by Sandra Hill
“Yep. A lot of work, but the old vinyl is starting to look almost new.”
“It certainly is. I remember when Clyde first installed them. Back in the 1970s, I think, after he returned from Vietnam. Forgive me for not coming around sooner, but I’m still recovering from double knee surgery last winter. I’m Ina Rogers, secretary for Our Lady by the Sea Church.”
“And I’m Lilah Jones,” Delilah said. After the way Merrill reacted to her name, perhaps her nickname would be more appropriate, attract less attention. “Ironically, I grew up going to a church called Our Lady Star of the Sea.”
“Really? Where was that?”
I stepped into that one. “Atlantic City.”
“You’re Catholic?”
That one, too. “Lapsed.”
Ina waved a hand dismissively, her attitude being like that of Delilah’s grandmother, Once a Catholic, always a Catholic. “You’re welcome to attend anytime, Lilah, and of course I’m in the church office every weekday morning if you want to register.”
“Maybe later.” Delilah figured that she would probably go back to church again once Maggie was here. A good example. In fact, she found herself disclosing, “My daughter will be here with me soon. I’m sure we’ll see you then.”
“A daughter? How nice! How old is she?”
“Four and a half.”
“Oh, good! She can join the children’s bell choir.”
“Maggie would love that.”
“Is your husband coming, too?”
“No husband,” Delilah said, and declined to elaborate as Ina’s gray eyebrows rose in question. To Ina’s credit, she didn’t appear judgmental, just interested.
Delilah realized that, by tomorrow, word would have spread around town that she had a daughter and that she was a single parent. Oh, well. It would have to come out sometime. Maybe it was better this way.
“I knew your uncle Clyde very well, you know.” Ina was already off on another subject. “Oh, the stories I could tell!” Her faded blue eyes twinkled at some presumably naughty memory.
Good heavens! Was this old woman implying . . . ?
Delilah pulled two web-type lawn chairs from her junk heap and ended up serving Ina a glass of iced lemonade and a cinnamon bun on a turned-over tomato crate covered with an Elvis place mat. There were about two hundred of them in the storage shed, celebrating his various movies. She might frame a few later on.
Ina oohed and aahed over the pastry, while Delilah pumped her for juicy details on Uncle Clyde, who’d apparently been a notorious ladies’ man, “handsome as the devil” in a ducktail hairstyle, which he sported right up till the end. Her uncle’s funeral had been quite the local affair with a guitar-shaped coffin and Elvis music on the church sound system, rather than hymns, although there had been a poignant Elvis rendition of “Amazing Grace” that had brought the house—rather, church—down.
Good grief! Delilah wished she could have been there.
Before she left, Ina managed to finagle a trip inside Delilah’s quarters on the pretext of a potty visit, but probably to snoop around. After her snoop fest, Ina insisted that Delilah accept the gift of a convertible sofa bed and matching chair in a “lovely teal blue” that were just sitting in her basement. Oh, and she might have a roll or two of matching teal-and-white-striped wallpaper, left over from a bedroom she’d redecorated ten years ago. It would make a lovely “accent wall,” according to Ina, who watched a lot of HGTV when she wasn’t working at the church office. Ina would have Eddie Van Hoy, the town’s taxi driver/delivery person, bring the furniture over later this week.
In the end, all Delilah could say was, “That is so nice of you.” Dammit!
Ina took an orange-ginger cinnamon roll wrapped in plastic wrap home to have for a snack later. Delilah figured it would be good for business. Word-of-mouth promotion, literally, before her grand opening.
Delilah had barely hosed off the booths’ vinyl seats when a pickup truck pulled up in front of the diner. There was a logo on the side for Hard Knocks, the local hardware store, where she’d done some business, mainly odd supplies and tools that weren’t available in Uncle Clyde’s arsenal.
Frank Baxter, the owner, emerged and immediately began unloading commercial-size cans of paint onto a dolly, which he rolled up to her and asked, “Where you want me to put these, honey?”
From Frank, who was in his sixties and sporting the world’s worst comb-over, rather comb-forward, of orangish-brown hair, which was clearly dyed, badly, it was hard to do anything but smile at his endearment. He was just being nice.
“What’s this, Frank? I didn’t order anything?”
“Was cleaning out my warehouse and discovered all these paints your uncle ordered before he got so sick. Figure no one else is gonna want neon red, neon blue, and silver high glossies.”
“Frank, I can’t afford to buy these right now. There must be at least two hundred to three hundred dollars’ worth of paint there. Maybe later if you can hold on to them.”
Frank waved a hand dismissively. “No problem. Besides, it was a special order, and, like I said, no one else is gonna buy these metallic colors. Consider it a welcome to Bell Cove gift. No, you don’t have to thank me. Just buy your other supplies from me, instead of that blasted Internet, like some folks around here do.”
“You can be sure of that, Frank.” She surprised both him and herself when she almost reached up and gave him a hug. Usually, she avoided physical contact of any kind with people. Instead, she shook his hand.
Still, she thought, Nice, nice, nice!
Dammit!
Before he left, she asked, “How do you feel about cinnamon rolls?”
Thus, two more of her pastries hit the road. Apple cinnamon and pistachio lime.
Eliza Rutledge, whose grandson got married the day before, came by, too, with two high school boys who worked for her at the Rutledge Tree Farm and Landscaping business. Eliza brought a dozen flowering bushes, some bedding flowers, and a pile of mulch to “pretty up the front of the diner.” When Delilah tried to protest, Eliza scolded her, “I know pride when I see it, girl. Just say thank you, and let it go.”
“Thank you,” Delilah said. Within an hour, the bushes were planted, and the diner, as dilapidated as it still was, did look better.
Could a person die from niceness?
Eliza also left with a cinnamon roll for her afternoon break. A plain one, iced with raisins.
Next up were Stuart and Barbara MacLeod, owners of Blankety-Blank, Historic South Carolina Quilts, who arrived in a white panel van decorated with hand-painted quilt patterns, which they probably used to cart home the products they bought at many estate sales throughout the South. At least, that’s what Delilah had heard from a volunteer at the local library, where there was a display of several of their coffee table books.
She hadn’t met them yet, but she had passed by their shop on the square, and their displays were exquisite. Way beyond her means!
They introduced themselves to Delilah, urging her to call them Stu and Barb, to which she offered her nickname of Lilah. Supposedly, they’d been history teachers at some Charleston community college and retired here five years ago to share their passion in a commercial way, again according to the library volunteer.
Delilah had to smile. The gray-haired couple, in their late sixties, looked like they still lived in the sixties, the 1960s, overage hippies from another era. She with long hair hanging loose to her waist and he with a single braid, both with matching, twisted leather headbands, but his across his forehead. She wore a loose, ankle-length skirt with a peasant blouse. He had a tie-dyed T-shirt with a peace emblem tucked into bell-bottom denims embroidered with flowers along the hem. They both wore Birkenstocks.
“My dear, you are such a welcome addition to our little town,” Barb said, holding on to Delilah’s hand after she shook it with both of hers.
Delilah tried to pull away, discreetly, but Barb, despite her age, had a grip like a Wall Street power broke
r.
“We didn’t know your uncle well, but we loved the idea of a vintage diner and motel the first time we visited Bell Cove. Even though Elvis hated hippies, according to that letter he wrote to Nixon. How could anyone hate a generation that celebrated love?”
“Now, hon, that was probably just the press twisting things,” Stu said to his wife. “Remember, we decided to forgive Elvis. Any man who could sing like he did had to be pure of heart. His rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’ was quintessential love.”
“Or ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ My favorite.” Barb sighed. “We made love for the first time on Laguna Beach to that song. Remember, darling?”
“Remember? Hah! I had sand where the sun don’t shine for days afterward, sweetheart. And a rash on my ash. Ha, ha, ha.”
They gazed at each other lovingly.
TMI, Delilah thought.
Stu turned to Delilah again, took her right hand (Barb still held her left hand), and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
Delilah cringed inside at that additional physical contact. Why did people, especially strangers, feel the need to touch?
“Despite Elvis, we were great fans of your uncle’s Thursday Night Meat Loaf,” Barb was saying. “Do you intend to continue that offering?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Cheap ketchup, that was his secret ingredient,” Barb told Delilah.
“Now, Barbie, you don’t know that for sure,” Stu said. “Personally, I think it was the herbs he used.” He told Delilah, “Rumor was he grew a little of his own herbs out back, if you get my meaning.” He winked at her.
What? Pot-infused meat loaf? Was that possible?
By now, Stu and Barb were off on another subject. The motel.
“Would you mind giving us a tour, dear?” Barb asked. “We have some ideas that might help.”
Uh-oh! I sense an incoming nice attack.
The motel unit was painted blue, or had been at one time. Now, the once-sky-blue color was faded and peeling in spots. The eight rooms had been an homage to Elvis songs, each with blue in the title, each with its own brass placard: BLUE SUEDE SHOES, BLUE MOON, BLUEBERRY HILL, BLUE HAWAII, BLUE CHRISTMAS, BLUE RIVER, MOODY BLUE, and G.I. BLUES.
The rooms were actually fairly large with two full-size beds, bedside tables with lamps, and a dresser. But there were also sitting areas with miniscule television sets facing sliding patio doors through which could be seen magnificent views of Bell Sound. There was no way to get down to the rocky shore, unless some enterprising person, meaning her, installed steps at some point in the future—the distant future. Back inside, some of the framed Elvis movie posters and memorabilia were still intact on the walls, but mostly the rooms were a gut job. On the other hand, the bathrooms weren’t too bad. The cast-iron tubs would need to be reglazed, and tile walls required regrouting, but the bathrooms themselves were larger than the tiny facilities found in motels today.
“Here’s what we were thinking,” Stu said, gazing around with a surprising admiration. “Barb and I deal in antique quilts, of course, but we also have access to new fabrics and products. For example . . .”
Barb pulled out several swatches of cloth from a macramé shoulder bag she carried and handed them to her husband. First was a quilted material in varying shades of blue that gave the appearance of ocean waves. “This ombré method of shading from one tone of the same color to another would be wonderful in a quilted bedspread over heavy batting,” Stu said.
“Then, a cotton fabric with the same blue wave ombré design could be made into curtains for the front windows. And this . . . don’t you love this sheer?” Barb held out an almost-transparent material that shimmered with the varying blues. “It would make great panels for the sliding doors.”
“If you used these materials, which aren’t too busy, as your base, then you could work the Elvis theme in each unit around them,” Stu explained.
They were beautiful, just the kind of thing she would like, but Delilah knew she could never afford them. “I appreciate your thoughts. I really do, but honestly, I’m on a really tight budget. And, besides, I need to get the diner operating first.”
“Oh, my goodness, sweetie, we didn’t mean right now,” Barb said, squeezing Delilah’s hand. To her husband, Barb whispered, “We were being intrusive.”
“No, it’s not—” Delilah started to say.
But Stu was squeezing her other arm. “It’s important that you use quality materials in a commercial operation. Anything cheaper would fall apart after five washings. But what we failed to say is that we have access to wholesalers. We could get all these things for you at cost. And maybe even at a significant discount below cost. When you’re ready.”
“And I’ll bet there’s someone locally who could sew them up real cheap,” Barb added.
They both stared at Delilah for a long moment before giving her a final squeeze and saying, as one, “We just want to help.”
Which was all well and good, but another speed bump in Delilah’s journey to be independent and private. Once again, Delilah realized that she was being undermined by niceness.
Dammit!
Stu and Barb left with her last two cinnamon rolls. An experimental apple honey oat mix with cream cheese frosting.
Which was ironic because no sooner had they left the premises than Sally Dawson of Sweet Thangs, a bakery and ice-cream shop, arrived with a bone to pick with her. Well, a cinnamon roll, not a bone. And there was not a cinnamon roll to be had.
“What’s this I hear about you trying to run me out of business?” Sally asked right off, hands on hips.
Sally was about the same age as Delilah, but looked like a teenager with her brown hair cut short in a pixie style and freckles dotting her makeup-free face. Despite her youthful appearance, Sally had three young sons she was raising alone since her soldier husband had been killed in Afghanistan.
“Huh?”
Sally gave her a fierce scowl, then laughed. “Just kidding. I’ve been hearing raves over your cinnamon rolls, and just wanted to make you an offer. If you’d like to sell them at my bakery until you get the diner going, I’m game.”
“You would do that for me? The competition?”
Sally laughed some more. “Not really competition. We would be partners. I’d only charge a little percentage for profit at my end, but once your diner and motel open, I would expect you to put out some brochures for my bakery. Maybe even sell some of my products. Hey, you could offer Continental Breakfasts to motel customers. Just basics. Croissants, pastries, cinnamon rolls, with coffee and tea.”
“That sounds good, but it’ll be a while before the motel is ready.”
“And my offer to sell your cinnamon rolls in the meantime?”
“I’d love to do that, but I’m not sure how much time I’m going to have. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be working for Bell Cove Treasure and Salvaging. I need to earn some extra cash to complete my renovations here.” That wasn’t quite a lie.
“Really? You’ll be working with Merrill Good, that hot Navy SEAL?” Sally grinned, exposing one slightly crooked incisor, which was oddly attractive.
“I don’t think he’s a Navy SEAL anymore. Besides, how do you know he was a SEAL? They don’t go public with that, do they? Maybe he was just Navy.”
“Oh, he was a SEAL all right. My husband was Delta Force, and, believe me, I can recognize one of those bad boys at fifty paces. Doesn’t matter if they’re Green Berets, Deltas, SEALs, Rangers, or whatever. Badass to the bone.”
Okaay. Merrill is a badass. Well, I knew that, didn’t I? Just looking at him makes my toes curl. “Um . . . if you think Merrill is so hot, maybe you should make a connection. Or . . . have you already?” For some reason, that idea bothered Delilah. A lot. She wasn’t sure why.
“Not a chance! One military man was enough for me. When . . . or if . . . I ever get involved with another man, he’s gonna be safe and boring. An accountant, maybe.”
Delilah was the one to la
ugh now.
But not for long.
“I understand you have a daughter. How old is she?”
Well, that was quick. The Bell Cove grapevine at its best, just like the prison grapevine, or gossip networks everywhere. The juicy tidbit was passed on today by Ina Rogers, Delilah presumed. “A little girl. Magdalene Jones, or Maggie.”
“Magdalene, what an unusual name. Pretty.”
“My family has a warped sense of humor. Biblical names for the women, but bad women of the Bible, not the saintly ones. Like Mary Magdalene, Delilah for me, my grandmother is Salome or Sal, and my mother was Jezebel, or Jezzie. There was probably a Bathsheba early on.”
“I love it! My husband had been certain we’d have all boys, they run in his family, and he wanted to name our boys Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Unfortunately, we never got around to a fourth son, a John, before he died.”
Delilah sensed Sally’s pain over the loss of her husband, even though he’d been gone for several years now. But she didn’t want to add to her grief by asking questions about his death. Instead, she remarked, “So, your sons are named Matthew, Mark, and Luke?”
“Yep. Luke is about the same age as your Maggie. Maybe they’ll become friends, although I must warn you, he’s a terror on a dirt bike.”
“Maggie is more into the movie Annie, although she might become more adventuresome once she’s here and out of doors more often.” That was another thing Delilah would have to add to her lists. Buy Maggie a bicycle.
Sally didn’t ask her about Maggie’s father, or where Maggie was at the present time, which Delilah considered a blessing. There were only so many secrets she wanted to dole out at one time.
After Sally left, Delilah covered the refinished booth seats with several tarps, not wanting to reinstall them until the interior of the diner was completely clean and restored. Besides, it looked like a summer storm was about to hit, one of those sudden flash rainfalls that came down fast and furious on the beaches and were over almost as soon as they started.
The day had been unsettling for her, with all the visitors, jarring her with all the things she would have to add to her “To Do” lists. How naive had she been, thinking that she could open a diner and motel on a barrier island, lickety-split, and then move her daughter here with no complications? And Merrill Good was going to pose the biggest complication of them all. She just knew he would.
