Desert Winter (5 page)

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.

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 the 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.