by Sandra Hill
Delilah moved from behind the counter to meet Bonita in the middle of the salon, where they both rolled their arms and shoulders, swayed their hips, and shook their booties, in perfect rhythm, while they belted out the lyrics to the old favorite. If they’d been wearing socks rather than rubber-soled sneakers, they probably would have added in a Tom Cruise sock slide à la Risky Business. When the song ended, they were both laughing.
And Charlie, who must have followed Bonita, stood at the bottom of the steps, her jaw dropped in astonishment. A duffel bag lay on the floor at her feet. “Holy crawfish! Is this the kind of trip this is going to be?”
The radio was now playing Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way,” and Bonita shimmied her way over to Charlie, giving her a hip bump. “C’mon, Charlie, loosen up. You’re Cajun, aren’t you? I hear Cajuns have an extra gene for dancing.”
“Don’t pick on Charlie,” Delilah told Bonita. “She’s probably shy.”
“Fools!” Charlie said, encompassing them both, and then she did a perfect imitation of a Steven Tyler strut across the room with a hip wiggle tossed in.
Delilah was seeing the two women in a different light, and she liked what she saw. Maybe they would become—horror of horrors!—friends.
“So, this is where the fun people are hanging out.”
They all turned to see the latest entrant into the cabin. It was Laura Atler, editor of the weekly newspaper, The Bell, who had been bird-dogging all the members of the salvaging team this week, working on an article about Bell Cove’s newest enterprise. Delilah had managed to avoid an interview for obvious reasons. No publicity was good publicity for an ex-con. Delilah suspected that Charlie felt the same way, for her own personal reasons. Not so much Bonita, who seemingly had nothing to hide.
The DJ on the radio was speaking, now that the Aerosmith song had ended. “But we can’t be talking old rock in the middle of the summer without mentioning beach music. No, I’m not talking the Beach Boys and the West Coast. Nope, we folks in the Carolinas know what beach music really means.” And the song “Carolina Girls” came on.
Which prompted Laura to put her iPad and iPhone in a laptop bag, which she set on a bench seat, and then launch into a perfectly executed shag, complete with intricate dance steps, dips of the knees, and twirls. She ended with a bow to each of them and laughed. “Now that’s the way it’s done!”
Delilah loved to dance, or at least she used to. How could she not, growing up with a grandmother who had been a showgirl and was always teaching her the moves? But she’d stopped dancing, she realized now, back when her world had started to fall apart. To her, dance had always represented joy, and there had been little of that. Until now. She liked how comfortable she felt with these women.
Not at all the way she’d felt about her fellow inmates at Edna Mahan, where you could never trust anyone, even a cell mate, who would give you the shaft for the least favor from a guard. And, yes, the women danced with each other on those rare breaks where music was played. But it had been a sad kind of dancing. Desperate, even.
But that was then, and this was now.
Delilah started to smile, perhaps with a smidgen of hope, as she participated in the high fives being exchanged among the new women in her life, but then they heard a loud blast of noise coming from outside. Pounding drums, then the melodious marching band version of “Anchors Aweigh.”
“What is that?” Charlie asked.
“It appears that Mayor Ferguson got the high school band to come on short notice. I knew she was trying,” Laura said, grabbing for her laptop bag.
“I thought there was only going to be the usual good luck and bon voyage speech by the mayor, and a song or two by the St. Andrew’s and Our Lady youth bell choirs,” Bonita remarked.
“Does Bell Cove ever do anything in the usual way?” Laura asked.
“You’ve got a point there,” Bonita said. “Case in point—last year’s Christmas Grinch affair, and more recently the Stars and Stripes wedding.”
“Well, ‘Anchors Aweigh’ is probably appropriate,” Charlie conceded, “considering that we’re going to be lifting anchor, if we ever get this friggin’ show on the road . . . high seas. We’re wastin’ fuel idling here.”
“The song’s appropriate also because of Merrill’s Navy background, I suppose,” Delilah added.
Just then, a male voice yelled out, “Atten-shun!”
“Oh, my God! Doreen must have gotten the VFW guys to come out for a three-gun salute,” Laura said. “Those old codgers are about eighty years old and haven’t shot a gun since the Korean War. Everybody better duck.”
Yep. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
One of them was trigger-happy, or forgot how to count.
They all rushed to get up the hatchway then to see what was going on.
Merrill and the rest of the team—Adam, Gus, Gabriel Conti, the architect who owned Bell Forge, and Harry using a walker today—looked like deer caught in the headlights. Obviously, they were as shocked as the rest of them by this turn of events.
As expected, two dozen folding chairs, occupied by various town folks, were arranged on the wharf before a podium with a microphone, and two clergymen, presumably from Our Lady and St. Andrew’s, stood by, ready to give a blessing. But off to one side was the now-silent high school band, preparing to start up again. And to the other side, a half dozen senior citizen soldiers stood at attention with rifles. A red, white, and blue banner and other leftover Fourth of July decorations now adorned the bay side of the Bell Forge building. A satellite truck with the logo NBX-TV was parked in the lot.
And then the band launched into a new song, Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance,” with a strange accompaniment of bells, and the Shell Shore Dance Team came marching onto the scene with some of the scantily clad girls twirling batons and others doing gymnastic-type dance moves. What they had to do with a treasure hunting boat launch was beyond Delilah.
Just then, she noticed two well-dressed couples at the edge of the crowd, who glanced around with distaste at all the goings-on, and turned as one to walk away. Probably tourists.
Meanwhile, some others in the audience stood in front of their chairs and danced, too. Some of them might be from Mildred Patterson’s dance club.
“This is outrageous,” Charlie said.
“This is . . . mind-boggling,” Delilah said.
“This is wonderful,” Bonita said.
“This is Bell Cove,” Laura said.
And that about said it all.
Dare he hope for a shipboard romance . . . ?
Merrill was appalled. And he was oddly touched.
Appalled, because when he’d agreed to Mayor Doreen Ferguson’s suggestion of a launch ceremony for Bell Cove Treasure and Salvaging Company, he’d imagined a short speech by the mayor. Accompanied by maybe the breaking of a champagne bottle inside a mesh bag against the hull of the boat. But, no, that was for the launch of a new ship, a christening, wasn’t it?
Touched, because these people in Bell Cove were well-meaning, and every absurd, outrageous gesture of the ceremony showed not just an honest communal wish for success in their venture, but a welcome of him and his company to the town. Besides, it had been funny. If a guy couldn’t laugh at himself, he had no sense of humor at all.
The best part had been seeing the look on Delilah’s face as she stood at the rail of Sweet Bells watching the band come marching in to “Anchors Aweigh.” The worst part had been when he’d noticed his parents, along with Ben and Vanessa, at the edge of the crowd, looking horrified and embarrassed before turning to leave. Without even saying hello to him! Talk about no sense of humor! Did anyone else notice them?
It was two p.m. before he and his crew had been able to depart, but clear skies and calm seas made for a pleasant trip, and, yes, they were all laughing at what they’d left behind. In the hour or so it took to arrive at the site, five miles out, people exchanged reminiscences of the day.
“I couldn’t believe that Doreen referred to us as buccaneers,”
Gus said. “Now, a Viking, that’s another story.”
“Some folks say I look like a young Johnny Depp,” Famosa claimed.
“In your dreams!” the rest of them hooted.
He just laughed.
“In Loo-zee-anna, we prefer our pirates to look like Jean Lafitte,” Charlie called out from the wheelhouse where she was steering at a low rate of speed, not wanting to push the engine too fast, too soon.
“Father Brad’s prayer was kind of nice,” Merrill interjected, “although I noticed that he mentioned the importance of sharing wealth. Do you think he’s envisioning a big church donation? I do like his assumption, though, that we’re going to make some big discoveries.”
“From his lips to God’s ears,” Famosa joked. “The last treasure I cashed in on went to back alimony for my second wife. How about that little tuba player who farted every time she blew her horn?”
“She was not farting!” Bonita elbowed Famosa. “It was just the sound she made in the lower registers because she didn’t have enough wind . . . um, breath.”
Famosa grinned at her misspeak.
“I used to be able to do a triple flip like that dancer did,” Gus said.
Bonita glanced at his six-foot-three frame and arched her brows. “When was that . . . when you were ten years old?” She was obviously not a football fan, or she would know about Gus’s antics.
“Nope. Every time I made a touchdown, I did that on the sidelines . . . until I got too many penalties for showboating. The fans loved it. Bet I could still do it.”
“Please, don’t,” Merrill urged.
And so it went with light conversation as they settled in and got to know each other. He noticed that Delilah remained silent, listening but not sharing any personal info. Then she went down below. Soon they saw their designated spot, pinpointed by bobbing flags they’d set in place previously, and loud cheers greeted some startled birds overhead.
A map had been drawn of their licensed search boundaries as pinpointed by specific latitude and longitude lines on the open waters of the Atlantic, with the site divided into squares like a checkerboard. All of it had been programmed into Merrill’s high-tech computer. They anchored the boat on the bottom left square and would begin diving there in the morning. Square by square they would move the boat, as many as six times a day, like a lawn mower, until they hit pay dirt.
Actually, it wasn’t as hit-and-miss as that. He and some of the crew had already made a sweep of the site last month using side and bottom sonar equipment and a proton magnetometer, which could detect ferrous metals. With that data logged into a computer, the original five hundred or so blocks in the grid had been reduced to less than three hundred considered diveworthy. The problem was, time was money, and their permit expired one year from their starting date. That meant only four months left this year until winter set in, rendering dives impossible. If they found nothing by November, they would have to wait until April or May to return. By then, the bottom terrain could have changed, due to ocean currents and storms, meaning a whole new redo of prep for their dives. And of course, they had to get through hurricane season, which on the Outer Banks was July through December, but most likely August or September.
A cold lunch was set out by Delilah, but Merrill was busy on deck all afternoon, and wasn’t able to go below until almost dinnertime. He found her alone in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a salad in a huge wooden bowl. On the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the salon sat several loaves of garlic bread ready to go into the oven. An equally large trencher on the table held various fresh fruits: apples, oranges, peaches, plums, and grapes. Delicious smells of some kind of pasta sauce emanated from a pot on the stove.
“That smells delicious,” he said, going up to the sink and washing his hands.
“You missed lunch. You must be starving. Do you want me to make you a sandwich or something?”
He shook his head. “I can wait for dinner. What’s on the menu?”
“Nothing fancy. Seafood linguine with a summer salad and garlic bread. A store-bought fruit tart for dessert. I didn’t have time to make anything from scratch today. Sorry.”
“No cinnamon rolls?” he teased.
“Are you saying that I overdo the cinnamon rolls?” She pointed the sharp knife in her hands at him.
He laughed and put both hands up in surrender. “Your cinnamon rolls are heavenly. Can any man have too much heaven?”
“Good answer,” she said, and resumed cutting tomatoes into neat wedges which she tossed into the bowl.
Delilah appeared more relaxed today. Not so prickly and quick to take offense. He wasn’t sure if it was because they were away from town, or she was growing more comfortable with him and the other crew members. He wasn’t about to question a good thing.
“That was some launch celebration the town held for you,” Delilah remarked. “Did you expect that?”
“No, but then that’s Bell Cove. I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Everyone loved it.”
“Not everyone. Did you notice those two couples who walked out?”
“I did. Anyone you know?”
He hesitated before saying, “Yeah. My mother, father, brother, and bitch-in-law. Vacationing on Hatteras.” He could have kicked himself for revealing that personal information. He rarely talked about his family. They were irrelevant to him.
Delilah looked at him, waiting for more.
He’d said more than enough. “On a happier note, Bonita told me that you four women, including Laura Atler from The Bell newspaper, were dancing down here earlier today. I would have liked to see that,” he remarked, sneaking a carrot stick from her pile and popping it into his mouth. Crunching away, he watched her face bloom with color as she gave him a little smile.
And his heart lurched. If she wasn’t so skittish and he wasn’t afraid of crossing a line, he would have hugged her spontaneously and perhaps planted a quick kiss on her lips. The desire to touch her was almost overwhelming. Which caused him to back off.
Once again, he wondered why he was so hot for Delilah. Sure, she was attractive. Her silver-blonde hair was held off her neck and face and piled on top of her head with some claw combs. Her bordering-on-voluptuous figure filled a plain black T-shirt and white jeans. What drew him most, though, was her face, which was innocently vulnerable, with blue eyes that seemed to be wary from some huge pain and lips which were full and rose colored, even without lipstick, and parted as if always ready to defend herself from some attack.
Attack? Where did that come from? Merrill wondered.
He slid onto a stool on the other side of the counter and noticed an open spiral notebook. “Your menu plans?” he asked, seeing a calendar with meal and food remarks made on particular days. Chicken salad sliders. Crab cakes. Ina’s mac and cheese. Steak and kidney pie. Pulled pork. Grilled salmon. “Mind if I look?”
She shrugged.
“You might want to make room for fresh fish. Usually some lines are thrown overboard, even during the dive operations. Never know what we might catch out here. Bass, flounder, red drum, whatever.”
“Sounds good. Just so it’s not shark. And please don’t tell me that shark tastes just like chicken. I don’t care. Did you know that sharks pee through their skin? Yuck!”
He laughed.
“Do you have any particular preferences? Dishes you like?” she asked.
“I eat most anything. It’s more a question of what I don’t like. I’ve been in the military the past fifteen years. Food on the base was actually pretty good. I’m embarrassed to say that I like Spam, that old military standby, but I hate Shit on the Shingle, creamed chipped beef on toast.” He grimaced and pretended to shiver with distaste. “I like anything with lemons. Lemon meringue pie. Lemon chicken. Lemonade.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Lemon Jell-O shots.”
“I like lemons, too. In fact, I make a spectacular honey glazed lemon cinnamon roll, if I do say so myself.”
“W
hy am I not surprised?” He stole a cucumber slice this time. “Is there anything you don’t put in cinnamon rolls?”
“Chipped beef,” she said with a grin, even as she moved the bowl out of his reach. “Behave yourself, and I’ll make you a batch of the lemony cinnamon rolls sometime.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise.” Merrill liked this easy banter with Delilah and the companionable silence that followed as she continued to build her salad. He hesitated to break the mood. “You obviously enjoy cooking. Did you always?”
“Yep. I was raised by my grandmother. I think I told you that before. She was always working. Had to, of course. So, I learned to cook from an early age, or survive on Pop-Tarts and boxed mac and cheese.”
He noticed that she didn’t mention a grandfather, or a father and mother, for that matter. Those questions would come later. Instead, he said, “What’s wrong with Pop-Tarts?”
She gave him a disapproving look and continued, “I didn’t have many friends, with us living in a rough neighborhood and Gram not wanting me to play outside. Kids my age were reading ‘American Girl’ books and collecting the ultra-expensive dolls, while I was devouring the used cookbooks I bought at yard sales. I have an impressive collection, although they’re pretty much useless now due to the Internet and all. The days of leafing through real books with colorful illustrations are long gone. Much easier to just google what you’re looking for.” She was whisking some kind of homemade salad dressing now—olive oil, raspberry vinaigrette, and herbs—when she paused, perhaps realizing that she was talking more to him now than she ever had before. “So, what did you read as a kid? Action adventure books? G.I. Joe comics?”
“Nah, my parents would have never allowed that—too plebeian. And, yes, that’s a word they actually use. I’m probably ten years older than you, but—”
“Ten years older! You look ten years younger.”
“Is that a good or bad?”
“Definitely good. You have the face of a teenage boy.”
“And the body of a mature man, I hope.”
She just smiled and shook her head as if he was hopeless.
