Piling into the Jeep, we headed out to Rancho Mirage. The house Donovan shared with Penelope Sue was perched as high up the mountain as city code allowed. It was a slick and streamlined concoction of steel and stone and glass. An elongated swimming pool wrapped around three sides of the place like a moat, crossed at strategic points by stone bridges that led from various rooms into the terraced gardens. In the sunken living room, one wall was made entirely of glass, through which we could view those in the pool like sea creatures displayed in an aquarium. This night, as shirtless waiters in Mardi Gras masks passed out hors d’oeuvres, Donovan had arranged a show of sleek-limbed boys and girls to swim gracefully past us like so many trained dolphins.
In one corner, Penelope Sue held court. She was dressed as Marie Antoinette—a rather tone-deaf costume, I thought, given her reputation as the richest and most elitist woman in the Coachella Valley. But maybe she rather liked the reference and had decided to embrace it rather than run away from it. In any event, she stood there in her enormous white wig and glittering pink hoop skirt—looking more, Randall thought, like Glinda the Good Witch than Marie Antoinette—and grandly received the air kisses of her guests. I watched. After each one, she rolled her eyes. Suddenly I missed Kelly terribly.
From across the room, Thad and Jimmy waved animatedly. They were dressed as Musketeers, complete with hats and feathers and ruffled shirts. “Only two Musketeers?” I asked, approaching them. “Where’s your third?”
Thad gave me a sly grin. “You must have tired him out the other night, dancing on top of that box.”
I groaned, not wanting to be reminded of that night.
“These are what so transfixed the entire bar,” Thad said grandly, running his palm down my abdominals. “Believe me, I dreamt about them all night long.”
“He did,” Jimmy spoke up, a rare utterance from his corner. “He told me so the next morning.”
I blushed.
“And you, darling,” Thad said, turning to Randall. “Who are you trying to be? Michael Jackson in Thriller?”
“I’m Cher playing Baby Jane Hudson,” Randall explained.
Thad shivered. “Brilliant concept. I’ll give you an A for effort.” He leaned in to give Randall a kiss. I could see Randall tense up as he did so. I realized my friend hadn’t told Hassan about his little encounter with Thad and Jimmy. Clearly, he was hoping for some discretion, and except for the kiss, Thad complied, giving away none of their intimacy as he shook Hassan’s hand.
“And you,” Thad said, apprising Hassan up and down. “You can slip into my tent any time you want.”
Hassan smiled. “I thank you for the offer,” he said courteously.
Thad laughed. “Don’t thank me. Just take me up on it.” He knocked back the last of his drink. “Fabulous party, don’t you think? My dear Penelope certainly knows how to throw them.”
“That she does,” I said.
“But my dear Danny,” Thad said, leaning his head in toward me. “I can’t help but notice there are no Fortunatos hanging on the walls. I mean, I know there are a couple of Renoirs and a Picasso or two or three, but nothing by you? And here I thought Donovan was an old friend of yours.”
I laughed. Thad had bought a print of mine just last week, so he apparently expected others to follow. “I think it’s Mrs. Hunt who makes the decisions about what art goes on the walls,” I told him. “And she’s never seemed able to remember my name.”
“Hmm,” Thad said.
“Speaking of Donovan,” I asked, “where is he?”
“Oh, he’s around,” Thad replied. “With a new boy on his arm. And in my humble opinion, the most stunning one in a long time. For a change, he’s a blond.”
“Well, you know, blonds were Donovan’s first love,” Randall quipped, his eyes turning to me.
I ignored him. “It’s amazing what Penelope puts up with.”
“You are assuming,” Hassan interjected, “that marriages are only successful if they are based on passion. Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Hunt have founded their union on things other than romantic bliss.”
I laughed. “Well, I’d have to agree with you there. Definitely other things than romantic bliss.”
“I need a refill,” Thad said. “Jimmy and I will mosey on over to the bar. Can we bring you back anything?”
I asked for a Grey Goose martini, up, with a twist. Hassan requested a club soda. Randall said he’d accompany Thad and Jimmy so he could help carry back the drinks. Off they headed across the room. That left Hassan and me to scope out the crowd by ourselves.
“It’s a strange but fascinating custom, this Halloween,” said Hassan.
“The gay national holiday,” I told him.
Not all the guests were gay, of course, but certainly more than half were of the lavender persuasion. And nearly everyone present considered themselves fops: friends of Penelope, a designation taken very seriously in the desert. Some of the costumes they’d put together were extraordinary. Clearly, many of the fops had spent the better part of the year planning for this night. One guy came as a Christmas tree, complete with balsam branches and a star on top of his head. One woman was dressed as a butterfly, with gigantic gossamer wings, which she kept folded behind her, except for those moments when she spread them, five yards wide, to the astonishment of the room. Hassan and I stood off to one side, gazing out across the great oval-shaped room, with its tan suede walls. An assortment of witches and soldiers, vampires and harlequins, cowboys and ballerinas mingled and sipped their drinks under the magnificent chandelier.
“I think if I were to take your picture tonight,” Hassan said suddenly, apropos of nothing, “it would be a portrait of grief.”
It took me by surprise, and I looked over at him. “Excuse me?”
“It has changed. Your image. The emptiness has been filled in with grief.”
I said nothing, just nodded my head slightly.
Hassan leaned in close. “Feeling grief is better than being empty.”
I thought of Frank, alone in the casita.
“You know, Hassan,” I said, pushing the thought away, “this whole Yoda thing is getting a bit weird.”
He frowned. “Yoda? I don’t know the reference.”
“He was the cuddly little oracle in the Star Wars series. He was always spouting off words of wisdom, seeing things in the characters that nobody else saw.”
His frown turned into a smile. “So are you calling me cuddly?”
I smiled back. “If I could take a picture of you,” I said, moving my face close to his, “I’d take a portrait of somebody in love.”
His eyes flickered away. “Do you mean Randall? I am not in love with Randall.”
“Well, then, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I am very fond of him,” Hassan said. “But, no, I am not in love.”
“How do you know?” I asked, and the question was genuine. “How do you know when you’re in love and when you’re not?”
Hassan laughed. “I think the concept of being ‘in love’ is much overused in this country.”
“Perhaps,” I said—and even as the word was still on my lips, I turned and saw him. Kelly. Across the room. Dressed as himself, no costume, just his usual dark shirt and corduroy pants. He looked like a homeless man, hovering on the sidelines. Then the crowd shifted, and I lost sight of him.
“Here you go, Mr. Chippendale,” Thad said, suddenly at my side, handing me my drink. My heart was thudding in my chest, and for a moment, I didn’t respond. “Well, do you want me to drink it for you, too?”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, accepting the drink and taking a big sip.
My eyes returned to the crowd, searching. It had occurred to me that Donovan might invite Kelly, but I hadn’t dared to ask. Since the other day, when Kelly had told me he wouldn’t allow himself to fall in love with me, I hadn’t replied to his texts. They’d come in fairly frequently that night and the next day. Then, gradually, they began tapering off. Finally, the last one had said: I
GUESS BEING MY FRIEND IS TOO MUCH WORK. SORRY THEN. GOODBYE.
He was right. It was a lot of work. For too little gain. Yet still I missed him fiercely. It was agony not texting him back. I was miserable not seeing him. I’d tried to hold my ground and put him out of my mind. I tried to distract myself with a trip up to Sherman Oaks, where I took Ollie out to dinner to make up for running out on him. Driving into Los Angeles for the first time in many, many months, I realized I no longer thought of the city as home. I hated the traffic and the congestion and the noise and the commotion and couldn’t wait to get out of there. But Ollie was so grateful, so touched, by the fact that I had come to see him that the long stretches of silence over dinner were almost worthwhile. Still, I couldn’t help but compare the experience to the dinners I’d shared with Kelly, who’d kept me in stitches with laughter and ensured there was never an awkward, quiet moment. That night, driving back into Palm Springs, passing the windmills on my right and glimpsing the lights of the city in front of me, I felt for the first time as if I was coming home. It had taken me this long—and meeting Kelly, I realized—to feel that way.
It was then that the chain around my neck broke, and my pentagram dropped to the floor.
“So much for protection from werewolves,” I said as Randall bent down to retrieve it.
“What did you and Hassan talk about while I was gone?” he whispered in my ear as he pressed forward to hand me the pentagram.
“Grief,” I said.
“Grief?”
I nodded. “Apparently I’m grieving.”
“Of course, you are,” Randall said.
I shook my head. I felt guilt about Frank, not grief. In fact, as much as it pained me to think that I had hurt Frank, our separation felt right. Appropriate. How could I continue spooning with Frank in our bed every night when my mind was fixed on someone else? It wasn’t fair to Frank; it wasn’t fair to us, to the “us” that we had been. As long as I felt this way about Kelly, it was better to be apart. How long that would last, I didn’t know. But glimpsing Kelly again tonight, and the tumble of emotions that followed, suggested my feelings for him weren’t quite over yet.
“Danny,” Randall was saying, pulling still closer to me. “I told Hassan I loved him today.”
I turned my head to him sharply. “And what did he say?”
“In his typical, formal way, he thanked me for it.” Randall laughed. “I think that’s his way of saying he loves me, too.”
I gripped Randall by the shoulders. “Be careful, buddy,” I said. “I don’t want you getting hurt. Not so soon after Ike.”
Randall laughed again. “Ike? Who’s that?”
I gripped his shoulders tighter. “Please, Randall. Falling in love can hurt. It can be the worst thing in the world.”
“Or the greatest,” he said.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned. It was Thad, with Marie Antoinette.
“This is the man I was telling you about,” Thad said to Penelope.
“Hello,” I managed to say.
She extended her white-gloved hand. “Penelope Sue Hunt,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “We’ve met.”
“Darling,” Thad said to her, “you must see Danny’s work. He will soon be all the rage. I just bought a print, and I understand Bette Midler has commissioned something. And the rumors are that Gwyneth Paltrow has ordered up a whole series. And you know Geffen has a Fortunato in his house on Fire Island.”
“Really?” Penelope asked, her collagen-injected lips curving into a small smile.
None of this was true, except for the fact of his own purchase. I glared at Thad.
“Well, of course, Danny has a policy of never confirming rumors about who he does work for,” Thad continued. “But that’s what they say.”
“You do lithographs?” Penelope asked, not entirely with admiration.
“Various kinds of prints. Photographs, digitally manipulated,” I said.
“I see.” She adjusted her enormous white beaded wig, probably to keep it from falling over. “I’d like to see some of your work. I trust Thad’s opinion.”
“Well, I’d be happy to bring some by,” I told her.
“Mmm,” she said—and then she did it.
She rolled her eyes.
“Thank you,” I said. But she was already moving off into the crowd.
“You’re in, baby,” Thad whispered to me. “If Penelope buys from you, everyone will follow.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Thad said, hurrying to follow Penelope Sue. “We working-class kids need to stick together to get what we can out of the fat cats.”
I laughed.
“That’s fabulous, Danny,” Randall said. “Frank will be so happy when he hears.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell him. He’s not speaking to me,” I said.
Randall shook his head. “This is crazy. Danny, you can’t let this go on much longer. You and Frank, you’re like the same person. You complete each other. You can’t throw away twenty years.”
I turned, not wanting to have this conversation. I was in luck. I finally spotted the other half of the Hunts. Donovan was approaching me through the crowd.
“Did I just see my wife speaking with you?” he asked.
“Indeed. She wants to see my work.”
Donovan made a face of surprise. He was dressed as an army general, his chest resplendent with ribbons. And on his arm, as Thad had prepared us for, was the most spectacular blond specimen I had seen in a very long time, dressed as a sailor in his formal whites. Tall and broad-shouldered, the young man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and he possessed eyes as blue—and as cold—as the North Sea.
“I guess my wife listens to Thad Urquhart more than she listens to me,” Donovan said. “I’ve been telling her about you for years.” He sighed. “Then again, who am I? Just her husband. Thad is going to be the mayor of Palm Springs.”
“She hasn’t bought anything yet,” I said. “She just said she wants to see my work.”
“Oh, she’ll buy something,” Donovan said. “If you’ve gotten this far with her, she’ll buy something.” He seemed to remember the young man on his arm. “Oh. This is Sven.” The boy nodded, unsmiling, not offering his hand for us to shake. “Sven, this is Randall and Hassan and Danny.” Donovan’s eyes, stretched so tightly from so many cosmetic surgeries, clamped onto me. “Danny is one of the first friends I met when I first came out to L.A. a hundred years ago.”
I smiled. An image of Donovan from those days flashed in my mind. Back then, he hadn’t needed cosmetic surgeons to stretch his eyelids, to tighten up his cheeks. None of us had. We’d been the boys then, the young prizes on older men’s arms. How fast the time had gone. I remembered a day, sitting in Donovan’s old Porsche—long discarded, since he’d upgraded to Bentleys—and listening to him talk about his father, the father who’d expected so much from his only son, the father who’d only truly been satisfied when Donovan married the even wealthier Penelope Sue.
“Not quite a hundred years,” I gently corrected him. “But close enough to it.”
Donovan laughed. “So are you all having fun?”
“Brilliant party as usual,” Randall said.
“And you?” Donovan purred to Hassan. “Are you having fun, my hunky Arab?” I saw Sven frown slightly.
“I am honored to have been asked to your beautiful house,” Hassan told him.
“Well, I hope you’ll come back another time,” Donovan said, winking, as he and Sven began to move away. It was the same old Donovan, flirting with someone no matter who else was around.
Before he could get too far, however, I reached out and grabbed his arm. “Donovan,” I said, “might I speak with you a moment?”
He threw an eye back over his shoulder. “Sure. What’s up?”
“In private. Just for a moment.”
“All right.” He turned to Sven. “Run along and keep Penelope company for a
while, okay, sugarplum?”
Sven said nothing, just frowned again and slunk away.
“Swedes can be so sullen,” Donovan grumbled as we moved off in the opposite direction. “Sometimes I feel like he just stepped out of a Bergman movie.”
I smiled. “I remember when you didn’t know what a Bergman movie was. It took me to show you, to take you to the AFI screenings.” Of course, it was Randall who’d introduce me to classic film, teaching me there was more to see than just Doctor Who and Monty Python and Star Wars.
Donovan threw his arm round me, grinning wide. “Oh yes, I remember those days well. You would argue with me about the need to make movies that actually said something.” He opened the door to his private study, which opened onto his bedroom, and gestured for me to enter. Enormous picture windows looked out onto the mountains and down into the valley, sparkling with lights from the city below. “And I would say to you,” Donovan continued, “‘Danny, I’ll only make those kinds of pictures if you will star in them for me.’”
I smirked. “You were just blowing smoke up my ass so you could get up there yourself.”
Donovan closed the door behind us and looked over at me slyly. “So why didn’t the good husband accompany you tonight? Why did you show up with a posse of girlfriends?”
“Frank…he had a…school thing.”
Donovan’s smile showed he didn’t believe me. “I see.”
I let out a breath awkwardly.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s silly, really. I…”
Donovan folded his arms across his chest and leaned against his desk, a big old mahogany piece that had been his father’s, which he’d shipped out here from Connecticut after the old man finally died.
“Danny, what is it?” He seemed to find my discomfort amusing. “What’s on your mind?”
Object of Desire Page 37