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Authors: Michael Craft

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Neil asked him, “So what do you think of sleepy little Dumont?”
“Seems nice enough.” Grandly, he expostulated, “It's not where one lives, but
how
.” Then he laughed. “No, seriously. You've got a wonderful place here. As for the town, I haven't really seen it yet; I arrived in the dark.”
I asked, “Have you seen the Reece house?”
“Just Neil's plans, which look fabulous. I'm eager to see the real thing.”
“You won't be disappointed.” I shifted my glance to Neil. “Seriously, kiddo, you really outdid yourself this time.”
“Shucks,” he drawled, “jest doin' m'job.”
I told Todd, “The features editor of our paper, Glee Savage, is planning a big photo spread for this Sunday.”
Neil elbowed Todd. “So we'd better get those curtains up.”
“Yes, massa.” Todd squinted. “Glee Savage? What a handle.”
I agreed, “It is, isn't it?” I was tempted to explain how the name had come about, but refrained, deciding that Glee's story had not been shared with me so I might lob it about as cocktail chat. Besides, Todd's comment about Glee's name brought something else to mind.
“Todd Draper … ,” I said. “Speaking of handles, that one's not bad for someone in your line of work.”
He nodded wearily. “Everyone asks about the name, but I didn't make it up. I was born Todd Draper.”
“Really? I just assumed—since you're in the drapery business—”
“Mark, Mark, Mark,” said Neil, shaking his head pitiably, exchanging a sigh with Todd, “one never says ‘drapery.'”
Todd explained, “In the trade, anything hanging at a window is ‘curtains,' not ‘drapes.'”
“Ah.” There are areas of knowledge that should be the birthright of all gay men, but I was still learning.
“Ergo, the name Draper is almost
inappropriate
to my work. Even so, it has that heritage—a pedigree, if you will.”
My look of blank ignorance prompted Neil to remind me, “Dorothy Draper was one of
the
great interior designers of the last century. I'm sure you've heard of her, Mark.”
Actually, I had. Neil often spoke of her as the doyenne of American decorators. With arched brows, I asked Todd, “You're related to Dorothy Draper? I'm impressed.”
“Distantly. Well,
supposedly.
My father, who founded Draper Studios in Chicago, always claimed there was common blood, so you'll have to take his word for it, not mine.”
“Is your dad still in the business?”
“No, he's long gone. Up until two years ago, Geoff and I ran it, but now that
he's
gone, I run the whole show.”
Tentatively, I asked, “Geoff … ?” Was he an uncle of Todd's? A brother?
“Mark,” said Neil quietly, “Geoff was Todd's lover. He died in an auto accident.”
“Oh, gosh,” I said, leaning forward to place my palm on Todd's knee, “I'm so sorry.”
“Thanks, Mark.” He placed his hand over mine. “It was rough—especially the suddenness—but I'm coming out of it. Friends make all the difference.” He squeezed my hand, then drained the Scotch in his glass.
A log popped and collapsed in the grate, spraying sparks against the screen.
“More?” I asked.
“Please.” He handed me the glass. Without getting up, I poured his refill from the tray on the coffee table.
Neil asked him, “Are you back in the dating game yet?”
Todd grinned. “Oh, not actively, but yeah, I've been looking.”
“You won't have a
bit
of trouble,” I said offhandedly, then wished I hadn't been so quick with the comment.
Neil seconded, “Trust me—anyone would jump at the chance.”
“Thanks,” said Todd. Then he added coyly, “Because I'm more than ready.”
I handed him his drink.
The three of us gabbed for another half hour or so, covering topics ranging from business to politics. We discovered a few mutual friends from my days in Chicago, and Neil compared notes with Todd on some of their shared clients. Throughout this banter, Todd's manner was uniformly lighthearted, with laughter punctuating his words—until the name of a particular client was mentioned.
“First thing tomorrow,” said Neil, “I need to introduce you to Gillian Reece. She—”
“
Ughhh,
what a bitch,” Todd interrupted.
“She can be difficult,” I allowed.
“I mean, even on the
phone,
you can just tell that this woman is one nasty piece of work. She's pretentious, opinionated, overbearing—and she has no taste. Zero. None.”
I mentioned, “But she's awfully good with numbers,” knowing this would do little to sway Todd's open-and-shut opinion of her.
Neil shrugged. “At least she had sense enough to hire
us.
”
Todd put his arm around Neil's shoulder. “She hired you, my friend. And you had sense enough to hire me. But now that I have a sense of the woman, I can't imagine how you work with her.”
“Somehow, we seem to get along. There have been no major battles, and our few minor skirmishes, I've won. Don't worry, Todd. If anything comes up, I'll play referee.”
“It
has
come up—and it's bugle fringe. She wants it!”
Neil flumped back in the love seat. “You're kidding.”
“Would I make light of something so heinous as bugle fringe?” At last Todd cracked a smile.
“So tell me,” said Neil, “as long as we're being brutally honest, what do you think of the sheers in this room?”
Though out of my element, I quipped, “I thought they were curtains.”
Todd explained, “Sheers are
always
curtains, Mark, and curtains are
sometimes
sheers, but neither sheers nor curtains are
ever
drapes.”
“Ah.” Still learning.
Todd turned to Neil. “They're, uh … adequate. Perfectly adequate.”
“You liar.” Neil cuffed Todd's shoulder. “They're god-awful, and you know it.”
Todd smirked. “Well, at least I didn't
say
it.”
“They're cheesy. And I'm man enough to admit I need help. Think you could draw something up for us?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Your
budget,
of course!” Todd yelped a loud laugh.
He and Neil continued in this vein, debating possibilities for redecorating my den. I had sense enough to stay out of it.
Besides, I enjoyed just watching them, sitting there together on the sofa, engaging in their bout of manic creativity. Taking a long look at them, I realized that Roxanne had been right. Todd Draper was indeed “quite the dish.”
What's more, he looked a lot like Neil.
More to the point, he reminded me of the third party in my dream that morning.
Joint Venture
THE ‘AH' FACTOR
Workers reaching completion on
stunning new local residence
 
 
by GLEE SAVAGE
Trends Editor, Dumont Daily Register
 
 
OCT. 22, DUMONT, WI—A magnificent new home being built on Dumont's east side has been the talk of the town since ground was broken for construction late last year. Decorating crews are now rushing to complete the project, and soon its owners, Mr. and Mrs. Esmond Reece, will move into their lavish new residence.
The
Register
was recently treated to a preview tour, conducted by the architect, Neil Waite of Dumont. “My clients wanted a big, comfortable house,” he said, “and they also wanted to make a ‘statement.' The danger would be in allowing the house to become a mere status symbol.”
Mr. Waite has clearly succeeded in avoiding any such pitfall, producing a home that is both visually arresting and meant to be lived in. What's more, the structure blends seamlessly with its setting. The architect explained, “The stone was quarried in the northern part of the state, and the timbers, though not local, are a reflection of the wooded landscape.”
In the hands of a less skilled designer, these materials might have come across as “rustic,” but not here. Mr. Waite also included in his materials palette the sensitive use of glass, which lightens the whole structure and offers just the right counterpoint of sophistication.
Remarkably, the inside of the house is even more jaw-dropping than its exterior. Centerpiece of the interior space is a sumptuous two-story elliptical living room that also serves as a functioning library.
Without a doubt, Neil Waite has now established himself as one of the finest residential architects in the Midwest. See for yourself in Sunday's Trends section, which will carry a full-color photo features.
W
ednesday dawned later than we had intended. Our conversation with Todd Draper the night before had kept us up beyond our normal hours, and I had failed to heed a lesson learned from previous experience—that one brandy before retiring is more than sufficient. So I lingered in the shower that morning while Neil traipsed down to the kitchen, started the coffee, and admitted our friend Doug Pierce, the sheriff, who paid a routine breakfast visit, delivering pastry fetched on the way from his early workout at the gym.
When I arrived downstairs, Doug had just set a copy of the
Register
on the kitchen table, folded open to Glee's column. “Congratulations,” he was telling Neil. “That's quite a valentine—and a well-deserved one at that.”
Skimming the story, Neil shook his head with a soft laugh. “Glee barely mentions Gillian, referring to her as Mrs. Reece.”
Strolling over to the table and into their conversation, I said, “I admire Glee's restraint, considering what she probably
wanted
to call Gillian.”
“Trouble?” asked Doug, looking over the rim of his coffee mug. He always dressed in business clothes, rather than a uniform, and that morning he was wearing a jacket I particularly liked on him, a tweedy green blazer.
“Long story,” I said, dismissing Doug's question, tired of the topic. At dinner the night before, I had confided to Neil the history of Glee's college romance, wrenched by Gillian.
Doug couldn't stay long, needing to go downtown for an early meeting of the public-safety commission, so we weren't able to introduce him to our houseguest that morning. Todd, exhausted from his long drive on Tuesday evening (and doubtless no less groggy than I from too many nightcaps), slept through breakfast and, when he finally did come downstairs to meet us in the kitchen, asked if he could take some coffee in the car with him.
“Don't you want to try some kringle first?” asked Neil, referring to the large horseshoe-shaped Danish that Doug had brought. “It's a specialty up here.”
“Maybe tomorrow, thanks. I need to get over to the Reece house; my crew may already be there. Besides”—he eyed the pastry and patted his stomach—“need to watch my figure.”
He looked just fine to me. In fact, fresh from the shower, he looked even better than the night before.
Even though Todd was last to rise that day, he was first out of the house. Leaving through the back door with his go-cup, he gave a cheery wave, telling us, “See you there!”
“Okay, Todd,” said Neil, “we won't be long. Sorry—I'd wanted to introduce you to Gillian.”
Todd rolled his eyes. “I'm sure I'll find her.” And he was gone.
Both Neil and I planned to join him at the Reece house, Neil because he was on the job and needed to oversee the completion of various projects, and I because I was curious. Lying in bed after our long conversation with Todd the previous night, Neil had told me, “Don't spread this around, but the curtains for Gillian's living room
alone
cost nearly fifty thousand dollars.”
This
I had to see.
Though we were all headed to the Reeces', each drove his own car, as Todd and Neil had unpredictable schedules, and I didn't plan to stay long, needing to spend the rest of the morning at my office. After sprucing up the kitchen, Neil and I left the house. I followed him to
the outskirts of town, to the magnificent new home that had been written up in that morning's paper.
Perhaps because of the publicity, there seemed to be more traffic than usual in the secluded, woodsy neighborhood where the Reeces would soon reign as homeowners nonpareil. As publisher of the local paper, I liked to think that our modest daily journal held that sort of power, though in truth, the extra vehicles might simply have signaled an intensified rush to finish the job.
Neil and I cruised along a line of parked cars and trucks that included Gillian's conspicuous Bentley, Todd's sleek Mercedes, and a large van with Illinois plates. Elegant gold lettering on the side of the truck trumpeted DRAPER STUDIOS. Neil parked in front of the truck, and I pulled in beyond Neil.
Getting out of our cars, we noted that the back doors of the truck were wide open. Inside were several large corrugated cartons, marked REECE. It was apparent from their arrangement that these were merely the last of the boxes; many others had already been unloaded. At the moment, none of the Draper's crew were present at the curb, though we saw two men with a dolly carting a similar corrugated box into the house through the garage.
“Let's find Todd,” said Neil, leading me along the sidewalk toward the front door. A landscaping crew was trimming rolls of sod to fit the front lawn like a moist, loamy carpet. Precise rows of boxwood, not present yesterday, now lined both sides of the stone walkway. Workers ducked in and out of the house, some of them pausing to take notes as they gabbed on cell phones.
As we stepped through the front door, Neil encountered several contractors who immediately nabbed him, asking questions while scribbling on clipboards. The foyer rug had been laid, dampening the previous day's din. Painters in white overalls were touching up the room's heavy wooden trim. Cartons from Draper Studios were placed beneath each window; a stack of them stood near the double doors leading to the living room.
Above it all, drifting through the house at random intervals, was
the warble and chime of cell phones, sounding like birds in an electronic aviary, one of which kept attempting an anemic rendition of the
William Tell
Overture (specifically, a measure or two of the section cribbed by
The Lone Ranger
). Who, I wondered, could possibly be addled enough to program a phone with such an insipid ring? Had he no sense of dignity, self-respect, or at the very least, shame?
Extricating himself from a knot of workers, Neil crossed the foyer to me and repeated, “Let's find Todd.”
I nodded. “I wonder if
he's
found Gillian.”
“Has he ever!” said a guy trundling by just then with a Draper's box on a dolly. He broke stride long enough to jerk his head toward the living-room doors, then continued down a hall toward the other end of the house.
Neil and I shared a brief, concerned glance, then stepped together to the double doors. I wasn't about to repeat a performance of yesterday's awkward entrance, so I told Neil, “She's your client.” Neil gave me a quizzical look that seemed to ask, So? Then he turned one of the knobs and opened the door.
That's when we plainly heard the yelling.
“I already
told
you,” Todd shouted, “beaded fringe is
wrong
for this room.
“And who the hell are
you,”
said Gillian, “to tell me what's right or wrong for my
own
fucking living room?”
“Unless you plan to use it as a bordello—and for all I know, you may—beads are simply inappropriate. You can't have them.” Todd stamped a foot.
“Period.”
By then, Neil and I had rushed into the fray. Todd and Gillian stood near the center of the room, with perhaps a half dozen workmen stationed near various windows. Two extension ladders had been set up on either side of one of the two-story windows, and a single panel of drapery—excuse me, curtains—had just been installed. I wasn't sure what Todd and Gillian were arguing about, and at the moment, I had lost interest, as my attention was instead riveted by the long, sensuous panel of fabric. A workman reached from the library balcony to steam
wrinkles from the upper portion of the curtain while straightening its folds. The nozzle in his hand hissed and gurgled.
Reading the look on my face, Neil stepped me aside, saying, “They're incredible, aren't they?
No one
does work like Todd Draper.” Gillian was still yapping and yelling in the background.
I told Neil, “I admit it—I don't recall
ever
seeing curtains so drop-dead beautiful. I've never even thought much about curtains, but these—wow.”
“They're hand-loomed Italian Scalamandré silk,” Neil explained, “and this room took
hundreds
of yards of it, with taffeta lining and
two
interlinings of English bump. The pattern is a subtle tone-on-tone vertical stripe of gray and silver; that's what gives the folds such depth, as well as the overall effect of shimmer. It's perfect for these high, narrow windows, especially in contrast to the dark wood of the surrounding bookcases and balcony.”
“There's fringe,” I noted, “and it's gorgeous. What's Gillian complaining about?”
“She wanted
bugles
—small, hollow glass rods, strung like beads—but Todd refused, giving her classic bullion fringe—silk threads twisted into cords, with handmade bobble tassels. It's all custom work, a foot deep, top and bottom, perfectly matched to the colors of the fabric and the paint palette of the room. Yes, it's expensive, but for work of this caliber, Todd's prices are not only customary, but reasonable. He's a genius.”
“Listen to me, smart-ass,” barked Gillian, “I was very specific in telling you how I wanted my drapes made.”
Todd countered, “I was equally specific in telling
you
exactly how they
would
be made. The curtains are aesthetically correct as delivered—with bullion fringe.”
“Bullshit! You seem to be unfamiliar with the concept, but
this
customer is
always
right.”
“Let me remind you, Mrs. Reece, that you are
not
my customer. I was contracted by your architect, who also holds a stake in the finished appearance of this room.”
Gillian crossed her arms, fuming. “But
I'm
paying the bills, dammit, and for fifty grand, I expect to get
exactly
what I want.”
Todd paused, then stepped to within inches of Gillian, telling her flatly, calmly, “Then I suggest you phone Decorating Den. Not only will they be happy to give you exactly what you want, but they will charge you considerably less. You will
never,
however, know the satisfaction—or the prestige—of living with curtains so artfully fabricated as those from Draper Studios.” Harrumph.
Standing ramrod stiff, Gillian took in his words, considered his ultimatum for a moment, and then, without flinching, stepped back for better balance, took aim, and stung him with a flesh-searing bitch slap.
Only a day earlier I'd witnessed the depth of Glee Savage's anger, which had allowed a perky little woman to deliver a surprisingly powerful punch, but now Gillian made Glee look like a welterweight, forcing me to wonder if Todd's jaw was broken. During the seconds of breathless silence that followed, Todd raised his hand, feeling his face. I fully expected him to return Gillian's slap.
Instead, Gillian shrieked at him, “Get
out!”
With more restraint than I could have mustered, Todd glanced at one of his workers, presumably the installation foreman, signaled a thumbs-down, then walked straight from the living room, through the foyer, and out to the street.
The other workers gathered with the foreman, discussing their next move—should they drop everything and leave, or pack up everything and haul it back to the truck, or simply wait?
Neil, meanwhile, confronted Gillian, telling her point-blank, “I'm ashamed of you. Do you have
any
idea of the reputation of the man you just insulted? Do you have
any
idea how lucky you are that Todd Draper himself consented to take on this job, up here in the middle of nowhere? If you want to play with the big boys, Gillian, you'd better learn to
work
with the big boys. You've told me that your goal is nothing less than to have this house published. Fine. But if that's the case, you're playing by
my
rules. If you think
Architectural Digest
is going to beat a path to your door, you're sadly mistaken, especially after word gets out that you've …” And so forth. I'd rarely seen Neil with raised
hackles, and I was glad to note how adroitly he handled this more aggressive edge to his personality—he was being forceful with Gillian, but objective.
Adding to the general atmosphere of consternation that filled the room, cell phones kept ringing, including that vapid, tasteless one that was still beeping its nasal rendition of
William Tell.
“Hi-yo, Silver!” said one of the workmen, passing by me. “I think that's you, buddy.”
I may have choked. As if in a state of suspended animation, all activity and noise in the room ceased, save the ringing of the phone in my pocket. As it galloped through another measure of its hackneyed melody, my mind raced through a spectrum of emotions that began with denial and ended with mortification. Had I
myself
caused this, fussing with buttons whose functions were unknown to me? Why in hell hadn't I studied the instruction booklet that Lucy had given me with the phone? (Because it was two hundred pages long, that's why, and why should a phone—a
phone,
for Christ's sake—require instructions in the first place, huh?) Managing to get the damn thing out of my pocket, managing to flip it open and find the green button, I said into it, dry-throated, “Yes?”
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