Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness Read online

  Into the silence, they all thought about their fallen comrade and then gave their attention to the babe who’d started this whole line of conversation. The babe who was now chatting with not one but two Norse god ex–football players.

  “Well, Geek, my man, she had me with the tool belt and the Harley,” Slick said.

  Tell me about it!

  “And she is hot in a Marilyn Monroe kind of way,” JAM added.

  Scorching hot!

  The other men at the table nodded their heads in agreement.

  “In fact, that dress looks just like the one Marilyn Monroe wore in that Billy Wilder classic comedy, Seven Year Itch. The scene where she’s standing over a subway vent,” Merrill said. “It sold at auction a couple years ago for almost five million bucks, as I recall.”

  They all looked at him with amazement. He had a fool habit of reeling off data his brain amassed like a computer encyclopedia. “I’m just sayin’.”

  Not surprisingly, F.U. asked, “Do you think those hooters are real?”

  “Shhhh!” Merrill and several others cautioned F.U. when it appeared he might be overheard by some women nearby. That’s all Merrill would need—the female viewpoint on his love/lust interest. Seated at the next table were some former SEALs, who’d served with Wendy, accompanied by their wives. Zachary “Pretty Boy” Floyd and his wife, Britta, Torolf and Hilda Magnusson, Justin “Cage” LeBlanc and Emelie. Commander Ian MacLean, who still served as the senior officer at the Coronado base, was there with his wife, Madrene. WEALS member Camille Dumaine had come with her husband, Harek Sigurdsson, a computer guru whose I.Q. was almost as high as Merrill’s, or so he claimed. Other WEALS teammates of Wendy’s, Diane “Grizz” Gomulka and Delphine Arneaux, were in the “Pretty in Pink” wedding party up on the dais, where Merrill should be, as well, actually.

  Excusing himself, he made his way around the dance floor, making sure his path didn’t cross with she-who-hated-his-guts. Wendy’s aunt Mildred and her senior dance club were demonstrating “The Shag,” a dance step that was made popular back in the sixties and continued in the Carolinas to this day. They were really good! Especially at their ages, or maybe because of their ages and all those years of experience. Ranging from sixty to eighty, they were proving that age was relative with moves that were almost professional.

  With the intricate footwork and hand gestures, they soon had the wedding attendees on their feet, clapping to the beat of that old song “Sixty Minute Man,” some of the men calling out crude suggestions to the groom related to the lyrics. Finally, the crowd joined in and there was a pathway down the center where individual couples danced, or rather shagged, their way through the gauntlet.

  Merrill saw Gabe Conti leaning against the wall, watching the dancers, and went over to join him. Gabe looked just as miserable as he was in a matching white tux and pink accessories.

  “Do you think if we live here long enough we’ll be shagging our asses off like that?” Merrill asked.

  “I can shag. Hell, I was raised in the Carolinas. It’s a rite of passage to learn those dance steps.”

  “So?” Merrill raised his brows in question. “Why aren’t you out there?”

  “I don’t like to dance, and I feel like an idiot when I do,” Gabe slurred out. “Besides, the only reason men . . . most men . . . dance is because they view it as a form of foreplay. As in ‘I’ll do the friggin’ dance if you let me do you later.’ I don’t expect to be so lucky tonight.”

  Whoa! That was a mouthful for the usually reserved architect. Merrill guessed that Gabe had imbibed as many adult beverages as he had, if not more. Good thing this was his home. He wouldn’t have to worry about a DWI.

  “What’s with you and Laura? I thought you two were the new hot item.” Merrill was referring to Laura Atler, editor of the local newspaper, The Bell.

  Gabe shrugged. “I got tired of her ordering me around.” At Merrill’s look of disbelief, he laughed and said, “She dumped me.”

  They both watched Laura smiling flirtatiously as she danced down the center pathway with Hamr. How had those two connected already? Hah! Hamr was known for his smooth moves, and, yes, he was looking smooth on the dance floor, too. Who knew Vikings could shag! The dance, not the other kind of shagging, which was an inborn trait, according to all the boastful males in the Magnusson clan. Hamr’s brother Torolf was a SEAL, too. Merrill knew the Magnussons well.

  Something occurred to Merrill then. “Good Lord! My tongue is numb,” he remarked.

  “Mine, too,” Gabe said.

  They both probably looked like idiots then as they tried to stick out their boozy tongues and look at them.

  Then Gabe had a sudden inspiration. “Do you think we should try sucking on those vodka ice cubes?”

  “Good idea!” Merrill saluted Gabe’s suggestion with a high five.

  They both pushed away from the wall and almost fell forward. Laughing, they headed toward the bar where the punch bowl was laid out.

  But then, a vision in white stepped in front of them, smelling of lemons and sex.

  Okay, the scent of sex was probably a fantasy of his alcohol/testosterone-loaded brain, but he definitely detected the odor of lemons, which he happened to love.

  “I need to talk to you,” Delilah said.

  Merrill twisted to see who she was addressing and leaned a little too far to the left, finding the damn floor was suddenly slanted. Blinking to regain his balance, he decided it must be someone behind him she was talking to.

  But no, she was looking right at him, oozing lemon sexiness. And wearing moist-looking red lipstick in a color that could only be called Crimson Slut. Not that he meant slut in a bad way. No, this was good sluttiness.

  His numb tongue got a sudden hard-on, just taking in her mouth. No joke! A tongue hard-on. They ought to put me in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I wonder what I would get if I saw something more blatantly sexual, like maybe her tongue peeking out with a Hey-Howdy welcome.

  “Did you hear me, Mister Good? I need to talk to you,” she repeated.

  Mister Good? Is my father around? No. That’s impossible. “Me?” he asked dumbly.

  Meanwhile, Gabe was laughing his ass off at his dumbness. The architect walked off, calling out, “See you later, Geek,” at the same time he gave a good luck sign over his shoulder.

  “Why did he call you Geek?”

  “It’s my nickname.” When she frowned with confusion—and, by the way, even her frowns are sexy—he explained, “Because I’m really smart.”

  Could I say anything less smart? he asked himself, mentally bitch slapping his woozy head.

  She arched her brows. “How smart is it that halfway through the reception you’re drunk off your ass . . . I mean inebriated. Forgive my language. Can’t hold your liquor, huh?”

  “I hold my liquor just fine, thank you very much,” he said, then spoiled the effect by belching. “’Scuse me.”

  She rolled her eyes. Then she suggested, “Let’s sit down?”

  We better, or I might fall down and topple you to the floor with me. Flatten you into a pancake, an anatomically correct pancake with breasts and a vee-mound and knobby, lickable knees and everything. But, no, we would fit together perfectly. Like a tongue and groove. Tongue again! Oh, crap! Please, God, don’t let me have said that out loud. I didn’t? Hallelujah! But, man, I am so skunked.

  Unaware of his mental breakdown, she sank into a chair at an empty table and set down her stemmed glass in which a lemon slice floated on top of a murky liquid. A lemonade margarita, he guessed. Ah, that accounted for the lemon scent, but how about the sex scent?

  Aaarrgh!

  What is it about this woman that makes me into a bumbling sex addict, or rather, sex idiot? She could say algebra, and I would think sex. She could be wearing a tent, and I would think sex. She could be shoveling shit, and I would think sex. No, no, no! That last was crude. What the hell is wrong with me? I can be as smooth as the next guy. Where is my smooth now?


  Merrill eased himself into the chair next to her, carefully.

  She was running a fingertip around the rim of her glass, over and over.

  Even in his fuzzy condition, he recognized the nervous gesture. Why is she nervous? Around me? “What exactly did you need to talk to me about?” he asked. “Especially since you’ve made it more than clear you want nothing to do with me.”

  “Money,” she said bluntly. “I need money. Ten thousand fucking . . . I mean, flipping dollars. At least. Hopefully.”

  Merrill blinked. Not the answer he’d been expecting. Not at all.

  Sex for money? Is that what she’s saying?

  And whoa . . . ten thousand George Washingtons! That must be some sex!

  But I’ve never paid for sex in my entire life.

  Would I now?

  In a hot damn, Crimson Slut minute.

  “Um . . .” His tongue hard-on got harder, just picturing what those Crimson Slut lips could do, which prevented him from speaking for a moment. Good thing because Delilah had more to say, which didn’t quite fit in with his Crimson Slut scenario.

  “I’ve heard that you’re hiring people for a shipwreck salvaging operation, and I need a job, like right away.”

  Oh! That’s what she means. Damn! That’s better, of course. But, damn! He tried his best to hide his disappointment.

  To no avail.

  “Did you think . . . oh, Lord, you did!” She started to stand, a flush rising in her cheeks.

  He reached out and pressed a hand on her forearm as the fog in his head began to slowly dissipate. “No. Don’t go. I didn’t mean to offend you. My only excuse is I’m a little bit snockered. Okay, ‘drunk off my ass.’” He tried to smile but was pretty sure that only one side of his mouth turned up. He probably looked like an idiot.

  She studied him for a moment before sinking back down. Taking a long swig from her glass, she waited for him to speak.

  “Are you a diver?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Historical antiquities expert?”

  She gave him an incredulous look, as in “Are you mocking me?”

  “Computer mapping? Boating skills? A mechanic? Nursing? Accounting?”

  With each of his questions, her shoulders slumped lower. In truth, he had all the crew he needed, and they were all experienced. “I thought you were working to restore the diner and motel.”

  “I am, but that requires a shitload . . . well, more money than I have at the moment. It could be months before I open for business.”

  He shrugged. “You could always get a waitress job or something in town, as a temporary solution. I hear the tips are generous here on the island.”

  “I could also be a stripper . . .”

  He blinked, unable to come up with an answer that wouldn’t put him in the Horndog Hall of Shame.

  “. . . which isn’t going to happen since my tassels are all worn out.”

  He blinked several more times.

  “I’m just kidding. Jeesh!” She shook her head decisively. “I’m not that desperate, even though I do need a big chunk of money, up front.”

  “You think I give advances on earnings? Sign-on bonuses? Hell, salvaging is a gamble at best. The pay is scarcely above minimum wage, the attraction being a piece of the pie for all the crew if we ever actually discover the pie.”

  “I have basic carpentry and renovation skills, like painting. I can clean like nobody’s business. And I can cook. Really well. I know that’s not the kind of pie you mean, but don’t you need someone to provide meals when you’re out on the water? When I open that diner, it will be a huge success. I know it will. But I need a new commercial stove and a propane tank before I can think about lighting a fire.”

  “Is that what you need the money for? Equipment?”

  “No. It’s something else.”

  The flash of fear in her blue eyes was a clear signal to Merrill. He’d been involved in undercover intelligence for too many years not to recognize trouble, and he didn’t mean an overdrawn bank account. “What?”

  “None of your damn business,” she snapped. Then softened her tone when she realized her attitude wasn’t helping her prospects. “I’d rather not say.”

  “I beg your pardon. You want a job, and an advance, with, let me guess, no references, but you won’t tell me why you’re so desperate.” He put up a halting hand and continued, “No, don’t try to tell me that you aren’t desperate. I might be three sheets to the wind, but I’m not brain-dead. You have to be aware that I have the hots . . . rather, an attraction for you, but you’ve made it more than clear on every occasion that we’ve met that I am repugnant to you. So, even though you’re not stripper-desperate, I figure you must be really desperate to come to me for help.” He arched his brows in question. “Right?”

  “Repugnant? I wish!” She cast him a sideways survey. “You are so hot you make my toes curl.”

  Whaaat? He thought about asking her to repeat that remark, but he’d heard her loud and clear. Besides, he didn’t want to chance her taking it back. “Then why the cold shoulder?”

  “The last thing in the world I need right now is a relationship, for all the obvious reasons . . . a new town, a new business, no time, yada yada . . . but some other reasons, as well.”

  “Same here,” he agreed. But that didn’t stop the sap from rising, as his Viking friends were wont to say, and other things from rising, as his SEAL pals were wont to say in a much more graphic fashion. “I thought it was because I offended you with my stupid comment about a porno princess name when we first met.”

  “Everyone says that. No biggie!” She waved a hand dismissively. “If I’ve been rude, it’s nothing personal.”

  “It feels fucking personal.”

  This time she did stand and put her hands on her hips. With her chin raised sky-high, she declared, “Never mind. Forget I asked. It was a fu . . . freakin’ long shot, coming to you about a job. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  There was still that nervousness about her fidgeting hands, and the fearful expression in her eyes. “Are you in trouble?” he asked bluntly.

  She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them to look at him directly. Terror stared out at him from the caramel depths before she whispered, “Big-time,” but then she raised her chin even higher and asserted, “It’s not your problem. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

  And that cinched the deal! Before she could make a hasty exit, he blurted out, “Okay, you’re hired.”

  Even as he said those words, he felt kind of like Marie Antoinette must have before she stepped up to the guillotine. Ironically, the band morphed into a new song, “Another One Bites the Dust.”

  Chapter 2

  Grandma Moses, she was not . . .

  “Hey, Gram.” Delilah had her cell phone on speaker as she prepared her third cup of coffee for the day. And it was only nine o’clock! Although she’d been up and working since five a.m., she’d waited to call her grandmother in Atlantic City until she returned from her usual seven-thirty Sunday mass at Our Lady Star of the Sea Church.

  As if to emphasize that point, the two Bell Cove churches—the similarly named Our Lady by the Sea Catholic, and St. Andrew’s Presbyterian—rang out the hour, followed by the town hall tower clock, all with their beautiful, distinctive tones, thanks to the Bell Forge Factory, on which this community was originally founded. In fact, everywhere a person went in this region, bells or chimes could be heard, including the one on her diner door, one of the few things still operational in the vintage Heartbreak Motel and Rock Around the Clock Diner she’d had the fortune, or misfortune, to inherit from her great-uncle Clyde, who had obviously been a huge Elvis Presley and rock and roll fan.

  “Lilah! I swear, you’re enough to give a girl palpitations. I’ve been sitting here in my living room with the shades pulled down since Friday night waiting for your call,” said Salome Jones, best known as Sal by her pals around the casino circuit, the Slot Machin
e Fruitcakes, as in “Three cherries, anyone?” Yes, her grandmother was addicted to the one-armed bandits, as well as having a fifty-year, chain-smoking nicotine habit, which she’d kicked, partly, a few years back by satisfying her cravings with secondhand smoke in the casinos and puffing away herself on those annoying e-cigarettes. And, yes, she still considered herself a girl at a self-proclaimed “youthful sixty-four.”

  “You mean, you missed church?” This was alarming. Her grandmother never missed church, even when she’d been on an all-night slot bender.

  “For the first time in fifteen years,” her grandmother said with disgust. “Didn’t want to chance Jimmy the Goon breaking my legs on the way home. And you know how important my legs are.”

  Delilah rolled her eyes. At one time, her grandmother had been an exotic dancer. Not to be confused with a stripper, she was always quick to add. In fact, she’d been a Las Vegas showgirl, before returning back in the 70s to Atlantic City and the family home. The vintage row house, with wide, steep steps rising to a front porch and a brick two-story dwelling, was located on one of the side streets leading to the famous boardwalk. Once a desirable neighborhood. Now borderline skid row.

  Her grandmother probably exaggerated the danger she was in. At least, Delilah hoped the situation hadn’t progressed in the past few days from serious to life threatening. James Goodson, aka Jimmy the Goon, was eighty-five if he was a day.

  “I told you I’d call as soon as I had news,” Delilah said.

  “And do you?” Delilah heard the sound of puffing as her grandmother vaped between words. In the background she could also hear the song “It’s a Hard-Knock Life,” and knew that her almost five-year-old daughter, Magdalene Jones, was probably eating breakfast on a TV tray, watching that old Annie DVD, the original, not the remake. Maggie adored the songs and knew them all by heart. It had been Delilah’s favorite movie as a child, too. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because being raised by a single grandparent as she had herself been and being raised by a single great-grandparent as Maggie was, felt a little bit like being an orphan.