Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  I was tempted, then and there, to set down my glass, pussyfoot across the room, and mount him from behind. Shame on me—that could wait. Nestled in a corner of the sofa, I had my feet pulled up, toes wedged into the crack between the cushions, cozy as could be. I pondered for a moment my dismal lack of Christmas decorations, not even a limp string of lights swagged from the mantel. Would this be the year, I wondered, when I would finally get around to putting up a tree? Perhaps, after the play opened, Tanner could help. Just us. We could string popcorn, deck the halls, boil some glogg or whatever—

  “So you got the clock?” he asked over his shoulder, interrupting my musing, continuing a conversation we’d begun earlier. He struck a match and held it under the grate.

  “We got Stewart Chaffee’s promise to lend us the clock, but I haven’t seen it yet. Grant says it’s perfect, which is good enough for me. We’re returning tomorrow morning for it. With any luck, we’ll be rehearsing on a finished stage tomorrow.”

  Tanner stood as the papers caught fire, burning bright yellow for a few moments. “The painting too?” He was asking about the portrait of Laura that, in the play, would inspire his character’s love for a woman thought to be dead.

  “Hope so. We should have had the painting on Friday, but it needed more time to dry.” Swirling the wine in my glass, I wondered what other loose ends still needed tying up. “Lance Caldwell will be there tomorrow as well.”

  “From the music faculty?”

  I nodded. “He composed and recorded the incidental music. It was finished last week, and I’m dying to hear it, but he wants to ‘unveil’ it for the whole cast and crew on Sunday.”

  “Then he must be pleased with it.” Tanner checked his hands, brushing grime from his fingers.

  Wryly, I noted, “Maestro Caldwell is generally pleased with himself.” The kindling popped, as if adding an exclamation point to my remark.

  Tanner crossed to the dining table, where he’d set down his glass before taking the meat to the grill. His first sip of wine had been perfunctory, a quick toast before heading outdoors, but now he lifted the glass and gave it a slow, attentive tasting. Swallowing, he let out a rapturous moan.

  I’d heard that before. My mind danced with still-fresh memories of our adventurous, evolving intimacy.

  “Wow.” He reached for the bottle and studied the label. “Easy to guess where this came from.”

  I challenged, “So guess.”

  “Not that I find anything lacking in your usual wine selections, Claire, but I have a hunch this bottle was sprung from the cellar of D. Glenn Yeats.”

  I shrugged. “Yes, the wine was a gift from our college president.” I had no idea what it was worth—surely hundreds of dollars.

  Tanner set the bottle down. “Nothing but the best for Glenn.”

  “Thank you.” My tone was matter-of-fact. “According to Glenn, that’s why I’m here. He had to have me on his faculty.”

  “Good for him. I’m glad he got his way.” Tanner moved to the sofa and sat near my feet. Looking me in the eye, he added quietly, “Glenn’s a powerful man. He deserves to get his way. But not in everything.”

  Three months earlier, just before the start of classes, Glenn had stunned me one evening during a party at his home, taking me aside to tell me that he had loved me from afar, wondering if some sort of relationship might be possible between us. He made it sufficiently clear that his goal was marriage; the man was serious.

  It was common knowledge that Glenn had left two failed marriages in the wake of building his computer empire. It was also common knowledge that marriage was a gambit I had never tried, so I felt on an unequal footing with my would-be suitor. Needless to say, I had been unable to answer him that night, not only because his overture had been so sudden, but also because of Tanner.

  Since first meeting Tanner, there had been an element of flirtation to our encounters. Then, on the day before Glenn would make his unexpected declaration to me, Tanner and I had given in to the irresistible chemistry of an opportune moment in an empty theater.

  As for Glenn, he was realistic enough to understand that I had never thought of him romantically. He understood that I needed time to weigh his advance and, he hoped, find the spark of reciprocal attraction. He also understood that I had taken a special interest in Tanner Griffin, an acting student whose innate star quality promised to add luster to our school’s fledgling theater program.

  Glenn did not understand, however, that I had essentially left his profession of love “on hold” while I explored my passions for the young man who now sat next to me on the sofa.

  Tanner was well aware of my awkward position, understanding that our relationship, while not quite clandestine, was simply not a matter of public discourse. My neighbor friends had the whole picture. Lord knows, my housekeeper, Oralia, did as well. But as far as anyone at Desert Arts College was concerned—including Glenn—the lust shared by Tanner and me was limited to our ardor for the art of Thespis.

  Tanner touched my arm. I blinked. A log shifted in the grate, bringing me back to the moment.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Tanner.

  Was I upset?

  He pulled me toward him on the soft, wrapping an arm around me. “I shouldn’t talk about Glenn that way. He’s been great to both of us.”

  With a wan smile, I agreed, “He’s been truly generous. I admire his technical brilliance, his dedication to the arts, his awesome wealth. But, Tanner, I just don’t think I could ever love him.”

  “Good.” He said the word with no hint of rivalry or triumph, but with simple satisfaction. As he said the word, he smiled.

  God, what a smile. It was the smile that had left my knees weak on that morning when I met him at the body shop he managed on the outskirts of Palm Springs. It was the smile that later nourished me on mornings when I awoke with him, that left me hungering on mornings when I did not. It was the smile that would soon brighten my stage, the smile that could catapult a lad like Tanner to bona fide stardom. My time with him, I sensed, was limited.

  During our time together, we often spoke of Glenn Yeats. He was such a magnified presence in our lives, it was only natural that he should pop into our conversations, whether trivial or profound. None of these discussions were more profound than those that brushed upon the topic of love.

  Glenn had spoken of love on the night when he’d revealed his feelings for me. I myself had spoken of love just now when telling Tanner how I felt—or more precisely, how I didn’t feel—about Glenn. But the word never seemed to come up when Tanner and I spoke of our feelings for each other. Tanner’s reticence didn’t concern me, but my own did. Love, I feared, was fraught with danger.

  When Tanner and I weren’t talking about Glenn, we usually spoke of theater. “So tell me,” he said, rising from the sofa, “are you happy with the production? I mean, tech issues aside, how’s the acting shaping up?” He reached for the wine bottle and refreshed my glass.

  “You’re angling for a compliment, Tanner. But I don’t mind. You’re fabulous.”

  He put the wine back on the table. “Sorry, that really came out wrong.” He scratched behind his head, looking adorably sheepish. “I meant the whole cast, the ensemble. How do you feel about printing your name on the program?”

  “I couldn’t be prouder. When you consider that everyone involved with this production had never worked together or even met until September, it’s remarkable how quickly we’ve formed a cohesive, professional-caliber troupe. Cyndy, for example, has made great strides in growing into the role of Laura. And Scott’s just wonderful as the effete Waldo Lydecker, a perfect foil to your hard-boiled but sensitive portrayal of Detective McPherson. Even Thad—hailing from Nowhere, Wisconsin—gosh, he’s taken the minor role of Danny and polished it into one of the show’s special highlights.”

  Tanner agreed, “That kid’s got a lot of promise.”

  Speaking from the side of my mouth, I confided, “Don’t spread this through t
he cast, but I’ve been sufficiently pleased with rehearsals to invite several prominent critics and talent scouts to Friday’s opening.”

  Tanner arched one brow. “Any names I’d know?”

  “All of them.”

  “Think they’ll come?”

  I chortled knowingly. “They’ll come.”

  Tanner’s brow suddenly furrowed. He sniffed the air.

  I did likewise. “God, I just assumed that was the fireplace.”

  “No”—Tanner was already darting through the French doors—“it’s the meat.”

  Laughing, I called after him, “No need to turn the steaks. At least one side will be rare.”

  4

  Sunday morning dawned clear and cool. I greeted the day feeling rested and fully energized. Good thing, as I had a busy schedule ahead of me. That afternoon’s tech rehearsal could run well into the evening—taxing enough—but first, I needed to return to Stewart Chaffee’s estate, pick up his antique Austrian case clock, and haul it over to campus.

  Tanner and I awoke early, taking some time to indulge our fantasies between the sheets before rising, then sharing coffee together and perusing the morning papers. The Desert Sun had landed at my door, as it did every morning, and Tanner slipped out while the coffee brewed, fetching a copy of the Sunday New York Times from a nearby convenience store (I had yet to grow curious about the Los Angeles paper). When we were both up to speed on world events, Tanner gave me a kiss, gulped the last of a thick protein concoction, and headed out to the gym—bodies like his don’t just happen. I spent another half hour reading the various arts sections.

  Eventually I had showered and dressed, and by ten-thirty, I heard Grant and Kane cross the courtyard and open the iron gate to my entry court. “Ready, doll?” called Grant, rapping at my door. A minute later, I had locked up, and the three of us stepped around to the garage.

  Grant’s car, a great beast of a white Mercedes, was already loaded with the pretty little Biedermeier desk he was returning from a designer showhouse. The desk was wrapped and padded with a mover’s blanket, lying on its back side in the trunk, which was held almost closed by stretchy cords looped from the lid to the bumper. Grant drove, and Kane insisted that I take the front seat while he sat in back with a few of the drawers that had been removed from the desk.

  As we pulled out of the garage, I asked, “Will the clock fit in the trunk?” Having never seen the clock, I wasn’t sure of its height.

  “Probably,” said Grant. “If not, we can just slide it into the backseat.”

  “But what about Kane?”

  Kane leaned forward, resting his arm on the back of my seat. “Not a problem,” he told me, grinning. “I’m agile.”

  Grant snorted. “I’ll tell the world.”

  * * *

  The trip to neighboring Rancho Mirage was brief, with little traffic along Highway One-Eleven to impede us. Heading northwest, I noted that the peak of Mount San Jacinto now sported a snowy cap above its granite slopes.

  Along the way, we spoke of our plans for the day: I was eager to begin the final week of production with that afternoon’s technical rehearsal. Grant would spend some time at the Nirvana sales office, checking on anything he’d missed during his absence on Saturday. Kane planned to spend the afternoon at the Desert Museum of Southwestern Arts; he didn’t normally work on Sundays, but the campus museum was mounting an elaborate exhibit of kachina dolls to coincide with my play’s opening, and the publicity office was putting in some extra hours.

  Driving toward the gate to Stewart’s estate, Grant lowered his window and slowed the car. Unlike many of the desert’s wealthy residents, Stewart did not live in a walled community with a guardhouse. Rather, his expansive property was equipped with a sophisticated security system of its own, as evidenced by a keypad at the motorized gate, an ever-watchful video camera, and a sign notifying would-be intruders that the perimeter was protected by a laser shield—whatever that meant.

  Instead of using the intercom at the gate, Grant simply punched in the code that Stewart had given him on Saturday. His finger barely left the keypad, and the barred gate rolled aside, admitting us.

  As we entered the grounds, Grant pointed out some of the estate’s features to Kane, who had never been there.

  Though Grant was speaking clearly, his words seemed unintelligible to me, as I felt suddenly preoccupied by an inexplicable sense of dread. Chiding myself, I dismissed this uneasiness as melodramatic nonsense. My foreboding was utterly irrational. It was a beautiful, cloudless day, after all, and the purpose of this visit was to add a crowning touch to my debut production at the college. All was well. Was I simply spooked by the queerness of our previous visit, by the grim artwork, by Stewart’s self-indulgent behavior, by his fleshy trumpet?

  As we drove near the house, I was distracted from these thoughts by the appearance of a man at the front door. An odd little guy of wiry build, he was dressed casually that morning in black jeans and turtleneck. Rushing toward the car, flailing his arms, he directed us with broad gestures to drive around to the side of the house. Instantly, my apprehension was supplanted by amused curiosity.

  Turning the wheel, Grant told us, “That’s Pea. Guess he wants us to unload at the garage.”

  “Pea?” asked Kane. “Too weird. Who is he?”

  “If I recall correctly, his real name is Makepeace. He’s Stewart’s majordomo.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Huh?” asked Kane.

  “Sort of a butler. He runs the household.”

  At the moment, he was running behind the car as we drove around the house toward the attached garage and a back entrance, presumably the kitchen. We were well out of view of the street when Grant stopped the car in a parking court and set the brake. We all got out.

  “Morning, Pea,” Grant greeted the little man.

  Pea nodded, but made no move to shake hands or return the greeting. “Stewart said you’d be returning the desk. ’Bout time, too.” His words carried the hint of a drawl that he’d mostly lost—along with his manners.

  Grant took over, making a proper round of introductions. I learned that the houseman’s full name was Makepeace Fertig.

  “But everyone’s called me Pea since I was a kid. Just sorta stuck.” Despite his diminutive stature, he seemed athletic and fit for his years, which I judged to be in the midforties. His attitude warmed some as he explained, “We can put the desk in the garage. I’ll help you unload it.”

  So I watched Pea, Grant, and Kane hoist the desk out of the trunk and trundle it toward the open garage. A vintage Rolls-Royce was parked inside, along with a new Cadillac, both white. There in the parking court, near Grant’s car, was a powdery blue Korean compact. At the moment, though, I had little interest in cars. I wanted to see the clock, and owing to the clutter in the shadows of the garage, I couldn’t tell if it was there.

  “The drawers,” said Pea, a touch of panic coloring his voice as they removed the padding from the desk. “Where are the drawers?”

  “In the car.” Grant explained, “It was easier to move the desk without the drawers in it, and I didn’t want to risk having any of them fall out.”

  “I’ll get them,” said Kane, trotting off to the car. He opened the back door and leaned inside. Pea’s stern features lightened as he eyed the young man’s rump.

  Strolling over to Kane, I volunteered, “Can I help?” The drawers didn’t look heavy, but as there were four or five of them, it would have been awkward for Kane to carry them all.

  “Sure, Claire, thanks.” He handed me a couple.

  As we carried them back to the garage, Pea fretted, “I hope you know how to get everything back in the right place…”

  “Would you relax?” said Grant with an exasperated laugh.

  Pea fussed, “Do you have any idea what this desk is worth?”

  “Of course I do. For God’s sake, each drawer is a different size. Any two-year-old could match up the holes.” Proving his point, Grant took
the drawers from Kane and me, sliding each into its appropriate opening. Everything fit perfectly on the first try. He told Pea, “Duly delivered, all in one piece. Now stop being such a nervous Nellie.”

  Pea heaved a put-upon sigh. “Well…” He squatted to examine the little writing desk, running his fingers across its inlaid blond-and-black finish. “Yes, everything seems to be in order.” Then he gasped. “Where’s the key? The key is missing!” He stood, looking steamed, all five-foot-six of him. “The drawers have an original, antique key. It’s irreplaceable. Where is it?”

  Grant checked his pockets, then snapped his fingers. “Sorry. I left it at home. I know exactly where it is—on the kitchen counter. It has a green silk tassel.”

  “Stewart will be furious,” warned Pea.

  “I highly doubt that,” Grant told him calmly. “If it’s that important, I’ll go back for it right now.”

  “You better believe it’s important. Why, if—”

  “What’s going on out here?” a voice interrupted. It was Stewart Chaffee himself, seated in his wheelchair, calling from the back door of the house, which he had opened.

  The four of us emerged from the adjacent garage into the full sunlight. “Morning, Stewart,” said Grant. “We’ve returned the Biedermeier desk, but—”

  “But he lost the damn key,” sniped Pea. “Really, Stewart, you should have second thoughts about lending that clock.”

  “The key isn’t lost,” Grant assured Stewart, then explained where it was, offering to get it immediately.

  Stewart wasn’t listening. He’d just noticed Kane among us and seemed far more intrigued by the studly college kid than by the trumped-up mystery of the missing key. When Pea finally managed to convey to Stewart the reason for his fuming, Stewart dismissed the calamity with a derisive laugh. “Grant can return the key anytime. What’s the difference?”

  Pea stamped one of his loafers and spun away from us in a huff.

  “Morning, Claire!” barked Stewart, looking decidedly jolly in a red velvet dressing gown that reminded me of a choir robe. “I presume you’ve come to collect my Austrian clock. Marvelous piece, marvelous.”