Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Sandra Hill

  Definitely in! Two fist pumps now. Really, Delilah had this wall around herself where he was concerned. He pictured it as some super-strong translucent material that only a certain person or weapon could penetrate. Hell, there wasn’t a weapon in the world he didn’t know inside out and backward. Besides, if he could break down a steel-reinforced door in an Al-Qaeda hideout with just the kick of his boot, he could handle this, even if it meant chipping away one sliver at a time. Piece of cake! “I would love a cup of coffee, Delilah,” he said with the innocent flutter of his eyelashes he’d perfected over the years.

  “You can call me Lilah. Everyone does,” she conceded then.

  “Um. I think I prefer De-li-lah, if you don’t mind. It’s different. Plus, it sort of rolls off the tongue, nice and smooth.” Like a hot, slick French kiss on a first date.

  She eyed him suspiciously, then motioned for him to follow her. Which was no chore at all. Her back view was almost as good as her front one. And she wasn’t even dressed in anything sexy. Just a pair of cutoff denims, a black tank top, and white sneakers. Her blonde hair, more silvery than gold toned, was piled on top of her head with one of those claw combs. Her waist was small, her hips flared out, and she had a rounded ass that would just about fit in his big hands. Not to mention she was above average in height for a woman, five-eight or five-nine, which meant long, supple legs that gave a guy ideas.

  Face it, I have way too many ideas.

  They went through an old-fashioned—and decrepit—wooden screen door at the back of the motel office into a large room that served as a combination living room and kitchen. Off to one side was a small, separate bedroom and a tiny bathroom with a shower stall, no tub. Very basic. In fact, shabby. And not shabby chic, either. But it was clean, and livable, he supposed. Plus, there was a delicious, sweet smell in the air. She must have been baking.

  God forbid that he should mention his thoughts because her chin was raised defensively, as if just waiting for his criticism of her humble abode. But then she went over to the small bar dividing the kitchenette from the rest of the room and poured coffee into two mugs from an old-fashioned electric percolator, the metal type his grandmother used to have, and raised her brows at him. “Sugar? Milk?”

  “Neither,” he said, walking up and placing the envelope on the counter. Best to get this out of the way, up front. “The check is drawn on a local bank, made out to you. If you need cash right away, you can cash it, or get a cashier’s check. Whatever you need.”

  “Thank you,” she said, not bothering to open the envelope. Clearly, she was embarrassed. And proud. “When do I start work?”

  He took a sip of coffee, and then another. It was good. “Can you be at a meeting tomorrow afternoon at our office? Two p.m.? It’ll be the first meet-and-greet for the group I’ve put together.”

  She hesitated before nodding.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. I just need to plan my time so I can work on the diner during the off hours. No biggie.”

  It was a damn big biggie, in his opinion. He thought about suggesting that she hire someone to help, but then realized she wouldn’t be asking him for a loan—rather an advance—if she had any extra cash. “Some of your work, especially in the beginning, can be done here or at our office. You’ll need to plan menus, order food supplies, assess what cooking supplies are on board currently, that kind of thing. But you’ll be a housekeeper, as well, or rather a boat keeper, meaning cleaning, laundering towels and bed linens.”

  “Oh, shit! I mean, oh, boy! I didn’t think about the fucking sleeping arrangement. Oops, I mean freakin’ . . .” She shrugged at another of her failed attempts to clean up her language.

  He grinned. “No fucking there. Too close proximity unless you go for that sort of thing. No, Sweet Bells sleeps up to fifteen people in a pinch, ten comfortably, in four closet-sized bedrooms and two pullout cots in the salon or break room. But don’t be picturing anything fancy. It’s a sixty-five-foot former tramp steamer refitted into a diving boat.”

  “In other words, not a yacht.”

  “Hardly. Anyhow, aside from cooking and cleaning, I figure you’ll be a Jack of All Trades . . . or Jill of All Trades, filling in wherever you’re needed. Any problem with that?”

  “No problem. I’m a hard worker, and I really am a good cook.” She smiled tentatively at him. “Sweet Bells? Is that the name of your boat?”

  “Yep. It used to be Sweet Jinx. Named after the Jinkowsky family that founded the original treasure hunting company, Jinx, Inc. Sweet Bells seemed like a good change, in light of our headquarters being here in Bell Cove and us sharing space and a wharf with Bell Forge.”

  She probably didn’t understand what he’d just said, but she didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, she wanted to know, “How many people will I be cooking for?”

  “Just eight, including you. Some will only be part-time, or as needed.”

  “Will I be full-time?”

  “Whenever we go out, yeah.”

  She nodded her acceptance of that news. “I read about your first project . . . the one involving the three saint shipwrecks. It’s only about five miles offshore. Does that mean you’ll return every night?”

  Her question was telling. Was she thinking that she could get a few hours of work in on her diner after working all day on a salvage boat? “No, we won’t return to base every night. We have to protect our site once we start. If we leave it unguarded, even just overnight, especially when we’ve located a wreck, someone else could move in and steal whatever they can grab.”

  “Pirates?” Her tone suggested disbelief.

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Maybe. Probably not.”

  “Well, let’s hope they look like Johnny Depp in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.”

  A joke? From the woman who usually treats me like the devil incarnate. “Or Zoe Saldana.”

  “Touché!”

  She grabbed a plate of frosted pastries that looked like cinnamon buns, the obvious source of the sweet scent that filled the room, and, without words, they walked outside with their coffees and sat on folding chairs beside a rusted white patio table. She shoved the plate toward him, which was his cue to try her offering. One bite, and his eyes widened with surprise. He wasn’t big on sweets, but this pastry was exceptional. “Wow! What are these?”

  “Cinnamon buns. With a twist. I call them Delilah’s Delights. These are caramel-apple flavored.”

  “Delilah’s Delights, huh? Well, I’m . . . delighted.”

  She smiled. “I told you I’m a good cook.”

  While he devoured the rest of his pastry, and then another, they sat in silence. It was only ten a.m. but the sun was hot, promising a blistering, over 100-degree day. For now, there was a slight breeze off the water to relieve the heat, but it wouldn’t last long.

  “This really is a nice property,” he remarked. “Have you considered selling and buying a place needing less work?” Waterfront land, even one with a rocky shore like this one, would sell for big bucks to a developer in a condo minute.

  “I wish,” she said, “but not possible. My uncle Clyde . . . actually, my great-uncle . . . left this place to me on the condition that I get the diner and motel up and running within a year, and that I keep it going for at least five years.”

  “Otherwise?”

  “Otherwise, it goes to some Veterans for Elvis type organization.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  “Where you from?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Really? So am I.” Wouldn’t it be ironic if they’d lived in neighboring towns and never met? “I grew up in Princeton. How about you?”

  “Atlantic City, which is like the other side of the world compared to Princeton. Caviar and boardwalk hot dogs different.”

  “I don’t recall my parents ever serving caviar at the innumerable faculty parties they held. More like cheese
and crackers washed down with lots of wine.” Truth to tell, they were imported cheeses, like pule which was made from the milk of Serbian donkeys, or precious slivers filled with crap like truffles that cost as much as filet mignon. And crackers—oh, Lord! The crackers could only be purchased from some specialty shop in Manhattan. And the wines were shipped by the crate from their favorite California vineyard.

  His parents were intellectual snobs, traveling in a crowd that basked in their PhDs and academic scholarships. Imagine their shock and dismay when he’d chosen the military over some “higher” calling. But they also considered themselves food connoisseurs. Imagine what they would think of an Elvis-themed diner and a menu that probably depended on oil—a lot of oil, for frying everything from burgers to pickles.

  Whatever! He’d stopped caring about his parents’ freely offered opinions a long time ago.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

  Oh, crap! He did not want to delve into that old history. Especially . . . Oh, what the hell! “I have a brother, Ben, who’s about thirty-seven now. Two years older than me.” For a second, his chest hurt, like his heart was being squeezed, just thinking about his brother, whom he hadn’t seen or spoken to in five years, ever since the last big blowup with his parents. Ben, who was doing research in biophysics at Johns Hopkins last time he’d heard, something to do with brain injuries following head trauma, had sided with his parents against him.

  “You’re thirty-five?” she asked, homing in on the least important part of what he’d said, or thought. “You don’t look any older than twenty-five.”

  “The bane of my life,” he said, forcing a grin. “I’ve always had a baby face, which was a good and a bad thing. I got away with murder because of my seeming innocence, but I got carded until I was thirty, which was embarrassing and a pain in the ass. Eventually, I grew into my face. At least, I hope I did. I’d hate to look like a teenager when I’m seventy with white hair and wrinkles.”

  “Women would envy you. I envy you.”

  “For looking young. Pff! If you looked any better, the female population of three states would put a hit out on you.”

  She stiffened up, like always when he made some comment about her appearance.

  So he changed the subject. “Do you have any family around?”

  “In Atlantic City?” she asked, then went on before he could elaborate. “My grandmother is still there. She raised me after my mother got killed by a drunk driver when I was only five.”

  He was about to ask about her father, or any other family, but she stood and said, “Thank you so much, Merrill, for bringing the check over here today. Please know how much I appreciate your consideration.”

  He didn’t know about consideration so much as his own pleasure. “You don’t need to thank me. I expect to be paid back.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You bringing the check here this morning knowing I need the money right away . . . it speaks to your sensitivity.”

  “That is just what a guy needs to hear. That he has a sensitive side. Next you’ll be mentioning my inner female.”

  She asked him the strangest thing then. “When you were in the military, did you ever shave your head?”

  “Yeah. When we did survival training in a jungle setting, with all the bugs and crap, being hairless was a lot more comfortable. Why? Do you have a thing for baldies?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good because, instead of looking like a hot Dwayne Johnson, ‘The Rock,’ I look like Humpty Dumpty before the fall.”

  “I doubt that sincerely,” she said. “On your worst day, you are about a hundred on the hottie meter, hairless or not.”

  Which just about made his day—or year.

  Chapter 4

  The Welcome Wagon was unwelcome . . .

  People were being nice to her.

  Dammit!

  Too nice.

  Dammit!

  Even when she was borderline rude to them, they persisted in being neighborly. In other words, nice.

  Dammit!

  Delilah needed to maintain her privacy if she wanted to hide her sordid past. Niceness led to neighborliness, which led to friendships, which led to confidences, which led to open books.

  What would all these people think if they knew her open book—the real Delilah Jones? Convicted felon. Unwed mother. No education except for a prison GED. Granddaughter of a gambling grandmother. Trailer park trash without the trailer.

  Oh, her secrets would come out eventually, she supposed. At least some of them. Maggie, for example, would be coming here next month. Delilah wasn’t ashamed of having a child. Not one bit. But she didn’t want to reveal that her baby had been born in a prison clinic where she’d been badgered by officials to give her up for adoption, something she’d adamantly refused, finally signing over guardianship to her grandmother. That decision had not endeared her to some prison sadists who’d undoubtedly had potential adopters in line, for a fat fee.

  If there was anything she’d learned in prison, it was to trust no one. People would be all nicey-nice and friendly and helpful, and before you knew it, you were being turned in to authorities by them for some minor transgression. Or they would be expecting some favor in return for their niceness. Everyone was out for themselves.

  Delilah shook her head to rid her mind of the horrible memories.

  More important, people here were bound to ask where she’d been working in recent years. Did she have job experience running a business, or better yet, as a chef? Hah! Working in the prison kitchen hardly qualified her as a budding entrepreneur or to be a Cordon Bleu anything, but she had read constantly—cookbooks, of all things. Comfort food for the hungry soul.

  After two years into her incarceration, a new kitchen superintendent arrived who grudgingly allowed Delilah, a model prisoner, to practice her recipes during her free hours. Her Sunday-night dinners became a treat for many on the kitchen staff. Her flavored cinnamon rolls were especially popular, and she planned to feature them in the diner. Delilah’s Delights, she would call them, as she’d told Merrill. She was still experimenting with her recipes, but so far she decided on: Peachy Praline Cinnamon Rolls, as well as Strawberry Walnut, Cream Cheese Pecan, Ginger Apple, Orange Marmalade, White Chocolate Chip Raspberry, Honey Pistachio, and today’s Caramel Apple Cinnamon Rolls. Best of all, in honor of Uncle Clyde’s passion, there would be Peanut Butter and Banana Cinnamon Rolls, both crunchy and creamy.

  Delilah had known while she was still in prison that the diner and motel were going to be bequeathed to her by a bachelor great-uncle, her grandmother’s brother, whom she’d only met once, as a child. She’d also known that Uncle Clyde had cancer, having exchanged letters with him starting with her conviction. He had empathized with her, having served time himself as a young man. Thus, she’d been informed when he passed away last year. But that meant that the businesses had been closed for more than six months when she’d finally arrived here on the barrier island. Only then had she discovered that they’d been closed half the time before that, while her uncle suffered through years of cancer treatments.

  After her initial shock at the mess she was facing and the conditions of Uncle Clyde’s will, Delilah realized that quitting was not an option. First of all, she’d let the restaurant become her dream. Secondly, finding another job would be difficult if not impossible. Checking off “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” on a job application doomed her prospects to failure.

  And so, she established a plan for herself. Live frugally. Work to get the diner open first. Bring Maggie to live with her. After that, renovate the motel. Depend only on herself. Trust no one.

  Therefore, what she did not need was a bunch of people hanging around, being all welcome-wagoney, peppering her with questions, pretending to be her new best friends, probably with ulterior motives. Even those who were sincere in their overtures posed a danger to her plan.

  Every day of the five months she’d been in Bell Cove so
far, someone—often multiple someones—invaded her privacy with offers of advice or friendship or just plain nosiness.

  She soon found out that today, the day after the Independence Day wedding reception, was going to be no different. The Sunday from Hell had started off with Merrill Good, who was a godsend to her in some ways (like a ten-thousand-dollar godsend, thank you very much), but a devilsend in others (like what angel has bedroom eyes that tempt good girls to do bad things?).

  After sharing a coffee with her, Merrill stuck around for more than an hour, insisting on helping her to unscrew the vinyl seats off the booths and carrying them outside for her GOOP treatments. If he hadn’t made previous plans to meet some of his military buddies for lunch before they returned to California, he probably would have stayed all day.

  Yikes!

  His ulterior motive was glaringly obvious to her. The guy looked at her and saw sex on a stick. And he didn’t even try to hide the fact that he wanted her, which was commendable. In a way. In terms of honesty. And, in terms of wanting her but putting himself on a short leash. Restraining himself from hustling her hard probably had ulterior motives, though; he must fear crossing the line in today’s tenuous employer/employee sexual harassment environment.

  Little did he know she wasn’t about to sue anyone. That kind of publicity she did not want or need.

  Besides, he’d done nothing wrong, except for being too damned nice, even as he cast those smoldering looks her way.

  Niceness . . . bah humbug! Too bad she hadn’t been around last Christmas when they’d held that Grinch contest. She would have won hands down.

  After Merrill left, another vehicle pulled up. Surprise, surprise!

  A gray-haired woman, who couldn’t be more than five feet tall, got out on the driver’s side, then took a metal walker out of the backseat. Hobbling over to where Delilah was hosing off the vinyl booth seats that she’d already gooped an hour ago, the woman greeted her warmly. “Well, hello there, dear. Looks like you’ve been a busy bee today.”