Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Sandra Hill

  Which about broke Delilah’s heart.

  It was no kind of life for a kid to be glued to a TV, instead of running around the neighborhood. But Atlantic City was no Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood these days, and hadn’t been for a long, long time. Better TV brain freeze than playgrounds marked by drug dealers or stray bullets.

  And better Annie than her grandmother’s third addiction, reality TV shows. There was Real Housewives of New York City, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Real Housewives of Atlanta. With a sigh, Delilah assured her grandmother, “I’ll be wiring you the money tomorrow.” I hope.

  “All of it? Ten thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.” I hope.

  “Thank you, Jesus!”

  No, thank the guy who’s advancing me the money and for which I will be indebted for months. But, yes, thank Jesus, too, because He probably influenced Merrill Good’s decision to help me. Delilah sighed again. She could berate her grandmother for getting in so deep with a loan shark to the point where she was three months behind in rent and utilities and her gambling debt was rising by leaps and bounds at 33 percent interest per week, but the old “girl” already felt bad enough. Besides, Delilah owed her grandmother too much, not just for raising her after her mother died in a drunk driver hit-and-run when Delilah was only six but for taking custody of Maggie when she was born two months into Delilah’s five-year incarceration in the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women in Clinton, New Jersey.

  Five months out, and Delilah still shuddered over the mere thought of that place.

  “Promise me, Gram. This money pays off your damn debts.”

  “I thought you gave up cussin’.”

  Delilah had developed quite a potty mouth in prison, which she was trying to clean up, for the sake of her daughter if nothing else. “Damn isn’t a swear word.”

  “You sure about that? I should ask Father Sylvester.”

  “Aaarrgh! Stop changing the damn subject. None of this money goes into the casino for a quick double-or-nothing. Promise?”

  “Absolutely. Cross my heart and hope to die. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  In the old days prior to her clean language vow, Delilah would have gone on a tirade, chastising her grandmother, “When have I heard that before? For cripe’s sake, Gram, grow up and get your ass in shape. Stop wasting your money in the fucking casinos.” Instead, she said, “It’s time to make some changes in your life, Gram.”

  More puffing and more “Hard-Knock Life” could be heard before her grandmother continued in an obvious attempt to avoid a commitment to change. “How’s the diner renovation going?”

  In one ear and out the other! It was useless trying to change her grandmother at this stage, Delilah realized. All she could do was try to curb her impulses. So, she answered her question. “Endless! I spent all morning outside, cleaning and reconditioning the red vinyl covering on the stools. All twelve of them! A bitch of a job! I have no fingernails left, and the skin on my hands looks like red, wrinkled prunes. Next I’ll have to work on the booths.”

  “Whatcha been usin’?” Puff, puff, puff.

  “GOOP. That waterless hand cleaner. I saw it on YouTube. Rub it in real good, hose it off, and let it dry in the sun. Even the cracked vinyl comes back to life.”

  “Delilah Jones! You know what you gotta use, don’t you?”

  “Don’t tell me,” Delilah said with a laugh. “Skin So Soft.”

  “You know it, honey.”

  Aside from being an exotic dancer, and a restaurant hostess when the dancing gigs ran out before she was old enough to collect social security, and a gambler, Sal Jones was a noted Avon Lady from way back, selling the beauty products on the side. Acquaintances used to duck and hide when they saw her coming down the street. On the other hand, many people became bosom pals and welcomed her monthly visits for the conversation as much as the products. It was the non-Internet version of social media.

  Of all the items Sal schlepped around in her big purse, the bestseller was the famous, or infamous, Skin So Soft, a bath oil product that supposedly had a thousand alternative uses, everything from bug repellent to treating head lice to spot remover to fabric softener to hoof polish for horses. Besides that, her grandmother had a ginormous collection of vintage Avon perfume and aftershave bottles in the shape of cars, animals, figurines, even a pistol, which she believed would be worth a fortune someday. Too bad she couldn’t have sold that for ten thousand dollars!

  There was even an Elvis figurine, for chriss—for heaven’s sake! Now that, Delilah might borrow to put on display in the motel office. If she ever waded through the piles of paper and debris enough to clear a shelf!

  “. . . and not just that. Every time someone sits on those seats, they’ll get a little whiff of that heavenly scent.”

  Delilah realized that her grandmother was still extolling the virtues of Skin So Soft while her mind had been wandering.

  “Why don’t you come down here and show me how it’s done, Gram?” she suggested. It wasn’t the first time she’d invited her grandmother to move here, and she knew what the answer would be.

  “Sorry, sweetie, but I’m used to my own things, and my friends here. Squatters would probably move in if I left the house empty for more than a few weeks. They’d be rummaging through my Avon stuff, looking for drugs. Besides, it will be easier for you to get things in order without me and Maggie underfoot. She’ll be there soon enough.”

  In other words, her grandmother wouldn’t leave the casino neighborhood. And she’d be bored out of her gourd without cable TV, which Delilah had yet to connect, an unnecessary expense. No use anyhow since the circa 1990 sets in the eight motel rooms were not only not smart TVs, nor flat screens, but they were mini-size. Some might even be black-and-white.

  “Have you registered Maggie for kindergarten there yet?” her grandmother asked, clearly changing the subject.

  “Not yet. I need to regain parental rights, legally. First step is having you release guardianship, but, in order to do that, I have to establish a suitable residency here for a young child. That means a home with a separate bedroom for her, running water, a working kitchen, everything that makes a place a home. My parole officer is adamant about that.”

  She glanced around the small efficiency behind the motel office that she was using for an apartment. It was barely habitable, her efforts being focused more on getting the diner operational, and after that the motel rooms. She could just see the CPS officer checking this out and sniffing, not just at the smell of mildew and mice, but years and years of neglect. So many things to do! First off, she’d bake some cinnamon rolls to mask the odors.

  Her grandmother sighed or puffed out a vapor. Hard to tell which. “Well, it better happen soon.”

  “Because of school starting in seven weeks?”

  “That, and Jimmy the Goon. It’s not safe here.”

  “Gram! Son of a bitch!” Oops! “If you’re worried about danger, even after you pay off the loan, you better hightail it down here, too, at least for a few months.” You can do without the fucking . . . um, darn slots that long.

  “Maggie wants to talk to you, hon.”

  More changing the subject.

  After some shuffling noises, Delilah heard, “Hi, Mommy.”

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “Can I have a puppy?”

  This had been Maggie’s constant refrain, which hadn’t worked with her grandmother because of her working so much and Maggie being in day care. No one to train or take a dog out to do its business during the day. But, sensing Delilah’s guilt over not being around for her daughter these past five years, she’d amped her requests, steering them in Delilah’s direction, and added a bit of whine factor.

  “Maybe when you’re a little older.”

  “But Nancy Fulton has a dog, and she’s only four. And Freddie Cole got two puppies.” Sniff, sniff! Definitely a whine with a little fake sob tossed in.

  “We’ll see when you get to Bell Cove.” Tim
e for Delilah to change the subject. “I heard you watching Annie. I can’t wait to watch it with you.”

  “Annie has a dog. Sandy. I’m going to name my dog Sandy.”

  Delilah refused to fall for that bait.

  So her devious daughter switched bait. “Did you find us a Daddy Warbucks yet?”

  Delilah laughed. It was a make-believe game she and her daughter played. Every time Maggie asked when she could come live with her, Delilah would say, “As soon as I find us a Daddy Warbucks.” In other words, as soon as she had enough money. “Bald-headed rich guys are hard to find.”

  “Mom-my!”

  “Just kidding. Guess we’ll have to make our own fortunes.”

  “Stop teasing, Mommy.”

  “Okay, but don’t you be worrying, Miss Mag-Annie. We’ll be together pretty soon. Have you been marking the days on the calendar I sent you?”

  “Yep. I can’t wait. I’m gonna go to school in a town made of bells where everyone is friendly and there are no bad people and we’re gonna open a restaurant with peanut butter and banana sandwiches and I’m gonna have my own bedroom with Annie wallpaper and betcha there will be a dog just waiting for me to—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. One thing at a time.”

  Once Delilah clicked off, promising to call again the next evening, she sat for a long moment, staring into the distance. Normally, Delilah was not a list maker, but she pulled out a notebook now.

  Her first list involved her daughter, Maggie, and everything she needed to do for her move to the Outer Banks to take place:

  —Diner running.

  —Furniture. Maggie’s bedroom. Living room.

  —Regain legal guardianship.

  —CPS home inspection.

  —Parole meeting.

  —Kindergarten registration.

  —Sell motorcycle.

  —Buy used car & child’s booster seat.

  Heck, while she was at it, she might as well make a list for the diner. It was probably unrealistic, but she hoped to have the diner open for business before Labor Day. But before that, she needed to:

  —Finish vinyl restoration.

  —Replace Formica countertop.

  —Electrician: cooktops, ovens, fridge, freezer.

  —Spray-paint the diner.

  —Call food suppliers.

  —Design & print menu.

  —Jukebox repairman?

  —Business license. Food permits.

  —Hire staff.

  Delilah didn’t expect to get to the motel renovations until winter when business on the Outer Banks would come almost to a standstill. It was a shame, too, because there was almost no lodging for tourists in Bell Cove. But before she could open the eight rooms, she would need:

  —Interior & exterior painting.

  —Plumbing & electrical updates.

  —Mattresses, drapes, bedspreads, linens, shower curtains, towels, toiletries.

  —TVs.

  If she let herself dwell on the immensity of the task she’d set for herself, she would want to give up before she even started. A miracle would come in handy about now, or at the least a Daddy Warbucks as she’d teased Maggie about.

  Can anyone say sugar daddy?

  No! She wouldn’t even joke about something like that. She would do this on her own, or not at all.

  She set her notebook aside and walked outside, inhaling deeply of the fresh, salty air. Across the dunes and rocky shore, she could see the pure blue sky over the sparkling waters of Bell Sound. A beautiful sight. But one Delilah could hardly see over the haze of her misted eyes.

  But, no, she would not cry! The last time she’d let tears flow was five years ago when she’d learned how her high school sweetheart, Davie Zekus, had betrayed her, flipping for the Atlantic County prosecutor. His reward: life without parole for murdering the convenience store clerk. Hers: five years’ incarceration for accessory to armed robbery and murder. There had been lots of time during the years she’d been trapped in that notorious women’s prison when she’d wanted to break down and give up. But she hadn’t, and now, well, she was a different person. Not so naive. Never again would she trust her future to another person. She stood on her own.

  She was jarred from her reverie by a noise emanating from around front. The clatter of metal. Walking over to the side of the building, she looked and saw Merrill Good approaching after having apparently tripped over the three ten-foot chrome metal tubes that comprised the diner’s counter kick bar. She’d been polishing it yesterday and needed to store it under a tarp until she was ready to reinstall it inside. Of course, it had to be her boss who practically killed himself over her “debris.”

  “Oh, sh—!” she started to mutter, changed to, “Oh, shazam!”

  Talk about perfect timing! Not! And talk about the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. She did a mental fanning of her heated face. The man oozed sexiness, even with his bloodshot eyes and day-old whiskers, sweaty T-shirt and shorts and athletic shoes that probably cost as much as the “lightly used” high-end commercial fridge she’d been eyeing on eBay. He was six-foot-three of pure temptation.

  Her very own Daddy Warbucks.

  Sort of.

  Minus the bald head.

  Good thing Maggie wasn’t here yet. She’d be asking Merrill if she could shave his scalp.

  Actually . . .

  Nah.

  I must have inhaled too much GOOP.

  Chapter 3

  He would be her kryptonite, or die trying . . .

  Despite his hangover and despite his instincts not to come on too strong, Merrill showed up at Delilah’s property on Sunday morning. There didn’t appear to be anyone around, so he decided to explore a little bit. On the other hand, maybe he should escape before she ever knew his pathetic self was on the premises.

  He opted for pathetic.

  The vintage motel and diner were marked by the hokey names of Heartbreak Motel and Rock Around the Clock Diner, but then this was a town that celebrated hokeyness. Every friggin’ business and home had its own distinctive bell or chime. Bats in their belfries, for sure.

  Take the business names, for example. The town square was a testament to kitschy monikers. The Cracked Crab. Hard Knocks Hardware. Happy Feet Emporium. Styles and Smiles. Blanket-y Blank, a quilt store. And the Christmas Shoppe, often mispronounced as Shoppie.

  Hell, it was a town that invented a Grinch contest last Christmas. The ultimate in schmaltz. In fact, the billboard outside of town read: “Get Grinched! Welcome to Bell Cove.” And it was home to the ugly Rutledge Christmas trees, Charlie Brown look-alikes that were popular throughout the Outer Banks.

  Truth to tell, Merrill loved Bell Cove because of all its quirks and oddball characters. Why else would he have relocated here?

  But it wasn’t the schmaltzy Elvis connection that struck Merrill now as he gazed around Delilah’s site. It was the run-down condition of the diner, which fronted Bayside Road, and the once bright blue motel, which was set back about sixty feet, closer to the dunes on the Bell Sound side of the island. Admittedly, it was a good location for a business, on a corner lot along a thoroughfare leading to town, which would be busy in high season, and there would probably be a nice view from the rear of the motel, but, frankly, the two structures looked like teardowns to him. It would take a hell of a lot more than ten thousand dollars to get these dumps back in shape. Not that Delilah had said she would use the money for that purpose. Nope, by the looks of things—the sanded rust spots on the diner, the ladder and tools, paint sprayers and paint cans sporting the neon red, neon blue, and silver colors of the diner, the wet vinyl counter stools drying in the sun next to a gallon container of something called GOOP—she intended to use elbow grease to single-handedly bring Elvis back to life.

  Good luck with that!

  Just his luck, he tripped over a couple of metal pipes creating a god-awful clatter. He righted himself but before he had a chance to duck and head for cover, he noticed Delilah peeking
around the back of the motel. Busted! And she was pissed at first sight of him, if the hands on hips and the scowl on her face were any indication. But then, she quickly wiped away the scowl, probably figuring it wasn’t a good idea to annoy the gift horse, meaning him, who was definitely feeling like a horse’s ass.

  Normally, he was not such a clumsy, uncool guy. Maybe he was suffering some kind of PTSD or withdrawal from the military kind of thing. Maybe he was going to turn from G.I. Joe to Forrest Gump. Maybe Delilah was Merrill’s “Jenny.” Maybe he would start running across the country like good ol’ Tom Hanks. Maybe now would be a good time to start.

  The scowl might have left Delilah’s face, but she kept her hands on her hips. An unconscious attitude statement. Obviously, she was not a fan of Forrest Gump, or him. In the chocolate box of her life, he was one of those hated, blah cream fillings. Who wanted that when they could have caramels, or cashews, or his favorite, cherries?

  Yep, PTSD!

  “Hi!” he said, lame as Forrest on his best day, walking up to her, quickly adding, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to start hanging around, or anything. I was out for my morning run,” (Can anyone say Forrest Gump?) “and thought I’d drop by and give you the check.” He patted the pocket of his shorts.

  “Oh.” Her face heated with color and her hands dropped to her sides.

  And he felt like even more of a horse’s ass. Shiiit! The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her over the money, or to make her be nice to him only because she needed to.

  “I thought you’d be hungover this morning,” she said.

  “My head clears when I run. Comes from years of five-mile runs in the morning and in the evening with the teams.” He flinched at his running mouth, then conceded with a rueful shrug. “But, yeah, there’s a mother of all sledgehammers pounding inside my head right now.”

  She smiled.

  I’m in! Sensing the tiniest break in her armor, he did a mental fist pump in the air and returned the smile.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee? Or a cold drink?”