Desert Winter

by Michael Craft

  Focused on the tree, I hadn’t noticed Stewart’s nurse step up beside me. Her strong features beamed a childlike joy as she stared at a svelte crystal ballerina that dangled and spun from a nearby branch. I answered her question through a breathy gasp, “I’ve never seen anything like it. The lights must be magnificent. Have you seen it at night, Bonnie?”

  She nodded. “Many times. It’s almost overwhelming, and the grounds are a real fairyland. Oops.” She touched her fingers to her lips. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  I laughed quietly. “I understand.”

  “Mr. Chaffee can seem sorta gruff at times, with the name-calling and such, but underneath, there’s a wonderful sense of humor. And it goes without saying, no one alive has a finer appreciation for everything beautiful.” She glanced about our surroundings.

  “You seem to enjoy working for him.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” She again paused to give the opulent digs an appreciative glance.

  My gaze was drawn to a grand piano, less than six inches long, hanging near the ballerina. The piano’s inlaid lid was propped open, revealing eighty-eight taut golden strings within. Mulling Bonnie’s enthusiasm for her job, I said, “I couldn’t help thinking that Stewart might be difficult to work for.”

  “I’m a nurse,” Bonnie reminded me with a thin smile and evident pride. “I’m used to dealing with people at their worst.”

  Having spent a lifetime in the theater, I’d become a student of character—all types—and Bonnie suddenly fascinated me. I wanted to know more. “May I ask how long you’ve worked here?”

  “Mr. Chaffee suffered a stroke about two years ago, and that’s when my duties here began. It wasn’t that serious, and he’s recovered nicely, but at eighty-two, he needs help. Even before the stroke, he was dealing with congestive heart disease. That’s why he uses the wheelchair—it’s easier for him to get around.”

  “Then he’s not…?” I whirled a hand, searching for a genteel euphemism for crippled.

  Bonnie suggested, “Disabled?”

  This struck me as entirely too vague; I was expecting something more along the lines of ambulatorily impaired. Just to make sure we were on the same page, I rephrased my question: “He can walk, then?”

  “Yes, Miss Gray. With difficulty. Gosh, you must think I’m awful.” She clasped her hands in front of her stout, white-clad bosom. “I would never tease him about being a ‘crippled old goat’ if in fact he was…”

  I supplied the evasive word. “Disabled.”

  With downcast eyes, she mumbled, “Exactly, Miss Gray.”

  “Enough!” Stewart bleated (the old goat). “The rest of this hoo-ha will have to wait. I’m not a well man, remember.” And with that, he shifted his weight to one hip and blew a hefty fart. From the sound of it, he could have ripped the leather seat of his wheelchair.

  “Oh, my!” said Bonnie, oddly pleased by her patient’s anal outburst. Like a doting mommy, she told us, “His fleshy trumpet seems to be in fine tune this morning.”

  Grant and I caught each other’s glance and struggled not to laugh.

  Merrit and Robin proceeded with their paper pushing as though nothing had happened; perhaps they’d heard previous trumpet recitals. Glancing at a file and handing it to Robin, Merrit told his client, “I can return with the rest early Monday. No problem.” He turned to Grant and me, adding, “Many days, I’m here more than once.”

  “Maybe by then,” said Stewart to his banker, “by Monday, you’ll know if that collector in Boston is ready to sell. I want that Winslow Homer seascape.”

  Merrit jogged another stack of papers. “Your last offer caught his interest, all right. I think he’ll bite. Meanwhile, Robin has been verifying the painting’s provenance.”

  Stewart grunted his approval.

  I must have looked confused. Grant, standing near me, explained, “A provenance is the documentation of an artwork’s authenticity, as established by its history of ownership.”

  “Ah.”

  Merrit assured all of us, “Robin is a first-rate researcher. Our clients’ interests are well protected.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, allowing a smile.

  “Speaking of research,” Stewart addressed the young woman, “have you had any success in setting up that appointment for Monday?”

  Robin nodded. “Everything’s taken care of, Mr. Chaffee. I tracked down the gallery in Santa Barbara, and your meeting is booked as requested.”

  Merrit asked, “Is there anything else, Stewart? I didn’t intend to rob you of so much time with your guests,” meaning Grant and me.

  “Actually”—Stewart paused, heaving a sigh—“there is something else.” He lifted from his lap the envelope that he’d retrieved from his saddlebag. “This is important. I want you to place it in my safe-deposit box at the bank.”

  “Certainly, Stewart. My pleasure.” Merrit took the ordinary white envelope, examined it briefly (it didn’t seem to contain much, perhaps a page or two), then handed it to Robin, who placed it in a folder, which in turn went into the briefcase.

  Robin said, “I notice the envelope has no markings, Mr. Chaffee. Are there any special instructions?”

  “There are.” Stewart turned from the secretary to the banker. “Merrit, I trust you. You’ve had complete access to my affairs for many years now. I think of you not only as my banker, but also as my friend. When I die, I want you to go to my safe-deposit box and open that envelope. It will make my wishes plain enough.”

  “Stewart, I really think it would be more appropriate for—”

  Bonnie interrupted. “No, Mr. Chaffee. This isn’t necessary, not yet. Your condition is difficult, I know, but it’s not life-threatening. You’re in no immediate danger. Please, try not to think such morbid thoughts.”

  The old man gave his nurse a get-real stare. “Bonnie, I’m eighty-two—with a stroke and a heart condition. I’m not being morbid, just realistic.”

  “But, Stewart,” said his banker, “I’ve told you before: you need a good lawyer, an estate planner, to assist you with these matters. Your holdings are far too vast to be settled by a simple letter of intent. Your entire estate could be held up in probate for years, and your final wishes could end up unfulfilled. It’s complicated, but—”

  “It’s not complicated,” Stewart insisted. “In fact, it’s perfectly straightforward. As for lawyers, you know how I’ve always felt about them—I just don’t trust them. And I’m not about to start trusting them now.” Harrumph.

  “A homemade letter of intent, which lawyers would call a holographic will, is a risky instrument at best. As your financial adviser, I strongly recommend—”

  “I didn’t ask for your advice, Merrit. I asked you to keep the envelope for me and to open it when I’m gone.”

  With a weary nod, the banker said, “Yes, Stewart, of course I’ll do that. But in the meantime, give some thought to your family, your loved ones.”

  With a sarcastic snort, Stewart said, “All these years, there’s been nothing but bad blood between me and the rest of my family—what’s left of it. So it’s time to get things settled.” He jerked his head toward the briefcase that now contained his envelope.

  Then he repeated, “That will make my wishes plain enough,” punctuating the statement with another toot of his fleshy trumpet.

  Overhead, the papier-mâché cherub still puffed into her long silver trumpet, but sounded not a note.

  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 mo
rning 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.