Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Sandra Hill

  “As I was saying, I was a precocious kid, reading way beyond my years. When other little boys were reading Dr. Seuss, which I liked . . . still like, especially The Sneetches, I finished The Lord of the Rings by the time I was six years old.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “I’ll confess something, though. My guilty pleasure, even today, is watching reruns of ‘Mayberry.’”

  She frowned with confusion. “You mean that old Andy Griffith Show?”

  “Oh, yeah! I know the lines of some of the shows by heart.” In a Sheriff Taylor voice, he said, “You start dating one woman all the time and pretty soon people start taking you for granted. They don’t say, ‘Let’s invite Andy’ or ‘Let’s invite Elly.’ No, they say, ‘Let’s invite Andy and Elly!’ See, then it’s ‘Andy and Elly.’ ‘Elly and Andy.’ And then, that’s when the woman gets her claws in you.”

  Delilah laughed and clapped her hands.

  He could feel his face heat. “Anyhow, a psychiatrist would have a heyday examining my Mayberry obsession.”

  “Is that why you moved to Bell Cove?”

  “Could be. Although Bell Cove is a half-assed version of Mayberry.”

  Suddenly serious, she put her whisk down—Who knew I had a whisk, by the way?—and said, “That’s nothing. My go-to comfort movie was, and still is, the movie Annie. The original version.”

  “See, we have something in common. Guilty pleasures.” He winked at her. “Who knows what other guilty pleasures we might share?”

  “Oh, you!” she said, but didn’t seem offended. Instead, she went on, “In fact, my daughter has apparently inherited that Annie addiction of mine. She watches the movie over and over.”

  There was a message hidden there in her words, about why she and her daughter fixated on a movie about an orphan. And how they were rescued by . . .

  Oh, no! Is that why she asked me if I ever shaved my head? Is she thinking of me as a Daddy Warbucks? I’m not that old! And I do not want to be a father figure to her.

  But then, she picked up the whisk again, and using it like a microphone, she sang, in a surprisingly good voice, the lyrics to “It’s a Hard-Knock Life.” Her lips were smiling as she sang and looked at him, but her eyes were sad.

  And Merrill fell in love, even more than he already was.

  Chapter 9

  Me and Jacques Cousteau . . .

  After one full day on the site, no treasure had been found, but Delilah was having the time of her life. Instead of work, this felt like a vacation.

  She was especially pleased because everyone raved about her meals. Not just last night’s seafood linguine, but this morning’s mushroom and cheddar omelets with sourdough bread, and a lunch featuring turkey, bacon, and avocado sliders with Amish macaroni salad. Tonight she would be serving a mostly Mexican feast which included tacos, burritos, yellow rice, refried beans, and decadent churros with a rich chocolate sauce.

  But more than her enjoyment over cooking for an appreciative audience was her fascination with the whole treasure hunting process. Who knew that salvaging could be so thrilling! Especially for her! In a way, treasure hunting was like gambling, and Delilah had always had an aversion to gambling, growing up in a casino town and seeing the ill effects on some people. Fortunes were lost, families ruined on the flip of a card. But shipwreck salvaging was different somehow, in more than the obvious ways. Sure, the stakes were high and the risks even greater, but there was a professionalism to it that raised it above the muck. Maybe it was because so much hard work was involved. Or it could be the historical context. It felt a little Jacques Cousteau-ish.

  Three dives had been made today with alternating pairs going down in tandem. Merrill and Gus. Adam and Bonita. If nothing of interest was seen and the spot was deemed a dud in terms of shipwreck remains, the anchor was pulled and the boat moved to the next block in the grid.

  Even the diving itself was a time-consuming process due to all the necessary precautions. Because these were deep waters, the divers could only stay below for twenty-five minutes, Merrill had explained to her earlier, and then an hour coming back up, stopping at intervals to decompress as a precaution against the dreaded narcosis, better known as the bends. Even when they were back on board, they had to wait another two or three hours as they continued to decompress.

  By late afternoon, they were about to make the fourth and final dive for the day, and Delilah was too excited to stay below. Checking to ensure that all her food was ready to be popped into the oven when everyone wanted to eat, she went up on deck. She was just in time.

  Bonita and Adam were sitting on the side of the boat in full diving gear. At a signal from Merrill they bit down on their regulators and rolled backward into the water.

  “I thought you guys would be wearing those skintight rubber suits like you see on TV,” Delilah remarked to Gus, who was watching that the lines uncoiled without a hitch. “The ones that fit like a glove.” And I wouldn’t be caught dead in. My curves get too much attention as it is. Besides, no way would my butt fit in one of those girdle-ish affairs, and my boobs would be squished if they fit at all. Em-barr-ass-ing!

  Without looking her way, Gus said, “Nope. Too cold for a wet suit at this depth. The dry suits are big and bulky, but at least your toes, and other body parts, don’t freeze.” Now that the line was fully extended, he glanced her way and grinned. “I can always model my tightest neoprene for you if you’re interested.”

  She went stiff at his suggestive remark, but then, as he winked at her, she realized that he was just teasing. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” She really needed to stop being so defensive. Not every man was a sexist pig, like many of the guards she’d been exposed to for five long years.

  Merrill came over then and exchanged a few words with Gus. “The WAPs are surprisingly good this afternoon. I was able to do an overlay of the GODAR sets with the GrADS and see much better than this morning. Super clarity!”

  “And the virtual biological sludge on the GCMS?”

  “That, too.”

  “Cool,” Gus said.

  “What foreign language is that?” Delilah asked.

  Merrill grinned. “Computerese.”

  “Hey, don’t feel bad,” Gus said. “I don’t understand half of what he says, either.”

  “WAP is a wireless application protocol. Then there is Global Oceanographic Data Archaeology Rescue, and Grid Analysis and Display System,” Merrill explained.

  “That makes it perfectly clear,” Delilah said.

  Merrill chucked her under the chin for her sarcasm. “Are you saying I’m a geek?”

  “Only in a good way.”

  “Hey, Merrill,” Charlie called from the wheelhouse. “I have to go pee. You wanna spot me on these monitors?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Merrill agreed, and motioned for Delilah to follow him. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”

  “Do you want to show me, too?” Gus asked, with fake sincerity.

  “Later,” Merrill said. “Check the fishing lines first. See if we have any big-ass fish hooked for dinner.”

  “Sure. I saw a school of red drum earlier today. If we’re lucky . . .” Gus went off to the other side of the boat where a half dozen rods were locked in place along the rail.

  “Hey, I’m serving Mexican tonight,” Delilah protested.

  “You never heard of fish tacos?” Merrill said.

  “You get me a big fish, and I’ll cook it tomorrow, my way.”

  “Whatever you say, De-li-lah.” He flashed her a mischievous smile which said, loud and clear, that he would be calling the shots, not her. And not just about some fish.

  Wearing a well-worn U.S. Navy gray T-shirt with tan cargo shorts, sockless black athletic shoes, and a Yankees baseball cap, he should have looked like a college kid, but instead he was all muscle-bound man comfortable in his own suntanned skin. The smile was almost her undoing.

  If it wouldn’t have appeared obvious, Delilah would have fanned herself.<
br />
  “I’m gonna take a break while I’m down below, if you don’t mind,” Charlie said to Merrill as she passed through the doorway.

  “No problem,” he replied. “By the way, Harry says some guy with a Southern accent has been calling the office for you.”

  Charlie swore under her breath.

  “He refers to you as Charlotte, not Charlie, if that gives you a clue.”

  “Oh, I know ’zactly who it is. That damn Beauregard Butler, who thinks he’s gonna be mah Rhett and rescue me. A Southern knight in shining souped-up truck! Or else Jefferson Lee Landry. Yep, it’s probably JL. That boy has been a gnat on mah backside since we were wadin’ in the bayou in our diapers catchin’ mudbugs. Some men never give up.” On those words, she stomped off.

  Delilah and Merrill exchanged looks and then laughed.

  At least no one had called for Delilah, she thought with a sigh of relief. Not, for example, her grandmother, or her parole officer, or Davie, God forbid, sending yet another plea that she come visit him in New Jersey State Prison. Small blessings!

  Merrill indicated that Delilah should sit on the high stool before a series of monitors. He stood behind her and explained what they were looking at. There were the usual things you would expect on a boat this size, stuff like you see on TV shows like Deadliest Catch, depth finders and sonar scanners and such. But, in retrofitting this ship for salvaging, a bunch of high-tech computer equipment had been added to the point that the wheelhouse resembled some kind of NASA operation.

  Delilah watched, fascinated, while Merrill explained patiently what was happening on the various screens, including the murky one that showed two divers moving about on the ocean bottom. Several times, Adam or Bonita, it was hard to tell which was which, picked up an item and put it in one of the bags attached to their belts. Various-sized fish and slithery snake-like animals, probably eels, swam by, mostly ignoring the humans in their stomping ground.

  The whole time, Merrill had a hand placed on her back, between her shoulder blades. He probably didn’t realize it. He might have done the same thing if anyone was sitting here. But she was aware of the simple gesture. The heat of his palm, like a brand. An erotic brand proclaiming his intentions toward her. Possession.

  She didn’t feel threatened.

  She felt comforted.

  Finally, the two divers could be seen yanking on their cords, a clear signal that they were about to begin the slow process back to the top. Another dud site.

  She turned on her stool, thus forcing him to move his hand.

  Only then did he seem to realize that he’d been touching her. He stared at his hand for a fleeting moment as if he didn’t recognize it. Then looked at her mouth. Impulsively, he leaned down and gave her a quick kiss, which was electrifying, despite its brevity and butterfly lightness.

  “Sorry. I don’t know why I did that. Well, yes, I do, but . . .” He shook his head to clear it.

  She wasn’t offended. More like intrigued. Wishing the kiss had been a bit more intense so she could examine why she wasn’t offended. But then, seeing how embarrassed he was, she changed the subject. “Are you terribly disappointed that today was a failure?”

  “No. Not disappointed,” he said, taking a step back, as if fearful he might kiss her again, or more. “Today was more of an exploratory venture. A look around, survey the terrain kind of thing. Yeah, it would be great to make a find the first day, but it almost never happens.”

  “Well, I better go below. Some last-minute things to do for dinner.”

  “In case I didn’t mention it before, you’ve been a godsend. I was naive, or stupid, to think we could have gotten by, taking turns cooking.”

  “Thanks for saying so, but I’m sure you would have survived. Canned soup and bologna sandwiches, maybe, but no one would have starved.”

  “Look, Delilah, before Charlie comes back, can I ask you a question?” His face was serious.

  Uh-oh! She was immediately wary. Had he found out something about her past? Was she about to be fired? Out at sea? Were her cooking skills not enough to keep her on the crew? Was the kiss a kiss-off? “You said you were pleased with my cooking, but did I do something wrong? Get in someone’s way? Fail to clean the frickin’ . . . um, filthy bathroom good enough? Are you gonna make me walk the plank . . . ha, ha, ha?” she tried to joke.

  “What? Huh? Oh, nothing like that. I was just wondering . . . when we’re back on land, would you go out on a date with me?”

  It was her turn to say, “Huh?” But then, she narrowed her eyes at him. A “date” was often a code word for something else.

  “I want to get to know you better, and vice versa. On a personal level.”

  No, actually, you do not. “Are you talking date date here? Like in high school?”

  He blushed. He actually blushed. “High school, but better. I feel as if I’ve approached my attraction to you in the wrong way. Came on too strong.”

  She arched her brows at him. “You think?”

  “Maybe we could go out to dinner, someplace where we could dance, too. A club. Or something.”

  “You like to dance?”

  “Hell, no! But slow dancing I can manage without making a fool of myself.” Merrill was not only blushing now but rubbing a hand over the boat’s steering wheel, back and forth, back and forth.

  Delilah was touched by his nervousness; she couldn’t help herself. Still, she hesitated. “Merrill, I haven’t been on a date since my junior class prom. And I haven’t been with a man for more than five years for reasons beyond my control. I am not the best date material.” Whoa, why did I reveal so much about myself? I’m usually more careful. Maybe that innocent, vulnerable attitude of his is a ploy he uses to get women to open up. Maybe I’m weaker than I realized. Or just plain lonely.

  “You haven’t been on a date for more than five years? Would that have been with your kid’s father? And for what crazy ‘reasons beyond my control’ have you been celibate? That’s what you meant by being with a man, I presume.”

  He waited for her to explain, which she did not.

  As for his dating question, she should have told him “Thanks, but no thanks.” Instead, she said, “Ask me again when we’re back in Bell Cove.”

  To which, he smiled.

  And, God help her, she smiled back.

  Children are gifts from . . . who? . . .

  Monsters come in all sizes, and Salome Jones was sitting next to one who sat all princess-like in her throne-like booster seat. Perched between them on the bench seat was a dog the size of a small pony, a life-size Goofy, which had cost Sal a mere fifty bucks in the ringtoss game from hell.

  Looking at the little girl, a bystander might see her as cute and innocent and a joy to be around. Hah! Try spending eight hours walking around an amusement park—aka a torture arena for grandmothers with fallen arches after fifty years in high heels. Or sitting on one kiddie ride after another till your butt goes numb and your hair looks like a bird’s nest. Or playing games meant for professional ballplayers when your only hand dexterity involves pulling the lever on a slot machine.

  The alternative? Cajoling, guilting, weeping, bribing, and then pulling a full-blown tantrum that had security guards eyeing Sal like she was some kind of child abuser. “I want a dog!” she’d wailed.

  Yes, there was a devil in Magdalene Jones, in fact a bunch of devilish imps, and they had all come hop, skip, and jumping out today. But payback was going to be sweet. Tomorrow was Avon day.

  “Gramma,” the evil one said.

  “What?” Sal snapped as she drove the car toward the motel where they would be staying that night. It was six p.m. Sal wondered how soon they could go to bed.

  “I love you.”

  And, of course, Sal forgave all.

  “But I still want a real dog.”

  Maybe not all.

  May the force . . . um, luck . . . be with you . . .

  A week later, they were returning to Bell Cove. No great discovery thus f
ar, to Merrill’s chagrin, but carrying a few “artifacts,” which would be carbon dated to determine if they might have come off one of the three saint ships. Nothing spectacular. Several hinges, a doorknob, some brass buttons. If they were as old as they appeared to be, they might be from another shipwreck, which could be equally exciting.

  Charlie was steering the boat and would have its holding tank pumped of waste material, its fresh water supply renewed, and the boat gassed up again for a return to the site day after tomorrow. She insisted on sleeping on the boat, even though Delilah had offered the use of her convertible sleep couch.

  Also traveling with Merrill was Bonita, who owned a cottage in Ocracoke. She needed to make contact with her university regarding a problem with her thesis. While she was there, she would take the “artifacts” into the lab for testing.

  And Delilah, who was constantly adding to the list of supplies she needed to buy, came, too. Aside from shopping and other chores, she was anxious to check on the progress of the motel renovations, which were supposedly complete, or as complete as she was prepared to go financially at this point.

  Famosa and Gus had agreed to stay on the site in the large cabin cruiser that Merrill had purchased along with the salvaging boat. Pirates were always an issue, even when there were no big discoveries, yet. And, yes, both men were armed against that possibility.

  Any day now K-4 should arrive, his last SEAL contract now fulfilled. Maybe even before they returned to the site. That extra man, especially one dive-qualified, would help tremendously.

  As soon as they arrived back at the wharf in Bell Cove and got the gangway in place, Bonita took off. She had a long drive to the university at Durham where she was set to meet with her doctoral advisor. Charlie helped him and Delilah load the trash bags into the dock Dumpster and stack the laundry bags in his truck.

  “So, we’re back on land,” he said to Delilah as she opened the door on his truck and was about to hike herself up on the high seat.