Page 36 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

“No, but then that’s Bell Cove. I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Everyone loved it.”

“Not everyone. Did you notice those two couples who walked out?”

“I did. Anyone you know?”

He hesitated before saying, “Yeah. My mother, father, brother, and bitch-in-law. Vacationing on Hatteras.” He could have kicked himself for revealing that personal information. He rarely talked about his family. They were irrelevant to him.

Delilah looked at him, waiting for more.

He’d said more than enough. “On a happier note, Bonita told me that you four women, including Laura Atler from The Bell newspaper, were dancing down here earlier today. I would have liked to see that,” he remarked, sneaking a carrot stick from her pile and popping it into his mouth. Crunching away, he watched her face bloom with color as she gave him a little smile.

And his heart lurched. If she wasn’t so skittish and he wasn’t afraid of crossing a line, he would have hugged her spontaneously and perhaps planted a quick kiss on her lips. The desire to touch her was almost overwhelming. Which caused him to back off.

Once again, he wondered why he was so hot for Delilah. Sure, she was attractive. Her silver-blonde hair was held off her neck and face and piled on top of her head with some claw combs. Her bordering-on-voluptuous figure filled a plain black T-shirt and white jeans. What drew him most, though, was her face, which was innocently vulnerable, with blue eyes that seemed to be wary from some huge pain and lips which were full and rose colored, even without lipstick, and parted as if always ready to defend herself from some attack.

Attack? Where did that come from? Merrill wondered.

He slid onto a stool on the other side of the counter and noticed an open spiral notebook. “Your menu plans?” he asked, seeing a calendar with meal and food remarks made on particular days. Chicken salad sliders. Crab cakes. Ina’s mac and cheese. Steak and kidney pie. Pulled pork. Grilled salmon. “Mind if I look?”

She shrugged.

“You might want to make room for fresh fish. Usually some lines are thrown overboard, even during the dive operations. Never know what we might catch out here. Bass, flounder, red drum, whatever.”

“Sounds good. Just so it’s not shark. And please don’t tell me that shark tastes just like chicken. I don’t care. Did you know that sharks pee through their skin? Yuck!”

He laughed.

“Do you have any particular preferences? Dishes you like?” she asked.

“I eat most anything. It’s more a question of what I don’t like. I’ve been in the military the past fifteen years. Food on the base was actually pretty good. I’m embarrassed to say that I like Spam, that old military standby, but I hate Shit on the Shingle, creamed chipped beef on toast.” He grimaced and pretended to shiver with distaste. “I like anything with lemons. Lemon meringue pie. Lemon chicken. Lemonade.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Lemon Jell-O shots.”

“I like lemons, too. In fact, I make a spectacular honey glazed lemon cinnamon roll, if I do say so myself.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He stole a cucumber slice this time. “Is there anything you don’t put in cinnamon rolls?”

“Chipped beef,” she said with a grin, even as she moved the bowl out of his reach. “Behave yourself, and I’ll make you a batch of the lemony cinnamon rolls sometime.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise.” Merrill liked this easy banter with Delilah and the companionable silence that followed as she continued to build her salad. He hesitated to break the mood. “You obviously enjoy cooking. Did you always?”

“Yep. I was raised by my grandmother. I think I told you that before. She was always working. Had to, of course. So, I learned to cook from an early age, or survive on Pop-Tarts and boxed mac and cheese.”

He noticed that she didn’t mention a grandfather, or a father and mother, for that matter. Those questions would come later. Instead, he said, “What’s wrong with Pop-Tarts?”

She gave him a disapproving look and continued, “I didn’t have many friends, with us living in a rough neighborhood and Gram not wanting me to play outside. Kids my age were reading ‘American Girl’ books and collecting the ultra-expensive dolls, while I was devouring the used cookbooks I bought at yard sales. I have an impressive collection, although they’re pretty much useless now due to the Internet and all. The days of leafing through real books with colorful illustrations are long gone. Much easier to just google what you’re looking for.” She was whisking some kind of homemade salad dressing now—olive oil, raspberry vinaigrette, and herbs—when she paused, perhaps realizing that she was talking more to him now than she ever had before. “So, what did you read as a kid? Action adventure books? G.I. Joe comics?”

“Nah, my parents would have never allowed that—too plebeian. And, yes, that’s a word they actually use. I’m probably ten years older than you, but—”

“Ten years older! You look ten years younger.”

“Is that a good or bad?”

“Definitely good. You have the face of a teenage boy.”

“And the body of a mature man, I hope.”

She just smiled and shook her head as if he was hopeless.