Closing the door, I then turned to the others. “Well. That was abrupt.”
Kiki, the only one of us still seated, at last stood.
Looking a bit wobbly, she slurred, “I thought she’d never leave.”
17
The party was over. Though I was finally able to relax and might have enjoyed a bit of reveling with friends, I’d lost my staff. Thierry had left in a panic shortly after Erin had ridden away with Larry Knoll, doubtless en route to the county jail in Riverside. It wasn’t clear whether the catering boss meant to get a lawyer and try to bail out his errant employee or if he was simply chagrined that yet another of his parties at my home had ended like the closing scene from some gritty police drama.
My guests dispersed quickly. During the chitchat that followed the arrest, Brandi Bjerregaard seemed to hit it off with Gabe Arlington; as they were both staying at the Regal Palms, he offered to drive her there, and they left together. Lance Caldwell claimed the onset of a migraine, which he feared might impair the delicate cerebral balance that governed his composing skills, so Glenn Yeats agreed to drive him home at once, but not before exacting from me promises to lock my doors that night, stay out of trouble, and phone him first thing in the morning.
I had no trouble justifying my fibs of compliance as I waved good night and shut the door. Remaining in my living room were Grant, Tanner, and Kiki, the three who meant most to me.
“Alone at last,” said Grant, moving to the bar to pour a glass of wine.
Tanner stepped toward me; I met him halfway. “Claire, you were wonderful,” he said, wrapping his arms around me for a nuzzling embrace.
Grant offered me the wine. “Congratulations, doll. I had no idea where you were headed tonight—and I admit, you made me squirm once or twice—but what else can I say? Bravo!”
Accepting the glass from him, I sipped the cool chardonnay and enjoyed it thoroughly. It was the most carefree moment I’d experienced in days.
“Yes, darling, bravo!” said Kiki, setting her empty glass on the coffee table. With a burst of applause, she added, “You were a triumph this evening—a flat-out triumph!”
I bowed mechanically to both of them. “Thank you. Thank you.” I paused, then added, “But I should probably restrict my future triumphs to the theatrical variety.” Having expressed that intention on previous occasions, I knew better than to take myself seriously.
“Yes … ,” said Grant, eyeing me askance, “my brother might appreciate that.”
“I don’t know, Grant.” Tanner crossed the room to the bookcase that housed the stereo and began browsing for a CD to play. He continued, “The quick arrest will look good for Larry. He seemed grateful for Claire’s involvement.”
I raised a hand, pledging, “Be that as it may, my sleuthing days are done.” Aware that I was fooling no one, I turned to Kiki, offering, “Nightcap?”
“I couldn’t, darling, but thank you. I’ve had far too much already.” She could barely stand.
“Besides,” Grant told her, “we should skedaddle. I think milady would like to be alone tonight—that is, ‘alone’ with her studly protégé.”
Kiki gasped, lifting a hand to her mouth. “I nearly forgot. This is your last night together. Tanner is off to LA tomorrow.”
Tanner told all of us, “It’s just up the road, a two-hour drive on the Ten. I’ll be around.” Ah, the best of intentions; I’d heard them before. Tanner punched a button on the stereo, and music began playing softly. The slow, jazzy melody set a pleasant, dreamy mood.
I set down my glass, telling Grant, “You don’t have to leave. It’s still early.”
“You’re just being polite. I know you’re dying to get rid of us.” His insight never failed to amaze me.
“Yes, dear,” said Kiki, stepping close to peck my cheek. “I know an exit cue when I hear one. Ta, darling.” And she moved to the door.
Grant followed. Opening the door, he flourished an arm, telling Kiki, “Madam’s car pool awaits.”
“Thank you, love.” Kiki called across the room, “Good night, Tanner,” then said to me, “Bye, dear. Call me tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
Grant glanced from me to Tanner and back again. Shaking a finger, he told us sternly, “You kids behave yourselves.” Then he hooted, “Ciao, guys!” and whisked Kiki out of the house.
I waved good-bye. “Drive carefully!”
Closing the door, I paused, listening to the gentle sounds of Tanner’s music. When I turned, he was still standing at the bookcase, on the far side of the room. We began a slow cross toward each other, speaking as we moved.
“Well?” I said. “It’s ‘just us.’”
“At long last.”
“At least for a while—at least for tonight.”
“I meant what I said, Claire. I’ll still be around.”
“No, you won’t,” I said with no bitterness. “You’ll be busy.”
Reaching me, he held my hands, facing me squarely. “That’s nuts.”
“That’s life.” I hugged him close. “But I have no intention of putting a damper on this evening.”
“You bet.” He growled in my ear, and we savored the touch of each other for a long, loving moment. When we stepped apart, Tanner took a quick look about the room. “Hey. Let me help you straighten up. Then we can relax.” He grabbed a few things from the coffee table and carried them to the kitchen.
“You needn’t do that,” I told him, strolling to the fireplace, glancing at the wall of photos. “Oralia comes on Tuesdays. She’ll tidy up.”
“No trouble at all. I enjoy being helpful.” He’d begun working at the pass-through bar, pulling bottles and glassware into the kitchen. “Uh-oh …”
I turned. “What’s wrong?”
Stepping through the doorway and into the living room, he explained, “Protein bars. We’re out of them.”
Crossing to him, I twitched a brow. “Uh-oh is right. Wouldn’t want you running low on protein—not tonight.” I traced a finger down his chest.
“For tomorrow.” He laughed. “I’ll want a couple in the morning.” He yanked a ring of keys from his pocket, jangling them. “Think I’ll run down to the corner—only be a minute.” Then a wrinkle creased his brow. “Do you mind?”
My brow wrinkled as well. “Of course not. Why would I mind?”
“Well,” he explained awkwardly, “I don’t want you thinking I’ve … abandoned you.”
“Nonsense.”
“But tomorrow—”
“I helped make this happen for you. How could I feel abandoned?”
“I mean,” he said sheepishly, “I don’t want you feeling … alone.”
“Tanner. Sweetheart.” I paused, looking into his eyes. Kissing the tip of my index finger, I told him, “I’m used to it.” And I touched my finger to his lips. Beaming, Tanner took hold of my shoulders for a moment, as if drinking in the sight of me. Then he dashed to the door, opened it, and rushed out, pulling the door closed behind him.
Watching him leave, I stood still and silent, then breathed a little sigh. Oddly, this quiet utterance carried no hint of longing or remorse, but seemed to signal a deep contentment. The feeling may have stemmed from the victory of a murder solved, or it may have simply acknowledged gratitude for the time I’d already spent with Tanner. Both of these emotional episodes in my life were now resolved simultaneously, and I felt not the slightest regret for either involvement. On the contrary, I felt that I had been both challenged and enriched.
Rebecca Wallace had called herself a happy woman, mouthing empty words. Charitably—perhaps condescendingly—I now wished she could feel some small measure of my own satisfaction.
Crossing the room to the bookcase, I notched up the music and drifted again to the fireplace, gazing at the mingled collection of photographs—mine and Spencer Wallace’s. Feeling the music, I lifted the Cabo picture from the mantel and waltzed with it to the center of the room, studying it at arm’s length. When I reached the bench
, I dropped the photo facedown on the leather cushion and twirled gently once or twice, moving through the open doors to the terrace.
As the closing phrases of the music grew louder and reached their final cadence, I stopped near the edge of the pool, flung my arms toward the sky, and vented a loud, sustained sigh.
Like waning laughter, the sound of my voice vanished in the black desert night.
author’s note
The novel Desert Spring and the stage play Photo Flash were conceived simultaneously as two versions of the same story, freely adapted to different media. Writing the play first, I received invaluable guidance with the script from Eric Margerum and Dean Yohnk, representing the theater departments of, respectively, Carthage College and the University of Wisconsin—Parkside, both in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Photographer Timm Bundies and Dr. Richard Borman offered generous assistance with various details of the novel’s plot. As always, my agent, Mitchell Waters, and my editor, Keith Kahla, kept the momentum of both projects alive with their support and enthusiasm.
ALSO BY MICHAEL CRAFT
Rehearsing
The Mark Manning Series
Flight Dreams
Eye Contact
Body Language
Name Games
Boy Toy
Hot Spot
The Claire Gray Series
Desert Autumn
Desert Winter
Stage Play
Photo Flash
www.michaelcraft.com
DESERT SPRING. Copyright © 2004 by Michael Craft. All rights reserved. . No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781466828711
First eBook Edition : August 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Craft, Michael, 1950–
Desert spring / Michael Craft.—1st St. Martin’s Minotaur ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-32080-9
1. Gray, Claire (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Motion picture producers and directors—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Women theatrical producers and directors—Fiction. 4. Women college teachers—Fiction. 5. Palm Springs (Calif.)—Fiction. 6. College theater—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.R215D473 2004
813’.54—dc22
2003058789
First Edition: March 2004
Desert Spring Page 22
