Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  Grant strolled toward us, swirling the drink in his glass. He observed us for a moment, finger to chin. “My,” he said, “isn’t this a cozy picture? Not quite the typical teacher-student relationship.”

  Not quite, indeed. When I’d first met Tanner, just before classes had begun the previous fall, I’d recognized an attraction that was instant and mutual. I’d also recognized the questionable propriety of our rush toward intimacy, but ultimately, I’d been unable to resist it. By winter, he’d moved many of his things into my smallish condo, spending most of his nights there—the primary motivation for my purchase of a larger house. Now, of course, the move may have seemed unwarranted, as Tanner would soon be leaving, but I was enjoying my new home and was glad to have had an excuse to buy it. Win some, lose some.

  Grant clucked. “How old are you Tanner—half Claire’s age?”

  Focusing on me, Tanner paid little attention to Grant, answering, “Something like that, yes.” More precisely, at twenty-six, he was less than half my age. Shame on me. Hell, lucky me.

  Grant pattered on, “Though I must admit, Claire, I admire your taste in men.”

  I turned from Tanner, saying, “Thank you, Grant. And I’ve always admired your taste in men—to say nothing of your taste in real estate.” I made a sweeping gesture that encompassed our surroundings.

  Grant flopped a palm to his chest, humbled. “Why, thank you, doll. I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from the illustrious Claire Gray—among the brightest lights in the American theater.”

  With a petite, ladylike snort, I sat at one end of the leather-cushioned bench that served as my sofa. “I’m a director, Grant, not a starlet. And now, I’m a teacher, of all things.”

  Tanner stepped to the bench, telling me, “I’ll have to side with Grant.”

  Grant nodded—so there.

  Tanner continued, “The name Claire Gray shines as bright as that of any star, onstage or off. When you left your career on Broadway and moved here to join the DAC faculty, you took a bold step that’ll help to shape the next generation of American actors.” He reached for my hands and brought me to my feet, adding, “And I, for one, am eternally grateful.” He kissed me again, lightly.

  I held his face in my hands. “Who’d have thought—certainly not I, not in my wildest dreams—that ‘starting over’ at fifty-four, I’d start over with the likes of Tanner Griffin?”

  He exhaled a soft laugh of disbelief. With sincere modesty, he said, “I’m … I’m no one. You found me working in a body shop. I tinted your car windows.”

  I shook a finger in his face, dead serious. “I found a natural talent, a promising young actor who could help me develop my fledgling theater program. It didn’t matter that you were a few years older than my other students; in fact, that was an advantage. I needed a leading man for our new troupe, and I found him.”

  From the side of his mouth, Grant said, “You also found a … uh, ‘roommate.’” The lilt of his voice was heavy with insinuation.

  “God, did I—in spades!” I felt silly and girlish referring in code to my lover as a roommate, but circumstances had dictated that Tanner and I needed to be discreet about our relationship. It was not quite a secret that we’d been living together, but we never discussed it publicly. Especially on campus or at social gatherings, we never behaved as a couple. First, to do so would lack professionalism. Second, and just as important, it would not be appreciated by Glenn Yeats, who was not only my employer, but also a patient, would-be suitor. For the sake of appearances, Tanner had held on to his meager apartment in north Palm Springs.

  My jubilant mood sagged as the full reality of Tanner’s impending departure sank in. “I’m no fatalist,” I said to no one in particular, “but it seems that all good things must in fact come to an end.” I slumped onto the leather bench again.

  Tanner sat next to me, taking my hand. His voice was tender. “It didn’t need to end so quickly. This was all your doing, remember—recruiting me into your program last fall, casting me in the leading role of your first production, and inviting Spencer Wallace to the premiere.”

  Grant set down his drink and swooped behind us at the bench. “And the rest,” he said with a broad flourish, “is theatrical history!” He recalled, with dramatic bravado, “It was one of those Hollywood fairy tales, the sort of catapult-to-overnight-fame that happens only in movies, rarely in real life. Spencer Wallace, Mr. Blockbuster himself, has signed our heartthrob-in-training to appear in his next major film.” Grant kissed the top of Tanner’s head, sniffing his tousled mop of sandy blond hair.

  “Exactly as I’d intended.” I tossed my hands, still conflicted over the results of my plan.

  “Flash forward,” said Grant. “It is now April, some four months after the powerful Mr. Wallace has discovered the hunky Mr. Griffin, and here we sit, among the debris and detritus of a marvelous cast party.” Grant kissed the top of my head, but he didn’t linger to sniff it.

  As if on cue, Erin appeared from the kitchen with a tray, then set about clearing some of the “debris and detritus” Grant had mentioned. His description had conjured a picture of the ruinous aftermath of war, but in truth, my guests had been no more boorish than to leave a smattering of dirty dishes and half-drunk cocktails about the living room and outdoors on the terrace.

  I sighed. “It wasn’t just a cast party, you know. It was a farewell party for Tanner.” I patted his hand.

  “And a tribute to Spencer Wallace,” he added. “Don’t forget our guest of honor.”

  Grant strolled from behind the bench, retrieving his nightcap before Erin could snatch it and haul it to the kitchen with the other glasses she’d been plucking up. Grant swirled the last of his liquor and told me sincerely, “It was a fabulous evening, Claire. Memorable, too. Your guests will talk about this for years to come—wining and dining with the likes of Spencer Wallace, while sending Tanner on his way to begin the filming of Photo Flash.” Grant finished his drink, then mentioned, “I had a chance to gab with Wallace awhile. He has high hopes for this project—loves the script.”

  Tanner laughed. “He ought to. He wrote it.”

  “Inspired by his own hobby.” Grant set down his glass and strolled toward the fireplace, telling me, “I see Wallace brought you yet another example of his work.”

  “Yes,” I said, rising, joining Grant at the fireplace, “the one on the mantel is new. But some of those are mine, you know.”

  Studying the wall of pictures, he noted, “It seems your styles have merged.”

  “They have, haven’t they? We’ve struck up a close friendship, Spencer and I. He’s taught me a lot.” With a quiet laugh, I stepped back to the bench, adding, “Everything has turned out perfectly—especially with regard to you, Tanner. I couldn’t have plotted it better. Except, I had no idea it would happen so fast. And I had no idea we’d grow so attached.”

  Tanner stood and, without hesitation, suggested, “Just say the word, Claire, and I’ll stay. I have far more to learn from you—right here. Hollywood can wait. Wallace can wait.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.” I shook my head decisively. “An opportunity like this knocks only once.”

  “Miss Gray?” said Erin as she made another pass through the room with her tray, gathering more glasses. “If you’ll be sitting up for a while, would you like me to make a fresh pot of coffee?”

  Looking from Tanner to Grant, who both expressed disinterest, I told the girl, “Thanks, that’s good of you, but I think not. It’s getting late.”

  She continued loading her tray, which was already heaped high.

  “Too late for coffee …,” I thought aloud, strolling toward the bar. Then I turned to Grant. “Maybe a nightcap is in order.”

  “Of course it is.” Grant joined me at the bar and poured a splash of cognac for each of us.

  Tanner was standing near the coffee table, which Erin now cleared of a few more glasses. Noticing that her tray was loaded to capacity, Tanner asked, “Can I give you a
hand with that?”

  “I’ll be fine. But thank you, Mr. Griffin.” She squatted, picked up the tray, and hoisted it to shoulder level.

  “‘Mr. Griffin’?” repeated Tanner with dismay—he was only three or four years older than the girl. He insisted, “It’s Tanner.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, I know, sir.” She offered a quick, weak smile, then turned and crossed toward the kitchen.

  Noting this interchange, Grant and I lifted our snifters to hide our grins.

  With a confused laugh, Tanner followed Erin, asking, “Have we met? Do we know each other? We must.”

  Erin paused, blushing. “I’m sure we haven’t met, sir.” Then she scampered to the kitchen and disappeared.

  Scratching behind an ear, Tanner called after her, “But you do seem familiar. And, please—don’t call me ‘sir.’”

  Grant blurted a loud laugh. “Stop flirting, Tanner.” Then, with a disapproving tsk, he told me from the corner of his mouth, “She’s far too young for Tanner. He must be twice her age.”

  I gave Grant a dirty look, then downed a slug of my cognac. Tanner returned to the bookcase, where he put away the last of the CDs that were scattered about. “Tanner,” I asked, “can we mix you something? Bar’s still open.”

  He looked over his shoulder, shook his head. “Better not. Have to drive.”

  “Awww,” I whined, setting my snifter on the coffee table as I crossed the room to him, “you don’t have to, do you? Can’t you stay here tonight? This has been ‘home.’”

  Finishing with the CDs, he turned to me. “Yes, this has been home for me. Well, a second home. But I never did completely move in—there wasn’t time—and I never did let go of my old apartment. It isn’t much, but I’ve got lots of stuff there, and the movers arrive first thing Monday. I haven’t even begun packing, so I need to put in a busy day tomorrow—and I’ll never get started if I wake up here. Sorry.” He pecked my cheek.

  “I know.” Hangdog, I stubbed the toe of my shoe against the floor. “But tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Brightening some, I asked, “And Monday night?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Then Tuesday—” The cloud descended.

  “Tuesday, it’s off to LA.” Tanner tried, but he couldn’t quite conceal his eagerness. When it comes to artifice, even an accomplished actor has his limits.

  “Ugh, please,” I said with a grand sigh. “Don’t even speak of Tuesday.”

  Erin had returned from the kitchen with a bigger tray—a large, oval, silver serving tray—and continued to pick up around the living room. Though I found her presence intrusive, it beat the alternative, my waking up to the mess in the morning.

  Tanner fingered my chin. “I thought that’s what you wanted for me—a big break in pictures.”

  Peevishly, I acknowledged, “It is, it is.”

  “I thought you were proud of me.”

  “I am, I am.”

  Tanner wrapped me in a loose embrace. “Then it’s time for this protégé to fly the nest—and a loving, miraculous nest it has been.”

  “I know, kiddo. You’ll have to excuse me, but tonight, my emotions are mixed. And uncharacteristically fragile.” I mustered a smile and patted his chest. “I couldn’t be happier for you. Really.”

  “But … ?”

  “But …” Pacing to the center of the room, I flung my arms in frustration and emitted a beastly growl. “Aarghh! I couldn’t be happier for you, Tanner, but I could just kill Spencer Wallace for stealing you from me!”

  Laughing, Tanner crossed to me and took me in his arms again.

  Erin discreetly retreated to the kitchen.

  “Oh, my,” said Grant, swooping toward me from the bar. “Milady is indulging in a bit of melodrama this evening.” Coyly, he added, “Not that I blame you.” Grant stepped to Tanner, studied him for a moment, then languidly slid an arm behind his back, cupping Tanner’s sandy-haired head in his palm. “If I had known the carnal pleasures of this stud-muffin, I’d be out for blood.” As if putting a period on his threat, Grant planted a delicate kiss on Tanner’s cheek.

  “Shucks,” said Tanner, not the least put off by Grant’s advance, “I never knew you cared.” Then he slipped away from Grant, crossed the room, and disappeared into a short hall that led to the bedrooms.

  With a complacent sigh, I shook my head and sat again on the leather bench, telling Grant, “Thanks for reminding me how foolish and histrionic I can sound at times.”

  “Don’t mention it, doll. You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

  Tanner returned from the hall carrying a light jacket. “I hate to break up what’s left of the party, but I really do need to run. You’ll be all right?”

  I nodded. “Of course, dear. My nerves may be a bit frayed, but I’ll survive. Always have.” Rising, I walked Tanner to the front door.

  He put his jacket on, telling me, “I’ll call in the morning.”

  “Please do. Not too early, though. We could both use some rest.”

  With a sharp laugh, Grant interjected, “Just one more reason the boy dare not spend the night here. Milady would have him up till all hours—playing catch-me-catch-me.”

  “Do shut up,” I told Grant without malice. Returning my attentions to Tanner, I said, “At the risk of repeating myself, love, you were superb tonight—and throughout the run.” I straightened the collar of his jacket. “Now, then. Drive with care, get yourself tucked in, and we’ll talk tomorrow—whenever you feel like taking a break from your packing.”

  Tanner hugged me. “It’s a date.”

  “A phone date—but I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Then, tomorrow night, the real thing.”

  I growled. “Now, that’s a date.”

  “Night, Claire.” Tanner gave me another quick kiss. “Night, Grant.” Then he opened the door and left the house.

  Grant called after him, “Nighty-night, hot stuff.”

  “Dormez bien,” I added, watching him walk to his car. Then I closed the door and stood facing it for a long, silent moment.

  Grant asked softly, “Claire?”

  I turned. “Hmm?”

  “He’s such a special young man.”

  “With the emphasis on young?” I smirked.

  “No, no. I mean it.” Grant set his snifter next to mine on the coffee table, then moved to me. “The word sounds so threadbare, but Tanner is ‘special’ in every way.”

  “I’ll tell the world.”

  “You won’t have to, not now. Now that Tanner has been taken under wing by Spencer Wallace, he’ll tell the world.”

  “Better Spencer than anyone else. He’s the biggest and best producer in the business. I know that I’ve left Tanner’s career in able hands.” Ambling from the door to the center of the room, I gazed out the glass doors to the terrace, thinking aloud, “I’ve always prided myself as a practical, objective woman, not given to flights of fancy, thoroughly skeptical of the supernatural. I’ve never believed in destiny. But I must admit, from the moment when I first saw Tanner act, I understood that it was … well, preordained that the theater world would lose him to Hollywood. I have no doubt of his potential.”

  With a big sigh, Grant said, “Our loss, the hoi polloi’s gain.”

  I turned to him. “Stop your pining. God knows, you’ve had a fair share of men in your life.”

  Matter-of-factly, he acknowledged, “Far too many.” He added, “God knows, you’ve had men in your life, too.”

  Dryly, I acknowledged, “Far too few.”

  He led me to the coffee table, lifted both of our snifters, and handed me mine. “Come on, doll. Let’s commiserate.”

  As we sipped the cognac together, Erin reappeared from the kitchen with her silver tray, this time heading out to the terrace, which had not yet been tidied up.

  I swirled the heady brown liquor in my glass. “Ah, Grant,” I said, looking into his eyes, “it seems I’ve known you forever.”
<
br />   He shared my smile. “But it’s been only, what—six or seven months?”

  I chuckled at the irony. “Moving out here, I’d never have guessed that my real-estate agent would become my best friend.”

  “Odder things have happened. I’m a broker and developer, not a porn star.”

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed Erin working her way across the terrace, toward the swimming pool. Her tray was already brimming with glasses and dishes. I laughed at Grant’s comment. “A porn star? Don’t flatter yourself, dear.”

  With mock umbrage, he retorted, “You’re a fine one to talk—cradle robber.”

  “Shush.” I lifted my glass. “To friendship.”

  He lifted his. “To friendship, and love, and … and men like Tanner who leave us weak in the knees.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” We touched glasses, then sipped.

  Just as I was swallowing, Erin, outdoors, let loose with a horrific scream, dropping her metal tray and its load of glassware onto the stone terrace. Grant and I both choked. He managed not to drop his glass, but mine shattered at my feet.

  Erin rushed to the sliding doors. “Miss Gray!” Breathless and shaking, she pointed to the far side of the terrace. “Someone’s in the pool!”

  Confused, I asked deadpan, “Swimming—at this hour?”

  “No, Miss Gray. Sinking—facedown.”

  Grant and I exchanged a startled look, blinked as Erin’s words registered, then rushed out to the terrace together, Grant tearing off his sport coat and tossing it aside. As the pool came into view, we both froze, gasping at the sight of a man in a business suit, a blurry black X beneath the rippling blue light.

  Grant took a deep breath and tensed, preparing to dive. Then he paused, exhaled, and stooped to remove his gorgeous Italian loafers, handing them to Erin, who held them daintily with one hand. Grant took another deep breath, backed up a step—

  “Mind the broken glass,” I warned him.

  —and he leaped into the pool with an awkward splash, adding a good amount of water to the cognac that had already spattered my new silk dress.

  Erin joined me at the edge of the pool. We squealed, whimpered, and wrung our hands as Grant stroked his way to the bottom, then struggled to raise the body.