Free Desert Winter by Michael Craft

rehearsal schedule.
    â€œMiss Gray?” said Thad. I’d invited everyone in the production to address me as Claire, but he was characteristically polite and seemed more comfortable maintaining a traditional, respectful distinction between students and teachers. Needless to say, this was one aspect in which he and Tanner differed greatly.
    â€œYes, Thad?”
    â€œMy uncle Mark asked me to say hello for him. He’s driving my car out here and should arrive sometime tomorrow.” Thad was referring to his guardian, Mark Manning, an investigative journalist of considerable renown, whom I’d met in Chicago. He had since moved to a small town in Wisconsin, where he was now publisher of the local paper.
    â€œWonderful!” I said. “How long is he staying? He’ll be here for Friday’s opening, won’t he?”
    â€œSure. He wouldn’t miss that. Neil is flying out to join him later in the week.” Thad’s uncle was gay; Neil, an architect, was his partner. I knew through highly reliable sources—production scuttlebutt—that Thad himself was straight.
    I told him, “I hope your uncle plans to save a bit of time for me.”
    â€œYeah. He wants to see you. So I was wondering—well, I know it’s against policy, Miss Gray—but would you mind if Mark came to rehearsal with me tomorrow night?”
    I frowned, then broke into a grin. “I’d be happy to make an exception for the illustrious Mark Manning. Sure, bring him along.”
    Glenn Yeats strolled into our circle of conversation. “Making exceptions, Claire? For the illustrious who?”
    â€œHi, Glenn.” I stepped to him and offered a friendly hug. There was nothing unusual about the computer tycoon’s appearance at our rehearsal that afternoon. The cast and crew had grown used to having him around; on several occasions, he’d even rolled up his silk sleeves to help with lugging this or that. Throughout his career, Glenn’s approach to any project, including his newly built arts college, had been strictly hands-on. He’d avowed a special interest in theater—as well as in me—so it came as no surprise that he’d taken such an active interest in Laura, awaiting my first full-scale production at DAC like a nervous mother hen. Answering his question, I explained, “We were talking about Thad’s uncle, Mark Manning.”
    Glenn thought for a moment, then something clicked. “The reporter?”
    â€œThat’s the one, except he’s now turned his hand to publishing.”
    Thad elaborated, “He bought the Dumont Daily Register three years ago.”
    â€œAha,” said Glenn. “I wondered why I hadn’t heard the name of late.” The name Mark Manning had become a household word as the result of several high-profile stories he’d reported during his days at the Chicago Journal. “I’d enjoy meeting him.”
    â€œYou’re in luck,” I said. “Mark is arriving from Wisconsin tomorrow. Thad’s bringing him to rehearsal.”
    â€œGreat.” Glenn hardly needed to add, “I’ll be here.”
    A couple of stagehands appeared from the wings, hauling a tall, old cabinet onto the set.
    Glenn grimaced. “ That won’t do.”
    I told him, “I tried, but I won’t have the clock till tomorrow.”
    Tanner related to Glenn our intention to pick up the clock and transport it in Tanner’s Jeep. Glenn offered to send a truck, but Tanner assured him that the plan was set.
    As they spoke, it was difficult for me not to compare the two men. At fifty-one, Glenn was nearly twice Tanner’s age, but still three years younger than I. No doubt about it—my romantic prospects had improved considerably since my move from New York, where the closest I’d come to any sort of protracted relationship had been with Hector Bosch, the noted theater critic for the New York Weekly