Edison explained that his Los Angeles gallery, Quesada Fine Prints — which dealt in original graphic art, no reproductions — had rented exhibit space where they would offer collectors a wide selection of lithographs, engravings, and screen prints from the mid-1900s. The bulk of their inventory had already been delivered to the convention center, with two of their staffers setting up for the show. The most valuable works, however, would remain here at the house, with Clark showing them by appointment or delivering them for consideration by high-end buyers.
Listening to these details, I stepped over to one of the racks to take a look and was instantly drawn to a smaller print, less than a foot high. “This is great,” I said, breaking into a smile as I lifted it from the bin. “It would sure be at home in Palm Springs.” Bright and colorful, it was a blotchy depiction of a swimming pool.
“That’s a David Hockney,” said Clark. “Limited-edition lithograph, signed artist’s proof, mint condition. At this show, it’s our jewel in the crown.”
Edison said, “Sell that one to the right buyer, precious, and you’ll get the other Bentley.” He turned to tell me, “Clark’s been wanting the convertible.”
Gingerly, I handed the Hockney to Clark, who said, “Edison is exaggerating.” He glanced at the coded sticker on the back of the plastic sleeve, adding, “Or maybe not.”
“I’m feeling peckish,” said Edison. “Some trifle would help.”
Under his breath, Clark told me, “He’s been a bit much lately.”
Edison reminded us, “I can hear you.”
Clearly seething, Clark turned to the wheelchair. “I’m not your coolie servant.”
“But you are.” Edison chuckled. “You can leave, if you want — but you won’t. And I can’t divorce you, can I? Far too costly. Face it, precious: we’re stuck.”
Rain began to spit against the expansive window and drip in long tendrils, streaking the glass from top to bottom, rippling the million-dollar view.
Hoping to defuse the tension, I asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Edison gave me a lecherous look. “Like... what?”
“I’d show you through the house, but you’re already settled in. It’s an older place, has a few quirks. The electronics are all new. Most guests have questions.”
Edison said, “We’ll figure it out.” Then he blurted, “Pink fluff!”
Bewildered, I looked to Clark for guidance.
Still sorting prints, he spoke to me over his shoulder. “We brought a few things that need to go in the fridge — including the raspberry trifle. Could you?”
“Sure.” The galley kitchen opened into the main room from the street side of the house. While the A/V system was up-to-the-minute, the kitchen had retro appliances with a midcentury vibe. The vintage refrigerator was a hulking old Philco in red porcelain enamel; the doors of the top freezer and the main compartment both featured elaborate chrome-handled latches.
Edison wheeled in behind me, watching as I hefted five or six shopping bags from the floor to the countertop. They held a few canned goods and liquor bottles, which I set aside, but they were mostly filled with clear plastic containers brimming with a sludgy concoction that Edison had aptly described as pink fluff. Two bags contained ingredients to make more of it — box after box of fresh raspberries, jars of raspberry jam and Melba sauce, several hefty packages of pound cake. A zippered thermal bag contained at least a dozen rattling cans of aerosol whipped cream.
“Now,” Edison barked with a wild look in his eyes, “pink fluff!”
I removed the lid from one of the Tupperware tubs.
“Smell it,” he commanded.
Whoa. The recipe had been lavishly spiked with Cointreau. The piercing boozy scent of orange melded with the tart perfume of crushed berries, making both my mouth and my eyes water.
“Now,” he repeated, reaching with trembling hands.
I gave it to him, then slid a drawer open. “Fork? Or spoon?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He looked ready to slop into it with his fingers. I gave him a spoon.
He rolled a few feet back and gobbled the trifle. Between swallows, he groaned and gurgled.
I glanced over at Clark, who seemed unfazed by this behavior. In fact, he gave me a thumbs-up. So, I returned to the task of putting things away. I had to tug at the Philco’s heavy ornamental latch (which brought to mind the hardware on a casket) and soon had the beast filled. Its condenser hummed in earnest.
Edison was now banging his spoon on the sides of the plastic container as he scraped at the last of the trifle. I asked if he needed anything else from me, but he shook his head without looking up from his scavenging.
I stepped around the wheelchair, took my folder from the dining table, and told Clark I was leaving. He followed me toward the front of the house.
When I stepped outside, he went with me and gently closed the door behind us. We stood together on the landscaped walkway, protected by the jutting cantilever of the roof. It rained heavily now — straight down, with no wind to drive it — like a translucent curtain blurring the gray afternoon. Raindrops danced wildly on the windshield of the polished Bentley. In the hushed racket of the pelting water, the world was still.
“It’s... exhausting,” said Clark, his words no louder than a whisper as he gazed into the courtyard.
“Edison?”
Nodding, Clark turned to me. “Ten years ago, I knew what I was getting into, and I was sure I could deal with the age difference. He’s always been pampered and fussy — that was part of his charm. But now, Jesus. It gets worse by the month, like he’s regressing into childhood. You’ve seen the pink fluff; that’s been going on awhile. As of last week, about the only other thing he’s willing to eat is canned spaghetti, like a kid.”
I’d noticed the SpaghettiOs while unpacking in the kitchen.
Clark said, “What’s next — diapers?”
“Maybe.”
He was quiet for a moment, then laughed. Stepping near, he clasped my hand with both of his. “You’ve been super, Dante. Really helpful. Thank you.”
I grinned. “Anything else, just let me know.”
He moved closer still, brushing against me and lolling his head back to fix me in his stare. His dark almond-shaped eyes appeared black in the dusky shadows that hugged us. I could hear him breathing. I could almost hear his thoughts. Was he open to a fleeting kiss? Or did he want something less innocent — something more animal and lusty?
When his lips parted, he broke the spell. “Can you fix this weather?”
I backed off a few inches. “It’ll dry up. We never get much, but they say we need it.”
“Yeah,” he agreed coyly, “we need it.”
Which left me unsure if this was small talk — or foreplay. Either way, the time was right for a quick exit. I turned to leave but paused. “Enjoy your Sunny Junket.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. They make you say that.”
With a wink, I sprinted off toward my car.
When the office texted the next morning, it came as no surprise that the Quesada Reál party was having trouble with the cable and Wi-Fi. They had snubbed my earlier offer to explain things, and now they were miffed, so the office told me to return to Little Tuscany at once. I was driving down valley for an inspection in Indian Wells — I’d nearly arrived — but I did a U-turn at the next light on Highway 111 and shot back toward Palm Springs.
Shortly after ten, I drove up the narrow driveway and parked in the courtyard next to the Bentley, which had been spiffed and detailed since the rain. More was on the way, but for now, tourists were getting the slice of winter paradise they’d paid for.