Desert Winter Read Online Free

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.
    â€œIn 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.”
    â€œThen 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?”
    â€œNah. 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?”
    â€œKane 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.”
    â€œSuch 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.
    â€œMake 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?”
    â€œNot 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