Page 16 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

Delilah had to smile. The gray-haired couple, in their late sixties, looked like they still lived in the sixties, the 1960s, overage hippies from another era. She with long hair hanging loose to her waist and he with a single braid, both with matching, twisted leather headbands, but his across his forehead. She wore a loose, ankle-length skirt with a peasant blouse. He had a tie-dyed T-shirt with a peace emblem tucked into bell-bottom denims embroidered with flowers along the hem. They both wore Birkenstocks.

“My dear, you are such a welcome addition to our little town,” Barb said, holding on to Delilah’s hand after she shook it with both of hers.

Delilah tried to pull away, discreetly, but Barb, despite her age, had a grip like a Wall Street power broker.

“We didn’t know your uncle well, but we loved the idea of a vintage diner and motel the first time we visited Bell Cove. Even though Elvis hated hippies, according to that letter he wrote to Nixon. How could anyone hate a generation that celebrated love?”

“Now, hon, that was probably just the press twisting things,” Stu said to his wife. “Remember, we decided to forgive Elvis. Any man who could sing like he did had to be pure of heart. His rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’ was quintessential love.”

“Or ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ My favorite.” Barb sighed. “We made love for the first time on Laguna Beach to that song. Remember, darling?”

“Remember? Hah! I had sand where the sun don’t shine for days afterward, sweetheart. And a rash on my ash. Ha, ha, ha.”

They gazed at each other lovingly.

TMI, Delilah thought.

Stu turned to Delilah again, took her right hand (Barb still held her left hand), and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Delilah cringed inside at that additional physical contact. Why did people, especially strangers, feel the need to touch?

“Despite Elvis, we were great fans of your uncle’s Thursday Night Meat Loaf,” Barb was saying. “Do you intend to continue that offering?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Cheap ketchup, that was his secret ingredient,” Barb told Delilah.

“Now, Barbie, you don’t know that for sure,” Stu said. “Personally, I think it was the herbs he used.” He told Delilah, “Rumor was he grew a little of his own herbs out back, if you get my meaning.” He winked at her.

What? Pot-infused meat loaf? Was that possible?

By now, Stu and Barb were off on another subject. The motel.

“Would you mind giving us a tour, dear?” Barb asked. “We have some ideas that might help.”

Uh-oh! I sense an incoming nice attack.

The motel unit was painted blue, or had been at one time. Now, the once-sky-blue color was faded and peeling in spots. The eight rooms had been an homage to Elvis songs, each with blue in the title, each with its own brass placard: BLUE SUEDE SHOES, BLUE MOON, BLUEBERRY HILL, BLUE HAWAII, BLUE CHRISTMAS, BLUE RIVER, MOODY BLUE, and G.I. BLUES.

The rooms were actually fairly large with two full-size beds, bedside tables with lamps, and a dresser. But there were also sitting areas with miniscule television sets facing sliding patio doors through which could be seen magnificent views of Bell Sound. There was no way to get down to the rocky shore, unless some enterprising person, meaning her, installed steps at some point in the future—the distant future. Back inside, some of the framed Elvis movie posters and memorabilia were still intact on the walls, but mostly the rooms were a gut job. On the other hand, the bathrooms weren’t too bad. The cast-iron tubs would need to be reglazed, and tile walls required regrouting, but the bathrooms themselves were larger than the tiny facilities found in motels today.

“Here’s what we were thinking,” Stu said, gazing around with a surprising admiration. “Barb and I deal in antique quilts, of course, but we also have access to new fabrics and products. For example . . .”

Barb pulled out several swatches of cloth from a macramé shoulder bag she carried and handed them to her husband. First was a quilted material in varying shades of blue that gave the appearance of ocean waves. “This ombré method of shading from one tone of the same color to another would be wonderful in a quilted bedspread over heavy batting,” Stu said.

“Then, a cotton fabric with the same blue wave ombré design could be made into curtains for the front windows. And this . . . don’t you love this sheer?” Barb held out an almost-transparent material that shimmered with the varying blues. “It would make great panels for the sliding doors.”

“If you used these materials, which aren’t too busy, as your base, then you could work the Elvis theme in each unit around them,” Stu explained.

They were beautiful, just the kind of thing she would like, but Delilah knew she could never afford them. “I appreciate your thoughts. I really do, but honestly, I’m on a really tight budget. And, besides, I need to get the diner operating first.”

“Oh, my goodness, sweetie, we didn’t mean right now,” Barb said, squeezing Delilah’s hand. To her husband, Barb whispered, “We were being intrusive.”

“No, it’s not—” Delilah started to say.

But Stu was squeezing her other arm. “It’s important that you use quality materials in a commercial operation. Anything cheaper would fall apart after five washings. But what we failed to say is that we have access to wholesalers. We could get all these things for you at cost. And maybe even at a significant discount below cost. When you’re ready.”

“And I’ll bet there’s someone locally who could sew them up real cheap,” Barb added.