Page 12 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

“Will I be full-time?”

“Whenever we go out, yeah.”

She nodded her acceptance of that news. “I read about your first project . . . the one involving the three saint shipwrecks. It’s only about five miles offshore. Does that mean you’ll return every night?”

Her question was telling. Was she thinking that she could get a few hours of work in on her diner after working all day on a salvage boat? “No, we won’t return to base every night. We have to protect our site once we start. If we leave it unguarded, even just overnight, especially when we’ve located a wreck, someone else could move in and steal whatever they can grab.”

“Pirates?” Her tone suggested disbelief.

“Oh, yeah!”

“Dangerous?”

“Maybe. Probably not.”

“Well, let’s hope they look like Johnny Depp in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.”

A joke? From the woman who usually treats me like the devil incarnate. “Or Zoe Saldana.”

“Touché!”

She grabbed a plate of frosted pastries that looked like cinnamon buns, the obvious source of the sweet scent that filled the room, and, without words, they walked outside with their coffees and sat on folding chairs beside a rusted white patio table. She shoved the plate toward him, which was his cue to try her offering. One bite, and his eyes widened with surprise. He wasn’t big on sweets, but this pastry was exceptional. “Wow! What are these?”

“Cinnamon buns. With a twist. I call them Delilah’s Delights. These are caramel-apple flavored.”

“Delilah’s Delights, huh? Well, I’m . . . delighted.”

She smiled. “I told you I’m a good cook.”

While he devoured the rest of his pastry, and then another, they sat in silence. It was only ten a.m. but the sun was hot, promising a blistering, over 100-degree day. For now, there was a slight breeze off the water to relieve the heat, but it wouldn’t last long.

“This really is a nice property,” he remarked. “Have you considered selling and buying a place needing less work?” Waterfront land, even one with a rocky shore like this one, would sell for big bucks to a developer in a condo minute.

“I wish,” she said, “but not possible. My uncle Clyde . . . actually, my great-uncle . . . left this place to me on the condition that I get the diner and motel up and running within a year, and that I keep it going for at least five years.”

“Otherwise?”

“Otherwise, it goes to some Veterans for Elvis type organization.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Where you from?”

“New Jersey.”

“Really? So am I.” Wouldn’t it be ironic if they’d lived in neighboring towns and never met? “I grew up in Princeton. How about you?”

“Atlantic City, which is like the other side of the world compared to Princeton. Caviar and boardwalk hot dogs different.”

“I don’t recall my parents ever serving caviar at the innumerable faculty parties they held. More like cheese and crackers washed down with lots of wine.” Truth to tell, they were imported cheeses, like pule which was made from the milk of Serbian donkeys, or precious slivers filled with crap like truffles that cost as much as filet mignon. And crackers—oh, Lord! The crackers could only be purchased from some specialty shop in Manhattan. And the wines were shipped by the crate from their favorite California vineyard.

His parents were intellectual snobs, traveling in a crowd that basked in their PhDs and academic scholarships. Imagine their shock and dismay when he’d chosen the military over some “higher” calling. But they also considered themselves food connoisseurs. Imagine what they would think of an Elvis-themed diner and a menu that probably depended on oil—a lot of oil, for frying everything from burgers to pickles.

Whatever! He’d stopped caring about his parents’ freely offered opinions a long time ago.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.