Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Within minutes, we had settled around the glass-topped table under an arbor near the pool. A distant mockingbird’s melodic drill drifted on a dry breeze spiced with citrus and oleander. The setting, far more intoxicating than the chardonnay I sipped, still seemed unreal to me. I was tempted to pinch myself, as it did not seem possible to think of paradise as home.

  We gabbed as we ate, speaking of Stewart Chaffee’s quirky behavior, regaling Kane with our tale of Stewart’s friendly feud with his full-figured nurse, capping our story with the ill-mannered incident of the fleshy trumpet.

  Predictably, Kane found this uproarious. He leaned back in his chair, cupping his hands and applauding slowly as he laughed—when did the younger generation begin doing that? Where on earth did they pick up this odd, pervasive habit? I blinked away the image of Kane as a trained seal with a ruffle around its neck, clapping its flippers and barking. At the same time, I studied Kane’s technique, knowing I could put it to use in some future production that might feature a contemporary twenty-something male.

  Kane wiped an eye, sat forward again, and asked, “Why were you with this guy in the first place?”

  Grant explained that I needed a particular sort of clock for the Laura set. “It’s like a grandfather clock, but smaller. Stewart has a wonderful example in his collection—Austrian, eighteenth-century. Claire and I will be returning tomorrow morning to pick it up. Maybe you could ride along to help with the lifting.”

  “Sure, happy to.” Then Kane turned to me. “The play opens next week, doesn’t it?”

  “Friday night.” A knot gripped my stomach as I set down my wineglass. Though I’d directed hundreds of plays in a career spanning three decades, the prospect of an opening night still brought butterflies. This healthy apprehension served to remind me that my work was soon to be judged, that I could never let down my guard. “The show’s in great shape,” I told Kane blithely (I was acting). “My work is all but done. The last week of production always feels like automatic pilot.”

  Grant shook his head, laughing softly. “I’m amazed you’re so calm about it, doll. The whole valley is abuzz. Did you see the headline of today’s feature in the Desert Sun? It blared, CLAIRE GRAY’S LOCAL DEBUT AN INSTANT SELLOUT. Ever since your arrival at Desert Arts College, people have been looking forward to Friday’s opening with breathless anticipation.”

  “Well, then,” I responded with a carefree Hip of my hands, “it’s time to deliver.” My easy smile concealed mild panic. As if to reassure myself, I noted, “The theater itself is magnificent. The set and costumes are first-rate. And I’ve never seen a finer student cast.”

  Graciously, Grant reminded me, “No student cast has ever been taught by a finer director.”

  “Oh, shush. I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.” I loved it.

  “You haven’t said much about Tanner lately. Has he lived up to your expectations in his role?”

  I paused, then said in earnest, “My instincts about Tanner were dead-on. He’s a born actor, a natural talent. In fact, I chose Laura as DAC’s premier production specifically so I could cast him as the leading man, McPherson, the detective. Prepare to be wowed.”

  Grant chortled. “Tanner wouldn’t even need to open his mouth to wow an audience. Christ, what a looker.”

  “I’ll say.” Kane twitched his brows.

  We were speaking of Tanner Griffin, a heartthrob I’d discovered working in a body shop shortly before classes started. At twenty-six, he’d yet to follow his dream of entering acting school. As director of a fledgling theater program, I’d seen at once that he could add an important dimension of maturity to my young troupe. So at my invitation, he’d enrolled at DAC.

  With a wistful sigh, Grant said, “Would that he liked boys.”

  With smug certainty, I assured my neighbor, “He doesn’t. Pity for you.”

  “Alas. Even so, Kane and I wouldn’t think of missing the big night.”

  Kane added, “Thanks for the tickets, Claire. I hear they’re hard to get. Some of the staff at the museum were complaining that they had to settle for the show’s second weekend.”

  I set down my fork. “I’m sorry, Kane. I’ve been so busy with the production, I’d forgotten about your internship at the museum. How’s the new job going?”

  “Great. I love it—it sure beats parking cars. And it’s already been helpful, getting some actual working experience in design. Lots of other students wanted that internship.”

  I grinned. “Guess you got lucky.” Truth is, Kane had connections. Strings had been pulled.

  Shortly after he and Grant had met, I learned that Kane was studying graphic design at a local community college and hoped to further his studies at a four-year school. Since Desert Arts College had just opened its doors and I was on the faculty—wielding considerable clout with the school’s founder and president—I had no trouble pulling some strings, and Kane was admitted to the design program as a late transfer a few weeks into the semester.

  Meanwhile, the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts was moving into its new facility on campus, and Grant, who had long served as one of its directors, was elected president of the board. The college was funding a new assistantship at the museum for a graphic-design intern who would work in the office and help with publicity projects. So Grant pulled some strings. And Kane was sitting pretty.

  He was telling me, “Grant helped me set up a home studio in our second bedroom. Pretty cool.”

  “Bringing your work home?”

  “Some. But mainly it’s for assignments for design class. I could use the computer lab on campus, but it seems to be most crowded when you need it most. So Grant gave up the extra bedroom.”

  “Small sacrifice,” said Grant. “I’ve never much cared for house-guests anyway.”

  Kane asked, “Wanna see it, Claire?” He was practically out of his seat.

  “Sure. Right after lunch.”

  * * *

  Right after lunch, we all cleared the table, Grant began tidying up the kitchen, and Kane led me down the hall, turning into the guest room, now his at-home studio.

  I paused in the doorway, both impressed and surprised. I’m not sure what I’d expected, having no practical knowledge of the graphic-design trade or its tools, but I hadn’t realized that the field was now essentially electronic. There was no drafting table, easel, or any of the other appurtenances I might have guessed I would find.

  “Since the era of desktop publishing,” Kane was explaining, “computers have completely replaced mechanical art, or pasteups. And pre-press rarely involves film anymore; a print job will generally go direct-to-plate from my electronic file.”

  I nodded knowledgeably, but had no idea what he was talking about.

  Kane added some gibberish about his computer, its extralarge monitor, two printers (high-resolution laser, four-color ink-jet), and flatbed scanner. “Grant didn’t skimp on anything. The whole setup is professional-grade.”

  I posited, “Since you aim to enter the profession, you need the right tools.”

  Kane smiled. “That’s just what Grant said.”

  “Did I hear my name?” said Grant, entering the room as he finished wiping his hands with a striped dish towel.

  “Yes,” I said, “your name was on our lips—most of it favorable.”

  Grant gestured at the array of new equipment. “Can you believe it? Things have sure changed since I was in art school.” To Kane, he added, “Way back then, we used to etch bison on stone tablets. I was considered quite good.”

  Kane laughed, sat down at his desk, and flipped a master switch. Something bleeped.

  I crossed my arms, thinking. “Did I know you were an art student, Grant?”

  “Not sure we’ve ever discussed it. There’s plenty we haven’t covered, doll.” He gave me a lewd wink.

  “I mean,” I rambled, “I know you’re artistic, but I assumed that just went with the territory, so to speak.”

  He tisked. “The gay part is genetic—I
’m reasonably sure of that—but the artsy part is acquired. It has to be learned. No one’s born with fabulous taste.”

  “Ah.” I was still learning.

  “And that’s why I majored in painting and drawing.” To Kane, he emphasized, “Painting and drawing—that’s what they call ‘fine art,’ muffin. Design, architecture, and such—those are all ‘applied arts.’ When we fine artists weren’t busy sketching bison, we used to swap designer jokes. ‘How many graphic designers does it take to sharpen a pencil?’ That sort of thing.”

  “And now you’re practically married to one,” the kid reminded him, looking up from his computer screen. “Wonders never cease.”

  “So why,” I asked Grant, “did you end up a businessman?”

  “To accommodate my expensive tastes. Let’s face it—for many of us, college is a holding pattern. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, so I majored in something I liked. I’m still grateful for the art background, but Lord knows, I couldn’t make a career out of it.”

  “Yeah,” said Kane, under his breath, “especially when all the bison died off.”

  “Exactly. So I found my niche in real estate. It’s not an art, I admit, but I think I’ve succeeded in bringing an element of art to it.”

  “Well said,” I told him, though he doubtless had meant his assertion to be more poetic than earnest.

  Kane swiveled his chair to face us. “Bottom line: Grant was great to set this up for me. Someday, I’ll try to pay him back.”

  Grant stepped over to his young lover and hugged his shoulders. “You’ve already repaid me in a million ways, every day. Besides, it was time to get modern. This place needed a dedicated workstation for a computer. I use it too.”

  “For Internet access,” said Kane, “but you could handle that with a laptop.” He returned his attention to the screen, clicking on icons for various programs, which opened in layers. Whatever he was doing, he seemed adept and intent at it.

  I laughed at a fleeting thought.

  “Yes?” asked Grant. “Milady is amused?”

  “Somehow, I just can’t picture you as an artist—an artiste—with a beret, a palette, and a billowing, flouncy smock.”

  “Oh, really?” he grumbled, tossing down his towel. “A flouncy smock wouldn’t suit me? Truth is, back in my college days, you were more likely to find me in tattered jeans and a military-surplus work shirt.”

  “Impossible.” I shook my head decisively. “You’re making this up.”

  “None of it. In fact”—he crossed the room and opened the double doors of a closet—“herein lie the remains of my four years in art school.”

  I stepped near him and peered inside. I saw no denim bell-bottoms, but I did see stacks of canvases, some dozen large, zippered portfolios, oversize pads of newsprint, and piles of spiral-bound sketchbooks. My eye rested curiously on a big beat-up tackle box, virtually covered with paint smudges.

  “My oils and brushes,” Grant explained, “now dried out and worthless, I’m sure.” As if to prove his point, he pulled the case out of the closet, snapped open its locks, and raised the lid. Crusty old tubes of paint lay curled together like colorful little corpses. He lifted a bunch of artist’s brushes, bound with a brittle rubber band that crumbled at his touch. He shrugged. “Dead. That’s what happens after nearly thirty years of disuse.”

  I sniffed something pleasant. “That’s still alive. What is that?”

  “Linseed oil. Isn’t it great? I love that smell.” He opened a compartment beneath the tray of brushes. “At least the pencils are still good. And the charcoal will last forever. I always liked working in charcoal—it’s so spontaneous and expressive. But the beauty of it is, you can rework the drawing with your hands, smudging and toning it with your fingers.” He displayed his perfectly manicured hands. “You wouldn’t believe the mess.”

  “Can you show me some drawings?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” He pulled out one of the large pads. “These are just sketches,” he explained, flipping past the cover, “quick studies that were done at the start of a life-drawing class. Warm-up exercises.”

  “They’re wonderful,” I gushed as he turned page after page. The incomplete drawings showed varied poses of the same nude model, sometimes focusing on a detail that had caught Grant’s young eye—the crook of an elbow, the drooping fingers of a relaxed hand, the firm muscles of someone’s beefy buttocks.

  He laughed at that last one—“I couldn’t resist, even then.” He turned a few more sketches. Then the rest of the pages were blank. “I kept different sketchbooks for each class. Many aren’t filled, but I saved everything.”

  “I don’t blame you. You have such a distinct, sensitive style.”

  “I’m nothing if not sensitive.” He smirked.

  “And if I’m not mistaken, one of those lovely framed drawings in the living room is yours.” It was not a mere sketch, but a finished, fully rendered drawing of a Gothic church in deep shadow. Perhaps he’d spent one of his college years abroad.

  “Guilty. I’ve always been fond of that one, but I never even signed it. Hell, I don’t qualify as an artist—maybe when I was in school, but certainly not now.”

  Kane peeped up at us from his computer. “He’s fishing, Claire.”

  I asked, “Have you seen these drawings, Kane?”

  “The whole collection,” the kid assured me. “They’re great. I keep telling Grant that we should frame a few more.”

  “Nope,” Grant said flatly. “That discussion is closed.” Then he closed the pad of sketches, closed the tackle box, returned everything to the closet, and closed the doors.

  I squeezed his arm. “You’re too modest. I appreciate the private showing.”

  He sauntered away from the closet, eager to change the topic. “Any plans tonight?”

  “Nothing special. There’s no rehearsal. I want everyone well rested for tomorrow afternoon’s tech rehearsal, which may be grueling.”

  Grant reminded me, “It’s Saturday night. No point in wasting it. Kane and I will be going out to dinner, not sure where. Why don’t you join us?” Meaningfully, he added, “You and a guest.”

  Brightly, Kane seconded, “Yeah. Table for four. Somewhere nice.”

  I was tempted, but hesitated, then declined. “Things have been awfully hectic lately, and next week will be no better. I’ve been needing an evening home alone. I’d better take advantage of it.”

  “Aww,” Grant clucked. “Home alone. How pathetic.”

  “That’s right,” I said coyly. “Home alone.”

  3

  Both Grant and Kane understood that when I spoke of needing an evening home alone, I meant home alone with Tanner Griffin.

  Though Tanner and I were not living together, not exactly, he had indeed moved “a few things” into my condominium at Villa Paseo—things like clothing and toiletries, as opposed to furniture or mail delivery. This was ultimately a matter of common sense. My place was much nearer the campus of Desert Arts College, where he was enrolled in my theater program. More to the point, we now enjoyed spending frequent nights together.

  I offer no excuse for this unlikely relationship other than our shared magnetism, which neither of us felt inclined to resist. Yes, the ethics of our intimacy were dubious; society frowns on the coupling of mentors with protégés. If I were able to view my own actions more objectively, I would doubtless join in the jowl-wagging.

  At fifty-four, however, I have ceased caring about the approbation of others—or the lack of it—with regard to my perceived morals. If Tanner Griffin could look beyond our teacher-student relationship, to say nothing of the difference in our years, then so could I. He was flat-out handsome, certainly, but even more appealing was his mature charm, his youthful drive and innocence, and his deep commitment to building a career on the stage. He was solid—the word always sprang to mind when I thought of him.

  For reasons I could still not fully fathom, he found this attraction mutual.


  I have never tried to fool myself into thinking myself beautiful, not in the conventional sense. Much to my good fortune, Tanner claimed to evaluate the “whole person”—his words—so I must have passed muster. I had no doubt that my status in the theater world accounted for some measure of my allure, which some might judge as opportunistic on Tanner’s part. On the other hand, I could not expect Tanner to distinguish between me and my career, since I myself was unable to draw such a line. I was therefore content to judge his doting both profound and guileless.

  I was also content to spend the evening home alone with him, sans neighbors.

  “Rare?” he asked, heading out the French doors to the back terrace, ready to grill a pair of plump steaks he hoisted on a plate.

  “Bloody,” I affirmed.

  It was just past six. Though our Saturday dinner seemed oafishly early, the sun had set and night had fallen, so we decided to get on with it, enjoying a bottle of good cabernet while preparing a leisurely meal. Besides, we both faced a long day and an important rehearsal at the theater on Sunday, so there would be no late-night reveling.

  He returned from the terrace, minus the meat. Closing the door behind him, he hugged himself. “It’s getting chilly. How about a fire?”

  “Delightful idea. Could you take care of it?” I was far too busy lolling with my wine, watching him, to be bothered with household chores.

  He mimicked an elaborate bow to the sultan, then crossed the room to the fireplace. His corduroy pants, the dusty color of sage, swooshed softly as the legs scissored past me. Hunkering at the hearth, he began crumpling newspapers beneath the kindling, treating me to a fine view of his backside. As he fussed with the logs, his shoulder muscles rolled and flexed beneath the white waffle-weave undershirt he wore like a form-fitting sweater; its sleeves were shoved up past the elbows, where they bunched beneath his biceps. Completing this hunky picture, tan work shoes coordinated nicely with his thick, flaxen mop of hair.