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Chapter Eight
In a conflict between the heart and the brain, follow your heart.
Swami Vivekananda
Grant and his father waited at a bar at the Denver West shopping center on Christmas Eve. Buck watched the news without sound and Grant watched the door, his cider untouched in front of him while his fingers tapped his impatience on the bar.
Melisa was on her way and carried with her a message from Melinda—a message that she wanted to share with Grant. And since Grant’s father had learned of the meeting and insisted on driving down with him, she’d be sharing it with Buck as well.
Grant’s stomach threatened to burn a hole straight through him. Was she asking him to turn himself in? Was she asking him not to contact her again? Would Melisa bring legal papers with her? Grant closed his eyes.
“Rant, go change your shirt.”
Grant’s eyes flew open. “What?”
Buck extended a folded flannel shirt. “You’ve been splitting and stacking in that shirt for a week and it looks and smells it. I don’t know how you can put that thing on after you’ve showered. You’re about to meet a woman who’s vouching for you to the woman you love. Dress like it.”
“I changed the shirt under it!”
“To allow that shirt’s smell to dominate. We get it. We smell it. Change it.”
It was useless to argue with his father, and Grant knew that Buck might have a point. Willing Melisa not to arrive in his absence, he stomped off to the restroom and changed the offending flannel for the one his father had handed him. He finger-combed his hair, watched it spring immediately out of place, and strode back to the bar for more life tips.
He slid onto his barstool. “Well? Better?” From the corner of his eye he saw Buck’s nod. Unfortunately his father was often correct.
“How’s the well, Dad?” he asked.
“Oh Lord. Save it, Rant,” Buck said, eyes on the television. “I’m not a cat. You can’t distract me with a feather.” He jutted his chin toward the screen. “Gonna be windy later, looks like.”
“I was thinking the well might’ve suffered with that big storm and I haven’t even checked on it.” Grant knew not to give up the farce or his goose was cooked.
“You’re pathetic,” his dad said, nursing his iced tea. And he was right. But was it too much to ask to read the letter Grant anticipated from Melinda in private? Apparently it was.
“Better tell your friend we can’t hang around too late,” Buck said. “Won’t be safe on the road. Gusts up to forty miles per hour across the Front Range.”
Grant didn’t really mind his father’s presence. He’d end up telling Buck everything anyway. For as prickly as his dad pretended to be, Grant couldn’t have asked for a better parent or friend. He had Grant’s back no matter the situation, had listened through years of predestined relationship failures, and had supported Grant’s business notions with emotional and financial support at the first inquiry. Grant looked at his father. How could someone so outwardly grizzly be capable of so much compassion? Especially after the sudden loss of the love of his life. Grant shuddered. It was unfathomable.
The door swung open and daylight outlined a young man with dark hair. Grant turned back to his drink. The man, maybe ten years younger than Grant, approached the bar.
“Grant Samson?”
Grant and his father turned as one. “Yes?” they both said.
“Dad,” Grant said, exasperated.
“Hey. Name’s John. I’m your Kaar. Your friend Melisa had something come up and wants me to bring you to her.”
“Us,” said Buck.
Grant was confused. “So what did you say? Melisa had a what?”
“An issue with a client,” the driver said.
“Why didn’t she just reschedule?”
“She knew you really wanted this meeting. She said there might be someone else joining you.” Grant’s pulse quickened.
“Why did she think she needed to send a Kaar? We could have driven.”
