we were all living together?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t seem to think that would be a problem as long as we kept it kind of quiet. You said my wanting to be more honest about our situation could be dangerous, Les.”

  Leslie just smiled.

  Chapter 32

  A few weeks after the Emmy ceremony, I found our house.

  I probably sound conceited here, but it was perfect. It was in a cul-de-sac, near-ish to work for both Bart and Leslie, and with enough land to keep us from being too close to neighbors. It didn’t have much of a view, but that was something none of us really needed.

  The house was about twenty-five years old, built by a Hollywood character actor who had started his career in the fifties. He was talented and always in demand—one of those supporting actors that turned up in lots of films, but whose name no one ever remembered. He’d passed away more than a year earlier, and the house had been on the market since before he died. Like its owner, the house was not a star, but solidly built, well-cared-for, and kept up.

  It was a two-story stone. When one faced the house from the outside, the master bedroom suite was at the left end of the second floor, a large, spacious room with a sitting area, ample walk-in closets, and a bathroom with two sinks, a separate shower, and a tub large enough for two. There was a guest suite at the right end of the second floor, and it was almost a duplicate of the master bedroom though not quite as large. Off
the hall which ran between the two were three other spacious bedrooms, each with its own full bathroom. All rooms had balconies that looked out onto the back lawn. The hall in front of the bedrooms was open on one side and looked down on the first-floor entrance from behind a beautiful oak railing.

  On the first floor, on the right, under the guest suite, there was a corresponding room which would serve very nicely as office and work space for all three of us. It could easily accommodate three desks, computer equipment, and bookcases. Behind the office was a large room which might have been a storeroom or utility room—it was hard to tell—but which would work out very nicely, I thought, as a home gym.

  At the other end of the ground floor, under the master bedroom, was the kitchen which was large and built for more entertaining than we would probably do. The best part of it was a big family table, so we could eat there, rather than in the formal dining area.

  The dining area and living room were combined into a single long room which ran between the kitchen and office the way the upstairs bedrooms were between the master bedroom and guest suite. There was a covered patio off them and lots of lawn and trees beyond that with plantings and walls to ensure privacy. At the end of the room, on the wall that was shared with the office, was a large built-in fireplace. Oddly enough, for Los Angeles, there was no pool, but that was something else which didn’t bother any of us.

  The house had the added benefit of an extra-large bedroom/sitting-room/bathroom suite off the kitchen. It was basically its own apartment and was added on, we were told, for the live-in housekeeper/nurse of the previous owner in his later years.

  The day after I found it, I took them through.

  “Marc,” said Leslie, “this is amazing. It’s as if it was made for us.”

  “I think this master bedroom is as big as our whole house, old man.”

  “Probably not,” said Leslie, “but I seriously think it might be bigger than my condo.”

  “And the bedroom suite at the other end of the hall will be perfect for you, Marc.”

  “No thanks, kid. I don’t need or want anything that large. I thought it would be the guest room for Jack and Ada or Robin and Doug when they come to visit. Lots of privacy.”

  “Besides, Bart,” said Leslie, always the sensible one. “Think about the logistics. Do you want to be walking from one end of the hall to the other every night to go to sleep? Especially when we’ve got guests in the house? I don’t think so.”

  “She’s right, Bart. No, I’ve got my eye on the largest of the three bedrooms—the one next to yours. Much better size for me, and I think putting in a connecting door between our rooms would provide the most practical and private solution to the way we live—if that’s agreeable to both of you.”

  “Perfect,” said Leslie.

  “Great,” said Bart.

  “Shall we go downstairs?” I said with a smile on my face as I walked not to either of the curved staircases at each end of the upstairs hall, but to a door next to the entrance to the master bedroom.

  “Is this an elevator?” yelped Bart, as I unlocked and opened it.

  “Sure is. It was added on once the owner became confined to a wheelchair. It can be accessed from here in the hall or directly from inside the master bedroom.”

  Bart dashed into the bedroom to check it out. “Wow. This is really cool.”

  “The first-floor exit has two doors as well—one into the kitchen and the other directly into the dining room.”

  “Why the lock?” asked Leslie.

  “From what the agent told me, normally it was left unlocked, but when the owner gave parties—which he continued to do even after his condition got worse—they’d lock the elevator to keep guests from wandering up into the bedrooms. Somewhere she said there are even velvet ropes which were custom-made to fit the staircases to discourage people from going upstairs.”

  “Only in LA,” said Leslie.

  When we got to the storage area behind what I thought would be the office space, Bart said, “Your idea of using this as a workout gym is great, Marc. It would be neat to be able to work out at home if we got some equipment. I wonder if we could put in a shower as well.”

  “There’s a utility sink in here, so there must be some access to water and drains. I can find out if it’s doable.”

  “The room off the kitchen seems pretty useless,” said Bart. “I guess we could use it as an extra guest room if we had a bunch of people staying over.”

  “Actually,” said Leslie, “I think it’s perfect, and it’s something we haven’t really talked about yet.”

  “What,” said Bart, “having people over?”

  “I think,” I said, “that Leslie’s trying to tell us that she’s going to marry you, but she hasn’t signed on as a servant.”

  His brow, as expected, furrowed, and I smiled. “What?” he said. “I’m confused.”

  “Marc,” said Leslie, “the more I know you, the more I’m impressed with your sensitivity.”

  “What can I say? As I keep telling Bart, I’m not just a pretty face.”

  “Okay, you two, what’s all this about?” he said with a trace of annoyance in his voice.

  “Are you feeling left out because Marc and I can also sometimes communicate without words?” said Leslie, in a mock whining way.

  “Bart,” I said, “we’re going to need a housekeeper. We can’t expect Leslie to run a house this size with everything else she does. Just raising you is a full-time job.”

  “I thought that was your job, old man,” he replied, punching my bicep.

  “Stop that. Not after you’re married. That’s part of the ceremony. She takes full custody, and I’m finally rid of you,” I said, squeezing the back of his neck.

  “Hey, you two. You’re both going to have to stand in the corner if you don’t behave.”

  “So where do we find a housekeeper?” asked Bart, returning to the subject at hand.

  “I think I have an idea,” I said. “We can talk about that later. But the house. What do you think?”

  “Can we afford it?” asked Leslie, taking the practical view as usual.

  “The fact that it’s as old as it is, lacks a view which most people want, has no pool, and has been on the market for more than a year is all pretty much in our favor. Let me talk to the agent who’s handling it. I’ve worked with her before, and I think we can do something. With what we’ll get from our house and your condo, I’m pretty sure it’s in our range.”

  “Then I love it,” said Leslie.

  “I’m in,” said Bart. “The elevator sold me.”

  As I’d expected, the asking price was pretty soft. It wasn’t cheap, but it was a comparative give-away for what we were getting.

  We made an offer and after some minor dickering and an inspection which turned up no problems of any real consequence—it really had been well cared for—we got it. Closing was set for August 1.

  “It seems to me,” said Leslie that night at dinner, “that we’re going to need a lot more furniture even with what you two have and what I have.”

  “Any chance you and Bart could handle that?” I asked. “He knows how much I hate shopping.”

  “As long as you’re willing to agree not to complain about what we get,” Bart said.

  “Kid, you buy all my clothes for me, and I’ve never complained once. I don’t think I’ll get too bent out of shape about a chair or a nightstand.”

  One of the first things they came up with was a nine-foot sofa for the three of us. They decided it had to be long enough so I could stretch out full length if I wanted and also so Bart could lie between the two of us as he liked to do. It was perfectly placed in front of the fireplace and became our favorite piece of furniture in the new place.

  * * * *

  One evening toward the middle of July, as the paperwork was being completed by our various attorneys, Bart said to me, “Marc, can you meet Les and me for lunch on Saturday, after your appointments? You’re free in the afternoo
n, right?”

  “What’s up?’

  “We want you to help us with the wedding rings.”

  “I told you when you asked about your engagement ring that I don’t do rings. Don’t know anything about them.”

  “Humor us, please, old man. We want your opinion.”

  “I don’t know why, but okay.”

  * * * *

  As we finished up lunch that day, I asked, “So what kind of rings are you looking for?”

  Leslie held out her hand. As I’d mentioned, her engagement ring was white gold with a center diamond and two blue sapphires. “I know what I want. Something to match this. A white gold band but with three small blue sapphires set into it. Do you think it would be masculine enough for Bart?”

  “Sure. I’m not very good at this sort of thing, but it sounds just fine.”

  I should have known something was up by Leslie’s weak, helpless-sounding we need your advice, what do you think approach. Leslie was seldom in doubt about anything and always made her own decisions.

  When we got to the jewelry store, Bart discovered that he’d left his phone in the car and went back for it. Leslie and I went on in. It was clear that they’d been there before, and the salesman knew them and what they wanted. He brought out a ring almost exactly like the one Leslie had described.

  “What do you think, Marc?”

  “Looks great to me.”

  “Do you think it will look good on Bart?”

  “Sure.”

  “Try it on for me so I can see how it will look on a man’s hand.”

  I looked around for Bart, but he hadn’t returned yet.

  “Okay.”

  I tried to slip the ring onto my finger, but it was a little tight, and I didn’t want it to get stuck.

  “I guess your finger is bigger than Bart’s,” Leslie said. She turned to the jeweler. “Can you just measure his finger to see what the difference is?”

  The jeweler whipped out a set of ring sizers and proceeded to measure my finger which took him only a minute or so.

  “This is silly. Why measure my finger? The ring’s for Bart.”

  “Not exactly, old man,” said Bart from behind me. “That’s my ring all right, but we needed your ring size.” He turned to Leslie. “You did that pretty well, Les.”