Desert Spring

by Michael Craft

  “Hi, doll. Glad you could make it.” Grant Knoll stepped from the shadows with Brandi Bjerregaard, his companion for the evening.

  I stepped toward him and gave him a friendly kiss. “Thanks for playing host till I arrived. You throw a perfect party.”

  “I’m gay,” he said matter-of-factly, then sipped his drink.

  Brandi caught my eye. “All the good ones are.” She sighed.

  I laughed, ate the mushroom, then plucked a cheese puff from a passing waiter’s tray.

  Tanner Griffin’s voice caught my attention, and I turned to see him strolling outdoors with Spencer. Arnold Manley was with them as well, and I was pleased to note that there seemed to be no enmity between the two actors, my protégés, as they took turns scoring points with the powerful producer. When I greeted them with a wave, the threesome crossed the terrace to join me.

  As they neared, Brandi said, “If you’ll excuse us, Claire, I think we’ll step inside.” She nudged Grant. “It’s getting chilly.” It was at least seventy degrees.

  I asked, “Wouldn’t you care to meet everyone?” I doubted that Brandi had much interest in Spencer, but surely, I thought, she would be more than eager to hobnob with two hunky, young—and decidedly heterosexual—actors.

  “Actually, we’ve met.” Brandi headed indoors.

  Grant guessed, “Must be the LA connection.” And he followed Brandi into the living room. I interpreted this to mean that Brandi had encountered Spencer before, as his permanent home was in the Los Angeles area.

  This testy interplay escaped Spencer, who seemed enthralled by the attentions of Tanner and Manny. It was almost as if Spencer harbored a prurient interest in them, but I found this unlikely. Not only was Spencer married, he had a solid reputation as a womanizer. He downed the last of his tomato juice, suppressed a belch, then grimaced.

  I asked, “Sour stomach? Perhaps you should eat something. There’s a late buffet supper; they’re setting up for it now.”

  He smiled through a frown. “Thanks, Claire, but I’m just not hungry—no appetite lately.”

  With a touch of apprehension, I noted, “This has been going on for several weeks. Shouldn’t you see someone?” By “someone,” I meant “a doctor,” but I didn’t want my concern to sound inflated, and besides, I’d offered this advice before. Though I considered Spencer a friend, I doubted that he would appreciate the pestering of another “carping shrew”—the term he had often used to describe his wife.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “all taken care of. It’s nothing.”

  “Mr. Wallace,” said Tanner, “can I get you some more tomato juice?”

  “Why, thank you, Tanner—you’ll go far in this business.” Har-har. “It’s a Virgin Mary. Just ask the young lady at the bar.” He handed Tanner the glass.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Tanner excused himself.

  “Wait up,” said Manny, following Tanner toward the doors to the living room. “I could use a refill myself.”

  Tanner asked his fellow actor, “Will you be staying in the desert long?”

  “Afraid not,” replied Manny as they stepped indoors. “I’m driving back to LA first thing in the morning …”

  Watching them disappear into the crowd, Spencer said, “I must say, Claire, you certainly have a knack for sniffing out talent. You, too, could go far in this business.”

  Wryly, I told him, “I already have.”

  “I meant the picture business.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “Ah!” Spencer poised a finger in the night air. “Speaking of pictures, did you find my gift?” His brows arched expectantly.

  “Sorry. I’ve been distracted—the party and all.”

  “Of course. Let me show you.” He offered his arm and escorted me toward the living room.

  “It’s a picture?”

  “Another photo for your collection. Not very inventive of me, I admit.”

  Just as we reached the house, we encountered Kiki and another DAC faculty member, Lance Caldwell, coming out to the terrace. Seeing us, they stopped in their tracks.

  Spencer eyed Kiki askew for a moment. “Good evening, Miss Jasper-Plunkett. I trust you’re well.”

  “I am, thank you. Never better.” Her tone was flat, almost cold. Conspicuously, she neglected to return the courtesy of wishing him well.

  I had no reason to expect antagonism between Kiki and Spencer, but Kiki gave the clear impression she was miffed. Odd, I thought. So had Brandi Bjerregaard. So had Glenn Yeats.

  Kiki brushed past us, out to the far edge of the terrace, jangling her bracelets as she strutted into the night, leaving us with Lance Caldwell. A composer of great acclaim, he had lent luster and credibility to the music program at our fledgling college. Unfortunately, his talent was matched by his ego, which required constant stroking. I had done a fair job of this while cajoling him to compose the incidental music for our previous production, Laura. I had introduced him to Spencer at the show’s opening, where they had greeted each other with words of mutual admiration.

  “Caldwell,” Spencer now greeted the composer with no enthusiasm.

  “Wallace,” the composer returned the frosty greeting. Then he nodded to me and whisked past us to join Kiki, who gazed into the swimming pool as if mesmerized by the soft, rippling light.

  Was it my imagination, or was everyone miffed? As Spencer led me indoors, I asked, “What was their problem?

  He arched his brows innocently. “Was there a problem? I didn’t notice.”

  I smirked. “I don’t know how you could miss it.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Sorry, Claire. I’m not myself tonight. Feeling cranky.”

  “You’ve seemed out of sorts for weeks. You really ought to eat. You’ve been losing weight.”

  He shook his head. “Is there such a thing as male menopause? Everything seems different, and worse. Guess I’d better get used to it—old age—but I didn’t think it would hit at sixty.”

  “You’re not old,” I assured him. I was only six years behind him, and I felt that I’d entered my best years.

  With a tired smile, he asked, “Could we change the topic? It’s depressing. Let me show you that photo.”

  “With pleasure.” I took his arm as he led me to the fireplace.

  Propped on the mantel near the other photos that hung on the wall was the framed picture he had brought as a hostess gift. Like the others, it was a black-and-white print with a white mat and a simple, black gallery–style frame. I hadn’t noticed it when I’d first entered the room that evening because of the shifting crowd, but now, up close, I saw that the subject of this new image was a departure from the desert scenics that both he and I had been exploring.

  Setting my glass on the mantel, I lifted the frame and held the picture under the light of a nearby lamp. It was a panorama that had been shot from a large, lofty balcony looking out over the sea—clearly nowhere near Palm Springs. Spencer had doubtless snapped the photo either early or late in the day, as the shadows cast by the building, behind the viewer, sliced across the balcony at a sharp, dramatic angle. “Gorgeous,” I told him. “I love the light and dark.”

  He nodded. “That’s the beauty of black and white. It lends itself to such a simple, unvarnished way of seeing the world. A mere shadow can be breathtaking, while a shaft of light takes on a life of its own.”

  Returning the picture to the mantel, I asked, “Have you ever considered shooting a movie in black and white?”

  “I’ve never had the guts. Can you imagine? Me, Spencer Wallace, afraid of my own roots as a cinematographer.” He paused. “But I’ve been tempted, Claire. Seriously tempted. Especially now, with Photo Flash.”

  “Say, that is an idea. The film is about a photographer, about photography itself. What better excuse—if you need one—to make an artistic statement.” I took my glass from the mantel and sipped what was left of my martini, which was now warm. Maybe I would have another; my creative juices were flowing.


  Spencer said, “It’s an exciting notion, I admit. Tanner Griffin’s film debut—in black and white. We’d get a double buzz.”

  “Huh?” a voice interrupted us. “You can’t be serious, Spencer.”

  “Just thinking out loud,” Spencer told our eavesdropper. Turning to me, Spencer asked, “You know Gabe Arlington, don’t you, Claire?”

  “My gosh”—I laughed—“I certainly know the name. What a pleasure, Mr. Arlington.”

  With a wide grin, he extended his hand. “If I may call you Claire, won’t you please call me Gabe?”

  “Of course, Gabe.” I shook his hand. “Fellow directors.”

  Spencer amplified, “Fellow directors—across the great divide.” He was alluding to my prejudice favoring theater over cinema. Gabe Arlington was a film director of long-standing reputation, though I hadn’t heard much about him in recent years. He was older than I, about Spencer’s age, looking rested and tan—and considerably more healthy than Spencer. A distinguished crop of blow-dried silver hair completed the image.

  I told Gabe, “Tanner Griffin is eager to work with you. We were both pleasantly surprised when we learned that you’d be directing Photo Flash. I’ve been working with him on the script; he asked for help with several points of interpretation. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Hardly.” He gave a jolly laugh. “Having my leading actor pre-coached by the great Claire Gray—what’s to mind? It’ll make me look all the better.”

  Spencer reminded him, “To say nothing of that screenplay—it’s a winner. I can feel it in my bones.”

  I reminded Spencer, “Good thing. You wrote it.”

  He allowed, “I am proud of it. Objectively, it’s a great story.”

  “It is,” I granted. “And I must say, I’ve been impressed by your diligence in reworking the script.”

  “Great scripts, like great novels, aren’t written; they’re rewritten.” He raised his empty glass and toasted the truth of his pronouncement.

  Gabe asked him, “You’ve been working on it here in the Springs?”

  “I’ve really come to love the desert. My ‘weekend retreat’ in the old Movie Colony feels more like home every day. It’s quiet—I can think and write—and I’ve got my darkroom right there. Plus, it puts two hours of interstate between me and Rebecca. What more could a man ask?”

  “Huh. Your wife’s not here?”

  Spencer snorted. “Nobody’s pining away, Gabe. Let’s just call it a fragile détente. She’s perfectly happy having the house in Brentwood to herself.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Gabe laughed. “I’ve seen that house.”

  “She’s welcome to it. I’ve got far more important things on my mind. To paraphrase the bard: the film’s the thing. Everything set for next week?”

  “All systems go. I’m returning to LA on Monday, and there’s a preproduction meeting with the cast on Wednesday.”

  I sighed.

  Both men turned to me, surprised by my wistful tone. With evident concern, Spencer asked, “Is something wrong, Claire?”

  “Of course not.” I mustered a smile. “The process is wonderful—isn’t it?—nurturing a production, from start to finish.”

  Spencer wrapped an arm around me. “Postpartum blues? Sorry to draw the final curtain on Traders?”

  With a feeble nod, I told him, “Something like that.”

  “How about another drink? That martini glass is woefully empty.”

  “Good idea.”

  Gabe said, “Claire, Spencer—if you’ll excuse me.” And he winked farewell, disappearing into the crowd, hailing some old acquaintance.

  Walking me toward the bar, Spencer said, under his breath, “He’s got a lot riding on this picture.”

  “So does Tanner; it’s his big break. But Gabe is a veteran.”

  “Trust me, Claire—Gabe needs this picture. He hasn’t directed a high-budget, high-profile production in nearly ten years. Sure, he had his glory days, way back when, but it takes only a flop or two to be dismissed as passé, and he’s had more than his share. In the eyes of many, he was washed-up long ago. This business can be brutal. Signing him on for Photo Flash was a gamble, but I generally win.”

  I held Spencer’s arm. “I hope you do win, for your sake—and Tanner’s—and Gabe’s.”

  When we arrived at the bar, the crowd had disappeared, having moved to the other side of the room, where the buffet supper was now being served. Thierry was just coming out of the kitchen. “Ah, Miss Gray,” he said, “I hope everything has been to your satisfaction this evening.”

  “Yes, everything’s lovely, thank you.”

  “It seems you need another drink?”

  I eyed my glass as if I’d forgotten it was in my hand. “Why, yes, it seems I do.”

  Thierry cheerfully set about pouring and shaking a fresh martini. “And something for you, Mr. Wallace?”

  “Another Virgin Mary.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good.”

  3

  With dinner served, the focus of the party quickly shifted from drinks to food. The babble died down as people began eating; Tanner stepped to the stereo, switching to more tranquil music, inching down the volume. My guests settled into clumps of quiet conversation, gathering on furniture near the fireplace, sitting on the floor, or drifting out to the terrace. The catering crew moved back and forth from the kitchen, offering wine, clearing dishes, bringing out dessert plates. I moved among everyone, making sure all were happy, receiving nonstop compliments and thanks for a memorable evening.

  Though it was Saturday night, the party wouldn’t drag on indefinitely. By midnight or so, with everyone fed, my cast and crew’s exhaustion had set in, and the revelry wound down fast. As soon as coffee was served, a few guests began getting up, carrying things to the kitchen, and circulating for a round of farewells. I stationed myself near the front door, and before long, everyone had gotten the message—it was time to go. Thierry dismissed the bartender and one of the servers; the remaining staff began packing their wares.

  I wasn’t keeping track of exactly who left—I was caught in a whirl of smooches and good-byes—but glancing over my shoulder into the living room, I noted that only Grant, Tanner, and the caterers remained. Abandoned glasses, napkins, cutlery, and dishes littered the room. Kiki was at the door with me, leaving with a last group of guests.

  “Straight home now,” I told her, wagging a finger in good-natured admonishment. “And drive safely.”

  “Of course, darling. Sober as a judge,” she assured me.

  “Steady as she goes!” said one of the other guests, someone I didn’t know, stumbling out the door.

  “Worry not,” his buxom companion told me. “I’m driving.” And she followed him to the street, rattling her keys.

  Kiki asked, “Call me, Claire?”

  “First thing in the morning, I promise.”

  “Well, not too early, I hope—tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  I reminded her, “It’s already Sunday.”

  “Incredible party,” said one of the tech crew, slipping out. “Another triumph for Claire Gray.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, sounding bored, “yet another …”

  “Good night, Claire,” said someone else. “It was smashing.”

  “Yes, darling,” echoed Kiki, “simply smashing. Ta-ta, love.” She leaned to peck my cheek, then exited with a flourish.

  Leaning through the door, I called after everyone, “Good night, all!” Then I turned back into the room and closed the door behind me, collapsing against it.

  Grant was standing at the bar, pouring himself a last drink. He tapped the rim of an empty glass, telling me, “I think milady needs a nightcap.”

  I wagged a hand. Glancing about the room, I asked, “Where’s Brandi? Did she abandon you?”

  “Flew the coop, back to LA.” He tapped the empty glass again. “Hmm?”

  “No, thank you, dear. I’ve had enough.”

  Tanner asked, “Had enough music?” He was c
rouching near the bookcase that held the sound system, returning CDs to their cases. He wore a simple outfit that night—dark dress slacks and a white cotton shirt with its collar open and sleeves rolled up. Lord, the sight of him.

  “More than enough,” I said with a laugh, referring to the music.

  Tanner stood, punching a button on the stereo. The music stopped.

  “Ahhh”—I stepped cautiously, on tiptoe, to the center of the room—“such blessed silence.”

  The words had no sooner left my mouth when a sharp crash came from the kitchen. It sounded as if a goblet had hit the tile floor. As we all turned, Erin popped up behind the pass-through bar, looking like a jack-in-the-box in a maid’s uniform. With a sheepish grimace, she said, “Sorry, Miss Gray.”

  Apprehensively, I asked, “What was it?”

  Thierry appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping a glass with a dish towel. “It wasn’t yours, Miss Gray. Just some barware from the catering company. We always expect some breakage.” The brittle sounds of glass being swept into a metal dustpan affronted us from the kitchen. Thierry continued, “We’re finished now, except for the final cleanup. Erin will stay to tidy up the living room and patio, but the rest of us will be going. I hope everything was to your satisfaction.”

  “Very much so, thank you. Everyone had a wonderful time. I’ll be happy to call on you again.”

  Thierry bobbed his head. “I appreciate that, Miss Gray.” Then he retreated into the kitchen, and I heard the sounds of whatnot being hauled out the back door.

  Grant sipped his drink, telling Tanner and me, “One for the road.”

  “Careful,” I warned.

  “Bah—had plenty to eat tonight. Let’s just call this a breath freshener.” He sipped again.

  Tanner moved to me from the bookcase, extending his arms. “How can I possibly begin to thank you?”

  I growled suggestively. “As if you haven’t thanked me a million times over. Tanner Griffin, how can I thank you?” And we embraced, sharing an easy kiss on the lips.