Page 10 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

—TVs.

If she let herself dwell on the immensity of the task she’d set for herself, she would want to give up before she even started. A miracle would come in handy about now, or at the least a Daddy Warbucks as she’d teased Maggie about.

Can anyone say sugar daddy?

No! She wouldn’t even joke about something like that. She would do this on her own, or not at all.

She set her notebook aside and walked outside, inhaling deeply of the fresh, salty air. Across the dunes and rocky shore, she could see the pure blue sky over the sparkling waters of Bell Sound. A beautiful sight. But one Delilah could hardly see over the haze of her misted eyes.

But, no, she would not cry! The last time she’d let tears flow was five years ago when she’d learned how her high school sweetheart, Davie Zekus, had betrayed her, flipping for the Atlantic County prosecutor. His reward: life without parole for murdering the convenience store clerk. Hers: five years’ incarceration for accessory to armed robbery and murder. There had been lots of time during the years she’d been trapped in that notorious women’s prison when she’d wanted to break down and give up. But she hadn’t, and now, well, she was a different person. Not so naive. Never again would she trust her future to another person. She stood on her own.

She was jarred from her reverie by a noise emanating from around front. The clatter of metal. Walking over to the side of the building, she looked and saw Merrill Good approaching after having apparently tripped over the three ten-foot chrome metal tubes that comprised the diner’s counter kick bar. She’d been polishing it yesterday and needed to store it under a tarp until she was ready to reinstall it inside. Of course, it had to be her boss who practically killed himself over her “debris.”

“Oh, sh—!” she started to mutter, changed to, “Oh, shazam!”

Talk about perfect timing! Not! And talk about the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. She did a mental fanning of her heated face. The man oozed sexiness, even with his bloodshot eyes and day-old whiskers, sweaty T-shirt and shorts and athletic shoes that probably cost as much as the “lightly used” high-end commercial fridge she’d been eyeing on eBay. He was six-foot-three of pure temptation.

Her very own Daddy Warbucks.

Sort of.

Minus the bald head.

Good thing Maggie wasn’t here yet. She’d be asking Merrill if she could shave his scalp.

Actually . . .

Nah.

I must have inhaled too much GOOP.

Chapter 3

He would be her kryptonite, or die trying . . .

Despite his hangover and despite his instincts not to come on too strong, Merrill showed up at Delilah’s property on Sunday morning. There didn’t appear to be anyone around, so he decided to explore a little bit. On the other hand, maybe he should escape before she ever knew his pathetic self was on the premises.

He opted for pathetic.

The vintage motel and diner were marked by the hokey names of Heartbreak Motel and Rock Around the Clock Diner, but then this was a town that celebrated hokeyness. Every friggin’ business and home had its own distinctive bell or chime. Bats in their belfries, for sure.

Take the business names, for example. The town square was a testament to kitschy monikers. The Cracked Crab. Hard Knocks Hardware. Happy Feet Emporium. Styles and Smiles. Blanket-y Blank, a quilt store. And the Christmas Shoppe, often mispronounced as Shoppie.

Hell, it was a town that invented a Grinch contest last Christmas. The ultimate in schmaltz. In fact, the billboard outside of town read: “Get Grinched! Welcome to Bell Cove.” And it was home to the ugly Rutledge Christmas trees, Charlie Brown look-alikes that were popular throughout the Outer Banks.

Truth to tell, Merrill loved Bell Cove because of all its quirks and oddball characters. Why else would he have relocated here?

But it wasn’t the schmaltzy Elvis connection that struck Merrill now as he gazed around Delilah’s site. It was the run-down condition of the diner, which fronted Bayside Road, and the once bright blue motel, which was set back about sixty feet, closer to the dunes on the Bell Sound side of the island. Admittedly, it was a good location for a business, on a corner lot along a thoroughfare leading to town, which would be busy in high season, and there would probably be a nice view from the rear of the motel, but, frankly, the two structures looked like teardowns to him. It would take a hell of a lot more than ten thousand dollars to get these dumps back in shape. Not that Delilah had said she would use the money for that purpose. Nope, by the looks of things—the sanded rust spots on the diner, the ladder and tools, paint sprayers and paint cans sporting the neon red, neon blue, and silver colors of the diner, the wet vinyl counter stools drying in the sun next to a gallon container of something called GOOP—she intended to use elbow grease to single-handedly bring Elvis back to life.

Good luck with that!

Just his luck, he tripped over a couple of metal pipes creating a god-awful clatter. He righted himself but before he had a chance to duck and head for cover, he noticed Delilah peeking around the back of the motel. Busted! And she was pissed at first sight of him, if the hands on hips and the scowl on her face were any indication. But then, she quickly wiped away the scowl, probably figuring it wasn’t a good idea to annoy the gift horse, meaning him, who was definitely feeling like a horse’s ass.

Normally, he was not such a clumsy, uncool guy. Maybe he was suffering some kind of PTSD or withdrawal from the military kind of thing. Maybe he was going to turn from G.I. Joe to Forrest Gump. Maybe Delilah was Merrill’s “Jenny.” Maybe he would start running across the country like good ol’ Tom Hanks. Maybe now would be a good time to start.

The scowl might have left Delilah’s face, but she kept her hands on her hips. An unconscious attitude statement. Obviously, she was not a fan of Forrest Gump, or him. In the chocolate box of her life, he was one of those hated, blah cream fillings. Who wanted that when they could have caramels, or cashews, or his favorite, cherries?

Yep, PTSD!