Desert Spring by Michael Craft

between his thumb and index finger my lover’s house key. It glinted in the sunlight like a forbidden jewel. As Grant had adroitly shifted the topic from his
reason for having the key to my reasons for feeling insecure in an unlikely relationship, I decided to sidestep both issues. Jerking my head toward the locked door, I ordered, “Give it a try.”
    Grant stepped forward and gave a perfunctory knock—just in case—then slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and cracked the door open a few inches. “Tanner?” he called inside.
    Hearing no response, he opened the door wider, and we both stepped in.
    The apartment consisted of only two small rooms and a bath, so it was plain to see that no one was home. Glancing through a window, I also saw that Tanner’s Jeep was not parked in back. I wondered aloud, “Where is he?”
    Grant checked the answering machine on the kitchen counter. “No messages.”
    Boxes gaped open, empty, from the corners of the main room. Clothes, books, dishes, and such were stacked here and there on the floor. Surveying the general disarray, I mentioned, “He hasn’t gotten much packing done.”
    Grant added, “It’s hard to tell if he even slept here last night.”
    With a touch of annoyance, I asked, “Where else would he have slept last night?” Indeed.
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    Riding with Grant back to my house in Rancho Mirage, I fretted over Tanner’s whereabouts while trying not to let my questions fester into vague, groundless suspicions. After all, Tanner was not accountable to me for his every move, and I had no reason to think that he had not driven directly home from my party the previous night. Still, it was a quiet ride.
    â€œYou know, doll,” Grant said softly, sensing my consternation, “the only reason I happened to have Tanner’s key is that he asked me to bring in his mail now and then. Since moving in with you,
he hardly ever gets out to the apartment, but my work takes me all over the valley, and I’m out that way every few days. Just doing a favor for a friend.”
    I reached across the car’s center console and patted his hand.
    When we turned off Country Club Drive onto my side street, the sight of Tanner’s Jeep in my driveway prompted a ditsy laugh of relief. I told Grant, “He’s probably beside himself, wondering where the hell I’ve been.”
    Spotting a second car in the driveway, Grant noted, “Kiki’s here too. Word spreads fast.”
    Walking through the front door with Grant, I found Tanner and Kiki at the pass-through from the kitchen, helping themselves to an impromptu breakfast they’d set up on the bar—juice, coffee, a plate of pastries. At the sound of the door, they turned, abandoned the food, and rushed toward me.
    â€œClaire, darling, ” gasped Kiki, “what a perfectly horrid way to end a party!” She wrapped me in a fierce hug, jangling her bracelets.
    â€œClaire,” said Tanner, trailing behind Kiki, “I came over the minute I heard. Kiki phoned me this morning, but no one could reach you .”
    Kiki explained, “I heard it on the news. I thought maybe you’d gone to Tanner’s, so I phoned him at the apartment, but he hadn’t heard from you. Needless to say, he was shocked to learn what had happened.”
    â€œShocked,” he repeated, nodding.
    Grant to the rescue: “It was my fault entirely, the lack of communication. We assumed the news hadn’t spread yet, so I took Claire out for a quiet breakfast. She didn’t want to disturb anyone so early on a Sunday.”
    I added, “Especially you, Tanner—what with your packing and all.”

    â€œYeah, I was in the middle of it.” Clearly, he’d been busy. He was looking rugged and butch that morning, wearing olive-colored cargo shorts, a sweat-splotched gray T-shirt, and tan work shoes. The sight of him was enough to