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kissed me again, lightly.
    I held his face in my hands. “Who’d have thought—certainly not I, not in my wildest dreams—that ‘starting over’ at fifty-four, I’d start over with the likes of Tanner Griffin?”
    He exhaled a soft laugh of disbelief. With sincere modesty, he said, “I’m … I’m no one. You found me working in a body shop. I tinted your car windows.”
    I shook a finger in his face, dead serious. “I found a natural talent, a promising young actor who could help me develop my fledgling theater program. It didn’t matter that you were a few years older than my other students; in fact, that was an advantage. I needed a leading man for our new troupe, and I found him.”
    From the side of his mouth, Grant said, “You also found a … uh, ‘roommate.’” The lilt of his voice was heavy with insinuation.
    â€œGod, did I—in spades!” I felt silly and girlish referring in code to my lover as a roommate, but circumstances had dictated that Tanner and I needed to be discreet about our relationship. It was not quite a secret that we’d been living together, but we never discussed it publicly. Especially on campus or at social gatherings, we never behaved as a couple. First, to do so would lack professionalism. Second, and just as important, it would not be appreciated by
Glenn Yeats, who was not only my employer, but also a patient, would-be suitor. For the sake of appearances, Tanner had held on to his meager apartment in north Palm Springs.
    My jubilant mood sagged as the full reality of Tanner’s impending departure sank in. “I’m no fatalist,” I said to no one in particular, “but it seems that all good things must in fact come to an end.” I slumped onto the leather bench again.
    Tanner sat next to me, taking my hand. His voice was tender. “It didn’t need to end so quickly. This was all your doing, remember—recruiting me into your program last fall, casting me in the leading role of your first production, and inviting Spencer Wallace to the premiere.”
    Grant set down his drink and swooped behind us at the bench. “And the rest,” he said with a broad flourish, “is theatrical history!” He recalled, with dramatic bravado, “It was one of those Hollywood fairy tales, the sort of catapult-to-overnight-fame that happens only in movies, rarely in real life. Spencer Wallace, Mr. Blockbuster himself, has signed our heartthrob-in-training to appear in his next major film.” Grant kissed the top of Tanner’s head, sniffing his tousled mop of sandy blond hair.
    â€œExactly as I’d intended.” I tossed my hands, still conflicted over the results of my plan.
    â€œFlash forward,” said Grant. “It is now April, some four months after the powerful Mr. Wallace has discovered the hunky Mr. Griffin, and here we sit, among the debris and detritus of a marvelous cast party.” Grant kissed the top of my head, but he didn’t linger to sniff it.
    As if on cue, Erin appeared from the kitchen with a tray, then set about clearing some of the “debris and detritus” Grant had mentioned. His description had conjured a picture of the ruinous aftermath of war, but in truth, my guests had been no more boorish
than to leave a smattering of dirty dishes and half-drunk cocktails about the living room and outdoors on the terrace.
    I sighed. “It wasn’t just a cast party, you know. It was a farewell party for Tanner.” I patted his hand.
    â€œAnd a tribute to Spencer Wallace,” he added. “Don’t forget our guest of honor.”
    Grant strolled from behind the bench, retrieving his nightcap before Erin could snatch it and haul it to the kitchen with the other glasses she’d been plucking up. Grant swirled the last of his liquor and told me sincerely, “It was a fabulous evening, Claire. Memorable, too. Your