Page 36 of A Man After Midnight

Chapter Thirteen

“Hey, Caroline,” Grant, the pharmacist, greeted as he walked into the store. The day was just about to begin and her two morning employees smiled at her as they took their tills to count them.

“Morning, Grant,” she said, hurrying to get the store ready to open.

The bustle of the workday always helped take her mind off Wren. Work, in general, kept her occupied. It was only when she went home at night and had time to remember the sex, the intimacy, and the way Wren had made her feel did it become a little too overwhelming.

Made her feel a little too sad.

“So, are you recovering from the jet lag?” Grant asked.

She blinked and looked at him over the reports that she’d just printed out. “Excuse me?”

“Your trip,” he said. “You haven’t said much about it.”

It’d been a week since she’d flown home. A week to think about everything that had happened. A week to dream about Wren every night. All the time in the world to reflect on everything that had happened to her.

“It was wonderful,” she murmured. She deliberately didn’t mention the whole Gil incident.

Grant smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You needed a good vacation.”

She stared after him as he hurried to the pharmacy section to unlock it and prepare for the few customers waiting with prescriptions in hand. A good vacation? Actually it had been a life-changing one, to say the least.

Sometime after the lunch break, Grant came up to her and touched her arm to capture her attention. She gave him a quick, blank smile.

“Hey, I was wondering what you’re up to this weekend.”

“I’ve nothing planned,” she replied. “Why?”

“I’m headed to the French Quarter to hear a local jazz band,” he said. “A friend of mine is playing. I thought maybe you’d like to come along.”

Caroline looked at him, taking a mental step back and seeing him through the eyes of a woman, and not a store manager or a co-worker. She discovered Grant Dardeau was a handsome man. Grey peppered his dark hair and his tanned face told of a life enjoyed outdoors. He had the typical twang of a Southern Louisiana boy, with the charm to go with it. She took a deep breath and pushed away the image of Wren trying to creep into the assessment, refusing to compare the two.

Wren was gone, out of her life. Logic told her that he was back in Paris and back to his life.

“I would like that,” she replied, ignoring the little voice that said it didn’t want to go on a date with Grant.

Wren. Wren. Wren.

The relentless mantra was annoying the hell out of her.

The rest of the week continued in a slight fog for Caroline. Grant would smile and flirt with her. All the while she constantly battled with the tiny voice in her head, the one who wanted her to use the business card she carried everywhere, the one that had Wren’s numbers on it. Her palms would itch to dial them and reconnect. She would reach up and touch the necklace, and her heart would stutter. But then reality would come rushing back, reminding her that forgetting Wren would be a little more difficult than she expected.

When Saturday arrived, she and Grant worked until closing. At five they shut the doors and he followed her to her apartment, waiting till she freshened up, and then they left in his truck. New Orleans lay an hour away to the south, and Caroline was surprised to find herself actually enjoying Grant’s company.

The French Quarter always swarmed with people, but more so during the summer months when tourists and college kids came to visit. Grant held her hand as they parked and then made their way up Bourbon Street to a place called The Red Room. Inside, the bar was like any other, except one wall behind the bar had been painted this bright red color that really clashed with everything else. A small stage lined one corner where three men played jazz, and Grant gave a little wave when he saw his friend, the trombone player.

They sat at a table near the stage and ordered drinks, which arrived quickly from the hustling waitress.

“So what exciting things did you do in New York City?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment. “Well, I was almost stabbed by a crazy man.”

Uncertainty flashed over his face. “Are you kidding with me?”

“No,” she replied and pointed to her side. “I’ve got a scab where the tip went in.”

“Jesus! Are you okay?”

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