Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Sandra Hill

She turned.

  “I’m asking again.”

  A slight pink flushed her cheeks. She knew what he was talking about, but wasn’t about to give him a break by acknowledging that fact.

  “You told me to ask again once we were back in town.”

  “I didn’t mean the minute we set foot on land.”

  He was not about to be put off by a little snippiness. “Well?”

  “What do you have in mind?” Poor choice of words! The pink grew pinker.

  “Dinner?”

  “I have so much to do, Merrill.”

  “A late dinner?”

  She hesitated, then said. “Okay.”

  “Eight o’clock?”

  She nodded.

  He turned to walk toward the building, before she had a chance to change her mind, which he knew she would if given a chance, especially since she was muttering, “This is so not a good idea.”

  “I beg to differ, babe,” he said to himself as he continued walking from the parking lot into the building where Harry was waiting to update him on the business.

  “For a guy who hasn’t hit pay dirt, you sure are looking happy,” Harry remarked from where he sat behind Merrill’s desk. His wheelchair was off to the side, which was a good sign that Harry was regaining some of the strength in his legs.

  Merrill sank down into a chair in front of the desk. “There’s pay dirt, and then there’s pay dirt.”

  “Aaah.”

  “Know any good restaurants for a date?”

  Instead of teasing him, as one of his buddies would, Harry took his question seriously. “Well, considering the time it would take to go out of town with the ferries and all, and considering that you wouldn’t be able to drink if you’re driving, your best bet would be to stick around Bell Cove. Nothing wrong with the Cracked Crab.”

  “I suppose, but we’d run into everybody in town who’ll want to stop and chat. About our progress on the boat and Delilah’s diner, and—”

  “Ah. So, it’s Delilah, huh? Interesting. I thought her name was Lilah.”

  “She prefers to go by that nickname. Anyhow, you know how the busybodies will be swarming . . . and I mean busybodies in the kindest way.”

  “You could always call ahead and ask Tony to reserve you a table in the back of the room. You know Tony, don’t you?”

  He nodded. He’d met Tony Bonfatto, the owner, when he was here last Christmas. His restaurant featured a mix of Italian and beach seafood entrées. A great wine list. And a live band out on the deck, with a tiny space for dancing. “Good idea. Thanks!”

  He and Harry spent the next hour going over bills, estimated future expenses, and correspondence.

  “Did you see this letter from Joel Bastian, the guy up the Blue Ridge mountains who claims to have emeralds on his property the size of golf balls? Looking for someone reputable to help him dig up one section.”

  Merrill arched his brows. “Why us?”

  “Well, most speculators would come in with heavy equipment and upheave the terrain. Mr. Bastian doesn’t want his land destroyed, and the state wouldn’t allow it. Plus, it’s a really remote, inaccessible area. No real roads.”

  Merrill’s eyes went wide. “He would want us to dig, by hand?”

  “Pretty much.” Harry chuckled. “The thing is, North Carolina really does have as much treasure in the ground as it does in shipwrecks off its coast. Something about the geology that creates gems, just like the ones you find in South America and Africa.”

  “Now that you mention it, I read something about a farmer on the other side of Charlotte who found a huge emerald worth a million bucks.”

  “Anyhow, I only mention this as something to consider for the future. You need a master plan for your company. Whether you are successful with this particular salvaging operation or not, you need to make a decision about whether you want to concentrate only on shipwreck salvaging or diversify into other treasure hunting arenas, like Jinx did. Gold mines, cave pearls, whatever.”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s something to think about.”

  “And here’s something else to ponder. If you do decide to branch out, you might want to increase your workforce. Perhaps delegate one person to head shipwreck salvaging. Another to concentrate on land treasures. And so on.”

  “Do I want to become so big?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “I just moved to Bell Cove. Seems like I should wet my feet in this region first.”

  “You could do that with Bell Cove as your headquarters and perhaps just venture into North Carolina jobs, at first.”

  “Keep track of all the inquiries we have, along with those passed on to us by Jinx. Once we’ve made headway with the Three Saints, we can have a brainstorming meeting.”

  Merrill was about to drive Delilah’s motorcycle over to the Patterson house, where a hot shower and change of clothes would be welcome. His skin felt crusty from the saltwater dives, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

  Before he left, Harry called out, “Good luck tonight.”

  Which could be interpreted as “getting lucky.” Merrill was all right with that.

  Chapter 10

  A little food, a little wine, a little dancing, a little . . .

  “I kid you not!” Merrill said. “When I walked into the house today, there were eight geezers doing the most crazy-ass version of a belly dance I’ve ever seen. In costumes! Even the men. Bonita’s father, Raul, was the ringleader of the dingbat circus.”

  “Belly dancing? By the over seventy crowd?” Delilah had to laugh, then revealed, “Actually, my grandmother, Salome . . . yes, Salome, like in the Bible . . . was a showgirl in Las Vegas at one time, and she’s never forgotten it. ‘Why walk when you can dance?’ is her motto. She dances when she’s cooking. She dances when she’s vacuuming. She dances when she pushes a cart in the grocery store. She still does a mean kick over her head.”

  Merrill’s eyes widened in surprise, probably wondering if she could do the same. Which she could, but would never show, or tell.

  They sat at a back corner table in the Cracked Crab. A band had just set up out on the deck, but the sounds were muted by the partially open, sliding glass wall, which made conversation possible. They were sipping white wine from stemmed glasses and picking at an antipasto platter that sat on a tray between them as they waited for their meal.

  Delilah wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to this date with Merrill. Maybe she was just tired of being lonely, of living in her self-imposed bubble. Maybe it was time for her to relax and enjoy life, instead of always looking over her shoulder or walking on eggshells. Maybe she just wanted to be a normal, single, twenty-eight-year-old woman who could enjoy the company of an attractive man without second-guessing all the reasons why it was a bad idea.

  And, yes, Merrill Good was an attractive man, especially tonight in dark jeans, a white dress shirt open at the collar, and a navy blue sport coat. He’d shaved off his week-old beard, but hadn’t cut his hair, which was still short, but not military short. He was tall and well built, though thankfully not steroid muscled, and he did have a youthful face, but it was his eyes that were so compelling. Intense when he was serious, dancing when he was mischievous. Despite his apparent intelligence and advanced education, he didn’t talk down to her, or anyone else.

  The bottom line was that she was enjoying herself, and that surprised her. Blame it on the wine. That was her excuse, anyhow.

  “The most amazing thing is the old folks were good. Really good,” Merrill continued. “I should have known something was up when I heard Middle Eastern music twanging all the way out to the driveway.”

  “At least they weren’t stripping. I think some belly dancers do both.”

  “Please! Don’t say that out loud. It would give them ideas.”

  “The only one I’ve met so far is Mildred Patterson. She seemed very nice.”

  “They’re all nice. In fact, they’re the kindest people in the world, but they drive their own crazy
train, and they’re driving me crazy along with them. Seriously, I need to get out of that place.”

  “Or what? You’ll be belly dancing, too?” Delilah asked.

  “Not a chance!”

  “Or stripping.”

  He shrugged. “That, I might be able to handle, with the right appreciative audience.” He grinned at her.

  Delilah wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes with a napkin, as Merrill continued to regale her with stories of his fellow boarders at the Patterson house. She agreed with him about the people here being borderline crazy but kind to the max. When they’d come into the restaurant, they’d been greeted here and there as they were led to their table by almost all the diners, including Ethan Rutledge and Wendy Patterson, who were back from their honeymoon and wanted to know all about Merrill’s salvaging venture so far and the work being done on Delilah’s diner and motel. It was only when they promised to get together soon after seeing their waiting hostess looking anxious that they were able to move on.

  Only to be stopped by Laura Atler, the newspaper lady, who wanted the scoop, too, and her dining partner, Gabe Conti, who discussed an AC problem at Bell Forge with Merrill; Frank Baxter, who thanked Delilah for her paint order; Gus’s mother, Ina Gustafson, who made Merrill promise to stop tomorrow for some Norse herring potato salad to take out to the site for her son; and so on, until the hostess pointed out their table and said they could seat themselves when they were ready. In all, it took them twenty minutes to get there.

  “But I didn’t finish my story about today’s event,” Merrill went on, after pouring more white wine into both their glasses from a carafe on the table. “When I made the mistake of mentioning that belly dancing might not be the best dance for senior citizens, one of the ladies, in a huff, told me that belly dancers have better orgasms than other ladies. Jeesh! I stepped into that one. Because they’re old, these folks think they can say anything. No filters whatsoever!”

  “I heard that Mildred Patterson holds dance club parties at her house, and that she has a bunch of elderly boarders living with her, but how did you end up there?”

  “The house belongs to Wendy, Mildred’s niece. Wendy was in WEALS, the female version of SEALs, when I served in the teams. A bunch of us, SEALs and WEALS, came here with her last Christmas.”

  “That’s when you fell in love with Bell Cove?”

  “Yep. Which was understandable, really. I’d just come off a mission in which we lost a teammate. A FUBAR op from the get-go, as in Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. All of us were burned out. I’d been in the military for fifteen years by then. Bell Cove, with its remoteness and quirky inhabitants, seemed . . . still seems . . . far removed from the terrorism that pervades the rest of the world. A rose-colored view, I’m sure, but . . .” He shrugged.

  “I know what you mean. It feels safe here.” For how long, though? she wondered. Everything could go south if my past becomes known. “So, you were looking for Mayberry and settled for Bell Cove.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Do all your friends know about your Mayberry addiction?”

  “Sure.”

  “The big bad SEALs, who surely watch things with lots of bang-bang, shoot-’em-up? Didn’t they make fun of you for your less violent tastes?”

  “Hell, no! I made them watch every episode with me. My house, my TV, my remote. And, truth to tell, they probably enjoyed them. Of course, massive amounts of beer flowed at the same time. Everything is better with Sam Adams.”

  She was impressed that Merrill could make fun of himself so easily, or be teased about some “shortcoming” and let it bounce off him like raindrops. That came from self-confidence, she decided, something she lacked big-time.

  They shared a fresh garden salad with a homemade creamy Italian dressing that was to die for, and then the waiter brought their entrées. Crab cakes and a side of penne pasta with vodka sauce for her, lemon-crusted halibut with a lobster-stuffed baked potato for Merrill.

  At first, they just ate in silence, enjoying the delicious food. Delilah hadn’t realized how hungry she was. With all the chores she’d done this afternoon—laundry, in particular—she hadn’t stopped to eat.

  “So, the motel rooms look good?” Merrill asked.

  “Wonderful. Well, Stu and Barb from the quilt store are coming tomorrow to hang some curtains and deliver some bedspreads. That should make a big difference. I was surprised that the contractor went ahead and painted the walls and ceilings and woodwork with the paint I had ordered from the hardware store and must have been delivered while I was gone. I intended to do that myself.” She patted her mouth with a napkin and narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  He put up his hands in surrender. “Not me. I don’t do interference anymore.”

  “Hah!” she said.

  “You do know that I intend to take one of those units for myself.”

  She was about to resist, but then shrugged. As a motel owner, she couldn’t choose all her customers, and she needed the income. “To get away from Crazyville?”

  He didn’t answer, the implication being that was only one reason. When he did speak, it was about the other two rooms that had been finished thus far. “I figure Famosa can take one, and Charlie the other, if she ever gets off that boat. Or maybe K-4 when he gets here.”

  “You know, you’ve made me rethink my plan for renovations. All along, I’ve been working to get the diner operational first, figuring it was the best way to start a cash flow. But maybe I should do the motel first.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  She took a first bite of her crème caramel and sighed at the decadent sweetness.

  He stared at her lips for a long moment before trying his cannoli.

  “What? Do I have something on my mouth? I am such a sloppy eater.”

  “No. I just enjoy watching you enjoy your meal.”

  “Like a glutton, you mean.”

  He shook his head. “Lots of women pick at food, think it’s unattractive to actually be hungry and feed the need. Which is ridiculous. There’s something sensual about eating . . . and sharing a meal. Good food should be savored. As a cook, you should know what I mean.”

  She nodded and not just because she wanted people to appreciate her cooking. She liked to watch Merrill eat, too. He held his fork in his left hand and cut his food with his right hand, and even though he was right-handed, he brought the bites on the fork to his mouth with the left hand. Very European, or sophisticated, or something. He’d probably been taught to eat that way from a young age while dining with his parents in fine restaurants, where there were three forks and two spoons, and a special knife, just for butter, all solid silver. Nothing like Jake’s Luncheonette in Atlantic City where you were lucky to get one fork, and that made of cheap stainless steel.

  They exchanged tastes of each other’s desserts.

  “I bet you’d prefer your cannoli filled with lemon cream,” she teased. And isn’t that unusual? Me, teasing?

  “Oh, yeah. Don’t forget, you promised me lemon cinnamon rolls someday.”

  “How can I forget? You remind me at every turn.” She made a face at him. “What’s the deal with Charlie?” she asked then, picking up their conversation on whether Charlie would stay in one of her motel rooms or continue to live on the boat.

  “I don’t know much, other than what she’s told us all. She comes from the well-known LeDeux family in Louisiana. I’ve met some of them over the years. One of my SEAL friends is Cajun, Justin LeBlanc, whose SEAL nickname was Cage, from that neck of the bayou. The most outrageous of that clan is an old lady called Tante Lulu, a folk healer, who is crazier than any of my fellow boarders here in Bell Cove. Anyhow, it was Tante Lulu who recommended Charlie to me.”

  The owner of the Cracked Crab, Tony Bonfatto, came over to talk to them then. He was a thirty-something guy of obvious Italian heritage, friendly, and appreciative of their compliments on the food. He promised to get Deli
lah the recipe for the salad dressing.

  Once he left, Merrill said, out of the blue, “Tell me about your daughter.”

  And Delilah’s heart sank.

  Could she discuss Maggie without revealing too much about her own past? On the other hand, Maggie would be here soon, and she couldn’t avoid talking about her forever.

  “She’s adorable. Long, wavy blonde hair, more golden than mine, which she hates. She would love to have it all chopped off, given a perm, and dyed red.”

  “Like Annie.”

  “You remembered.”

  “Delilah, I remember everything you say.”

  Okay, that is heavier than I am ready for right now. “She’ll be here next month, before school starts. Just starting kindergarten.”

  “You’ll be glad to have her here with you.”

  “More than you can imagine.” Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them away.

  The too-observant Merrill noticed and reached across the table, taking one of her hands in his.

  The press of his palm against hers, warm and comforting, was more than she could handle now, too. But she didn’t draw away. His eyes held hers, and he said, “Let’s dance.”

  They both stood and he followed her out to the deck, where the band was playing some country song about beer and horses. She was wearing the same white halter dress she’d worn to the Rutledge wedding, the one that was modest enough in front but bare to the waist in back. Was that a mistake? When he put a hand there, guiding her, a tingle ran through her body. Definitely a mistake!

  Was it a tingle of alarm, or a tingle of something alarming?

  Either way, it was too late to turn tail and run. Too late to pull up her bubble shield. Too late for so many things.

  Merrill turned her when they were outside on the dance floor and put linked hands on that sweet bare spot. She looped her arms around his neck.

  He tugged her closer, as they swayed to the music.

  She put her face into the crook of his neck and inhaled deeply of his pine-scented skin. Probably soap, she noted with what was probably hysterical irrelevance, or panicky irrelevance.