Midnight Bayou

might not be a bad idea. He’d think about it.
    Declan wasn’t certain if they’d run out of money or energy, or both, but he considered it his good fortune.
    He had plenty of money, and just now, watching the steam rising over the weeds and water, plenty of energy.
    He lifted the cup to his lips, then lowered it again as he saw a woman—a girl?—slip through the trees toward thecurve of the river. A huge black dog lumbered along beside her.
    She was too far away from him to make out features. He saw she wore a red checked shirt and jeans, that her hair was long and dark and madly curling. Was she old? he wondered. Young? Pretty or plain?
    He decided on young and pretty. It was, after all, his option.
    She tossed a ball in the air, fielded it smartly when the dog gave a leap. She tossed it twice more while the dog jumped and ran in circles. Then she reared back like a pitcher in the stretch and bulleted it through the air. The dog gave chase and didn’t hesitate, but leaped toward the pond, shagging the ball with a snap of teeth an instant before he hit the water.
    Hell of a trick, Declan thought and, grinning, watched the girl applaud.
    He wished he could hear her. He was sure she was laughing, a low, throaty laugh. When the dog swam to the edge, scrambled out, he spit the ball at her feet, then shook himself.
    It had to have drenched her, but she didn’t dance away or brush fussily at her jeans.
    They repeated the routine, with Declan a captive audience.
    He imagined her walking with the dog closer to the Hall. Close enough that he could wave from the gallery, invite her in for a cup of bad coffee. His first shot at southern hospitality.
    Or better yet, he could wander down. And she’d be wrestling with the dog. She’d slip on the wet grass, tumble into the pond. He’d be right at hand to pull her out. No, to dive in after her and save her because she couldn’t swim.
    Then one thing would lead to another, and they’d have sex on that damp grass, in the watery sunlight. Her body,wet and sleek, would rise over his. He’d fill his hands with her breasts, and . . .
    “Jeez.” He blinked, saw her disappearing into the trees again.
    He wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or relieved to find himself hard. He’d had sex only once in the six months since he’d broken things off with Jessica. And that had been more a reflex than real desire.
    So if he could find himself fully aroused over some ridiculous fantasy of a woman whose face he hadn’t seen, that area was coming back to normal.
    He could check worry over his manhood off his list of concerns.
    He tossed the last swallows of cold coffee away. He didn’t mind starting the day with a stray erotic fantasy, but he did mind starting it with bad coffee. It was time to get down to practicalities.
    He went back in, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed into town for supplies.
    I t took him most of the day. Not just to get the supplies, but to reacquaint himself with the city he was going to call his own.
    If Boston was a respectable wife, with a few seamy secrets, New Orleans was a sensual mistress who celebrated her darker sides.
    He treated himself to an enormous breakfast, so loaded with cholesterol he imagined his heart simply keeling over from the shock.
    He bought coffee beans and a grinder. Bagels and beignets. He loaded up on the single-male cuisine of packaged dinners, frozen pizza, dry cereal. Hit the liquor store for beer, bourbon and some good wine.
    He loaded it into his car, then struck out again, as much for the joy of wandering the streets as the recollection heneeded something to eat on and with. He settled for paper plates and plastic ware, and stopped to watch a street musician set out his trumpet case, prime it with a few coins, then fill the air with a stream of magic.
    Declan gave him his first dollar of the day.
    He avoided the temptation of the antique shops and the lure of the Quarter. Lunchtime music was already pumping out of clubs and exotic scents wafted from restaurants. He bought himself a muffuletta—that marvel of meat and cheese and oil on Italian bread—to take back home for later.
    As he walked to his car again, he noted the tourists with their bags from Café du Monde or the Riverwalk shops, the card readers sitting at folding tables around the perimeter of Jackson Square who would tell your fortune for ten dollars a pop. He caught the faint drift of marijuana under the ripening stench of garbage as he walked by