Desert Winter (3 page)

2

Grant Knoll phoned from his
car and checked in with Tracie, receptionist at the Nirvana sales office, where Grant was the principal broker. An exclusive, gated development of mountainside homes, Nirvana was also the site of a dramatically modern estate built by D. Glenn Yeats, the computer tycoon. When I had agreed to join Yeats's faculty at Desert Arts College, he had put me in touch with Grant to assist in finding housing for me. Grant would become not only my neighbor, but my new best friend.

Tracie told Grant that it had been a quiet Saturday morning and there were no appointments for him that afternoon, so Grant suggested I join him for lunch at his condo. This had become something of a weekend ritual for us, and I happily accepted.

Lush landscaping whisked past the car as we passed through Rancho Mirage, headed home toward Palm Desert. Driving away from Stewart Chaffee's estate, I noticed that it was located near that of the late Walter Annenberg, where sprawling grounds within the landmark pink walls included both a golf course and a mausoleum—talk about covering your bases.

“For a struggling decorator,” I thought aloud, “Stewart didn't do too badly. This must be one of the priciest neighborhoods in the valley.”

With eyes on the road, Grant told me, “Stewart never struggled. He was in the right place at the right time—and he was good. A society decorator during one of the desert's early boom periods, he established a prosperous career, and his fortunes snowballed. He eventually outgrew his original quarters in old Palm Springs and moved down valley to a choice tract of land here in Rancho.”

“Needed a bit of elbow room, eh?”

“Yup. As his decorating career waned, he got more involved as a serious collector, so the space has served him well.”

Mulling the events of that morning, I couldn't help observing, “It's hard to imagine that he ever ran a thriving business. I mean, he's cantankerous and self-centered. He refuses to deal with lawyers. In a word, he's eccentric.”

Turning onto Highway One-Eleven, the main route through the string of desert cities, Grant told me, “Some of Stewart's edginess came with age. He wasn't always a curmudgeon; he was known to be quite charming. Besides, top-end clients are willing to put up with a measure of attitude from their decorator. In fact,” Grant added with a knowing laugh, “they'd feel cheated without some of that posturing, better known as flair.”

Quietly, I noted, “It's a different world out here.” I was still adjusting to life in California. Not that New Yorkers couldn't hold their own when it came to edginess and posturing, but there was a distinct mind-set here on the opposite coast, and I was not yet fully attuned to it.

“In spite of Stewart's cranky nature,” Grant said, “he's always been philanthropic with his wealth. He's played a substantial role in helping to establish a vibrant arts scene throughout the valley.”

“Then I guess we can forgive his eccentricities.” I chortled. I was a fine one to talk of others' foibles.

We gabbed in this agreeable manner until reaching Villa Paseo, a six-unit condominium complex that we both called home. Some ten years earlier, Grant had been a partner in designing and building the charming development, which resembled a fanciful, tile-roofed stage setting for some merry operetta—replete with fountains, wrought-iron balconies entwined with bougainvillea, and staggered, whitewashed chimneys.

Grant parked in his garage; then we crossed the center courtyard together, approaching his unit, which was located in a prime location adjacent to the common pool. I asked, “Do you need some time to yourself first?”

“Nah. Come on in.” He opened the iron gate to his entry court. “We can gossip while I throw lunch together.” As he opened his front door, the security system beeped, and he entered a code to shut it down.

I asked, “It's just us?”

“Kane doesn't seem to be home yet.” Grant led me inside. “But I'm sure he'll appear by the time we're ready to eat.”

“Such a dear boy.”

With a licentious growl, Grant agreed, “Isn't he?”

It was something of a slip, referring to Kane Richter as a boy; he was twenty-one. Grant, at forty-nine, was old enough to be his father, but the age difference didn't faze them in the least. Since meeting in September, neither man had ever seemed happier.

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Grant as he tossed his keys into a little basket on the hall table, then stepped into the kitchen and checked the phone for messages. Finding none, he pulled the refrigerator open. “Wine?”

“Not yet, thanks,” I called from the living room. “Maybe with lunch.”

Surveying the room, I noted that Grant had not yet decorated for Christmas, but I assumed this was a task he would soon undertake with relish. After all, these tasteful quarters were now home to two men, not one. Most of the room's artwork was the same; it had been displayed there since my arrival in the desert. And Grant's collection of old mercury glass still filled the space with sparkle. But many of the framed photos had been changed. Before, I had noted that most of these snapshots were of Grant on his travels—solo—or escorting dowagers and socialites to charity balls. Now, photos of Grant and Kane—together—beamed infectious, loving smiles from every corner of the room. They posed together on their first “real” date, dinner at the Regal Palms Hotel. There were framed mementos of their tram ride to Mount San Jacinto and quick weekend trips to Las Vegas and Los Angeles. And on and on. Their whirlwind courtship had been well documented, and there was no end in sight.

I strolled to the kitchen, where Grant was working up a bountiful luncheon salad for us. I told him, “You're a changed man.”

“Don't I know it, doll.” He continued whisking his vinaigrette without missing a beat. “I thought it would never happen, but it was love at first sight.”

I could well recall the moment when they'd met. Grant and I had driven into Palm Springs for dinner at a trendy new restaurant, Fusión, and Kane was working there that night as a parking valet. At first glance, he was just another college kid in tennis shorts with a fetching smile, great tan, and a body in its prime. Now, in retrospect, what followed seemed inevitable. “You two didn't waste any time.”

“Why should we?” Grant glanced over his shoulder at me. “Kane and I were right for each other—we
are
right for each other. It's not just lust, Claire. It's commitment. It's real.”

“I can tell.” I crossed to the refrigerator, opened it, and retrieved the wine Grant had offered. “You and Kane strike me as the most settled, ‘normal' couple I know.”

“Despite our age difference? And our same sex? I'll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as a compliment. Mind if I help myself? Care for some?”

“Please.” Grant's hands were busy with something in the big ceramic salad bowl, so he jerked his head toward the breakfast table, where he'd set out some wineglasses, three.

Filling two of them, I asked, “Can I assume you've adjusted to couplehood? You'd been on your own quite a while, Grant.”

“I'm amazed at how smoothly we've both adapted. I can't imagine what I was thinking all those years.”

“You were waiting for the right man to come along, remember?”

Grant laughed. “He came along, all right. Thank God.” Then, as though he'd overlooked some niggling detail, he added, “Oh. Did I tell you we're getting married?”

Dumbstruck, I set down the wine bottle.

“Well,” Grant explained, “not in the official,
legal
sense, of course. What I mean is, Kane and I are planning, in effect, to
contractually
marry. I'm going to set up a meeting with my lawyer; then we can draw up reciprocal wills and exchange powers of attorney. We want to be fully responsible for each other. We'll also register as domestic partners with the California secretary of state's office. It's as close to marriage as the law allows.”

I had to ask, “Aren't you moving awfully fast with this?”

He allowed, “I know it's been only three months. Maybe I ought to have my head examined—”

“Maybe you ought to be kidnapped and deprogrammed.” I was kidding, sort of.

“Living together was my idea. Marriage was Kane's.”

“Aha.”

“But I'm all for it. All in due time, that is. Kane is more than ready to make everything official—right now—but I think we need a few more months before we tie any knots.”

“Good idea.”

“Not that anything could change my mind.”

“Of course not. Will there be a ceremony of some kind?”

“Maybe. If there is, you'll be the first to be invited.”

I stepped to my neighbor and wrapped him in a hug. “Congratulations, Grant. I wish you and Kane every happiness together. What a pity that gay marriage is still such a sticky issue, that our society refuses to recognize what you're doing.”

“All in due time. The day will come.”

I stepped back, studying him. “Your patience and optimism are commendable, but if I were in your shoes, I'd be itching for some validation.”

Wryly, he reminded me, “You're
not
in my shoes. There's nothing standing in
your
way. You can have all the validation you want. What's milady waiting for?”

I froze. I'd unintentionally steered our conversation in a direction I was unwilling to travel. Struggling for words, I was saved by the sound of the front door opening.

“Hey, who's here? Oh, hi, Claire,” said Kane Richter as he walked into the kitchen. “Hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“Nothing at all,” I assured the pleasant young man as he paused to greet his partner with a kiss, a long one, not a peck. No doubt about it—they were in love. Kane didn't look like a kid anymore, though he wore shorts and a T-shirt. And Grant looked far younger than his years, though he was impeccably dressed from his morning of casual business meetings. In spite of the two men's seeming incongruity, they were a perfect match.

“You're just in time for lunch,” said Grant.

“Glad I didn't stop for a burger on the way home. I had a hunch you might be up to something.” Kane turned to me, grinning. “The guy even
cooks.
How lucky is that?”

Grant dismissed the flattery. “Not much cooking today, I'm afraid. It's just a salad.” His words were too humble. The various ingredients—the greens, the fluted mushrooms, the grilled chicken—had taken a considerable amount of advance preparation.

“Perfect,” said Kane. “I'll help with the table. Outdoors?”

Silly question. It was a pristine early-winter day in the desert. By now, the temperature had nudged seventy. From the terrace by the pool, the peaks of the surrounding mountain ranges—the Santa Rosas, San Jacintos, and San Bernardinos—looked close enough to touch, like artful but artificial backdrops constructed for the stage.

Within minutes, we had settled around the glass-topped table under an arbor near the pool. A distant mockingbird's melodic drill drifted on a dry breeze spiced with citrus and oleander. The setting, far more intoxicating than the chardonnay I sipped, still seemed unreal to me. I was tempted to pinch myself, as it did not seem possible to think of paradise as home.

We gabbed as we ate, speaking of Stewart Chaffee's quirky behavior, regaling Kane with our tale of Stewart's friendly feud with his full-figured nurse, capping our story with the ill-mannered incident of the fleshy trumpet.

Predictably, Kane found this uproarious. He leaned back in his chair, cupping his hands and applauding slowly as he laughed—when did the younger generation begin doing that? Where on earth did they pick up this odd, pervasive habit? I blinked away the image of Kane as a trained seal with a ruffle around its neck, clapping its flippers and barking. At the same time, I studied Kane's technique, knowing I could put it to use in some future production that might feature a contemporary twenty-something male.

Kane wiped an eye, sat forward again, and asked, “Why were you with this guy in the first place?”

Grant explained that I needed a particular sort of clock for the
Laura
set. “It's like a grandfather clock, but smaller. Stewart has a wonderful example in his collection—Austrian, eighteenth-century. Claire and I will be returning tomorrow morning to pick it up. Maybe you could ride along to help with the lifting.”

“Sure, happy to.” Then Kane turned to me. “The play opens next week, doesn't it?”

“Friday night.” A knot gripped my stomach as I set down my wineglass. Though I'd directed hundreds of plays in a career spanning three decades, the prospect of an opening night still brought butterflies. This healthy apprehension served to remind me that my work was soon to be judged, that I could never let down my guard. “The show's in great shape,” I told Kane blithely (I was acting). “My work is all but done. The last week of production always feels like automatic pilot.”

Grant shook his head, laughing softly. “I'm amazed you're so calm about it, doll. The whole valley is abuzz. Did you see the headline of today's feature in the
Desert Sun?
It blared,
CLAIRE GRAY'S LOCAL DEBUT AN INSTANT SELLOUT.
Ever since your arrival at Desert Arts College, people have been looking forward to Friday's opening with
breathless
anticipation.”

“Well, then,” I responded with a carefree Hip of my hands, “it's time to deliver.” My easy smile concealed mild panic. As if to reassure myself, I noted, “The theater itself is magnificent. The set and costumes are first-rate. And I've never seen a finer student cast.”

Graciously, Grant reminded me, “No student cast has ever been taught by a finer director.”

“Oh, shush. I'm sure that's an exaggeration.” I loved it.