by Sandra Hill
Delilah did what calmed her most then. She baked in her small kitchen. Two dozen cinnamon rolls. Ginger apple and peach pecan. The mindless gentle kneading of the batter. The repetitive motions of rolling the dough. The sweet scents that filled the air. The immediate gratification of cleaning up afterward.
To Delilah, baking was a form of prayer.
She prayed for new beginnings on this island.
She prayed that her past wouldn’t catch up with her in a negative way.
She prayed that the niceness of her new neighbors wouldn’t erode her independence and turn to hostility once they found out about her past.
She prayed that time would be on her side in terms of opening the diner before winter ended the tourist season.
She prayed that Maggie would adapt to life in a strange setting with a mother she barely knew.
And, in the midst of all these worries, she prayed that she would be able to resist that “badass to the bone” Merrill Good, who made niceness seem like erotic foreplay.
Dammit!
Chapter 5
There are all kinds of highs . . .
Merrill was excited on Monday afternoon, the first official opening of Bell Cove Salvaging and Treasure Hunting. And not just because this was the launch of a new venture. Merrill was more than familiar with the adrenaline rush that marked the start of an active op in the military. Same thing, sort of.
The difference here was Delilah Jones, the added spark to his excitement. No question his testosterone went on red alert at first sight of her in his space, and his blood pressure amped up a point or two or ten.
She was already there when he arrived for the meeting at the building he shared with Bell Forge. For a moment, he just leaned against the door frame and watched as she moved around his office setting up a coffeemaker. Where did that come from? And mugs? Who knew I had eight matching mugs?
She was also arranging pastries—big honkin’ cinnamon buns, to be precise—on a fancy tray. The place smells like a friggin’ bakery. Not that that’s a bad thing.
But holy crap! She must have gone out and bought these things for me, first thing this morning. And just how did she do that? he wondered. On a motorcycle, which is the only vehicle she owns, as far as I know.
No matter.
She turned and noticed him, with a start of surprise.
“Hey, De-li-lah,” he drawled out, still leaning a shoulder against the door frame, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at his booted ankles. “You’ve been a busy bee, I see.”
“Shhh. Don’t do that,” she cautioned, glancing over his shoulder at some of the others who were approaching.
“Do what?”
“Say my name like you’re kissing air.”
Now there was an image he liked. Kissing. Her, not the air. He grinned.
“And stop grinning, too.”
“Happiness is a sin now?”
“It is when you look like you’ve been up to no good.”
“Darlin’, there hasn’t been nearly enough ‘no good’ in my life for a long time.”
“That’s another thing. You can’t be calling one of your employees darlin’.”
“I don’t really consider you an employee. More like a team member. We’re all partners in this enterprise.”
She arched her brows with disbelief at his mincing words.
He shrugged and pretended to zip his lips as some of the guys he’d been having lunch with passed by into the room where they immediately did double takes on seeing Delilah.
And she wasn’t even dressed sexy. White, calf-length pants, with white sneakers, no socks, and a sleeveless red-and-white polka-dot blouse. Her platinum blonde hair was tied off her face with a red ribbon into a loose ponytail. No makeup to speak of, though women had a way of hiding that. He had a girlfriend one time who spent an hour in the bathroom making up her face only to emerge looking like a young Taylor Swift.
Now, if only she’d added that Crimson Slut lipstick from the Rutledge wedding reception! But, no, he wouldn’t want her broadcasting her sexuality to one and all. Just him.
And, to his chagrin, he noticed that “one and all,” those of the male persuasion in the room, were noticing her plenty now that the room was full. Even with Bonita Arias, who was a classic Spanish beauty, in attendance, as well.
Soon they were all sitting around his office, which was small but open onto a long warehouse space, which was empty for the moment, leading to the immense garage-style doors, which they shared with the forge. Luckily the forge wasn’t operating today—down for repairs—otherwise, it would be unbearably hot in here, even with the air-conditioning running full blast in the back office. The doors were up now at his side of the bay, and they could see from this distance the newly refurbished wharf (ca-ching, ca-ching) and the deep waters beyond.
Everyone was sipping from mugs of coffee and wolfing down cinnamon buns, as if they hadn’t just had big lunches at the Cracked Crab. Delilah was still bustling about, offering more coffee and pastries, being hospitable but not overly friendly—her usual reserved manner.
“Okay, folks, welcome to Bell Cove Salvaging and Treasure Hunting,” Merrill started off. “Gabe Conti, owner of Bell Forge, a silent partner in this operation, couldn’t join us today. He’s an architect, for those who haven’t met him yet, and he had to be in Durham on a job site today. You probably won’t see much of him anyway.
“Also missing are K-4 . . . Kevin Fortunato . . . who still has a few weeks left on his military commitment. He just let me know last night that he’ll be joining us. K-4 is an experienced diver and knows a little bit about research, which might help with other upcoming projects. K-4 and I worked together on Navy teams for years, so, I can vouch for his skills, especially intelligence gathering.” Merrill didn’t mention that the teams were SEALs. Intel best left unsaid. Besides, folks here had heard or deduced that fact on their own.
“Most of us know each other, but not all. So, let’s introduce ourselves. I’ll start. Merrill Good, project manager and primary stockholder of the company. I still answer to the name Geek, my military nickname, but ‘Boss’ will do for those so inclined.” He grinned, knowing some guys would call him “Boss” over their own dead bodies. “Just kidding on the boss crap. As I’ve said before, we’re all partners on this operation. Anyhow, I’m a certified diver but my skills will be best deployed on the electronic equipment we’ll be using—computerized mapping systems, scanners, magnetometer, and so on. No robots yet, which cost as much as a jet plane, but I can only wish, after our first successful mission.”
“I’ll second that . . . the wish for a successful treasure hunt,” Bonita said, “but personally I’d rather buy a Tiffany diamond tennis bracelet with my cut.”
Others mentioned a Lamborghini, a boat, a new home, and a vacation.
Once the hubbub died down, Merrill continued, “I expect to make our first run out to the site on Wednesday . . . if everyone’s cool with that.” He glanced around and saw lots of nods.
“One of the first things we’ll do is gather random samples from the ocean floor so I can run them through a gas chromatograph mass spectrometer . . . try saying that real fast . . . to measure any differences that might suggest the presence of a wreck.”
Delilah looked dazed.
“Anyhow, that’s it for my introduction.” He motioned to the fifty-something guy, maybe late forties, on his right to take over. He was dark haired (probably dyed), with an olive complexion denoting some Latin culture. His wicking T-shirt fit his body like a glove. He was probably attractive to women in an older stud sort of way.
“Adam Famosa here. Professor of Oceanography at Rutgers University, a proud citizen of the USA, but a Cuban expatriate from when I was a kid. I’ve taken a leave of absence for the fall semester to help in the transition from the old company in Jersey, Jinx, Inc., which Geek recently bought out. I worked for Jinx off and on for fifteen years.”
“Glad you could join us,” Merrill said, and h
e meant it. “We look forward to hearing how things were done at Jinx.”
“My pleasure,” Famosa said.
Next up was an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair. “I’m Harry Carder, retired financial consultant, the old fart on this team. I’ll be handling all the bookkeeping, payroll, office kind of things. Unless you need a deadweight to anchor your boat, I don’t expect to be out on any of the ocean treks with my constant companion.” He patted his wheelchair for emphasis.
Everyone laughed at his self-deprecating humor.
“I can attest to Harry’s expertise, wheelchair or not,” Merrill said. “I first met him on a visit to the Outer Banks last Christmas, and his advice has been invaluable.”
Harry’s face flushed but Merrill could tell he was pleased at the compliment.
“I’ll second that about Harry. I know him well,” said Bonita. “Harry lives at the same senior citizen boardinghouse as my father. Dad is a samba aficionado, nuts about any kind of dancing, really, and Mildred Patterson’s place here in Bell Cove is notorious for its dirty dance club . . . and its nuts.” With a wink at Harry, who was still blushing and about to protest the description of his place, she laughed.
Actually, Merrill was staying at the Patterson house, too, for the time being, until he found more permanent accommodations, which were hard to come by in Bell Cove. The town tried its best not to become a commercialized tourist mecca and therefore didn’t have many rental options. Wendy Patterson, Mildred’s niece, owned the house. He knew Wendy from SEALs back in Coronado, Wendy having been a member of the female SEALs division known as WEALS, Women on Earth, Air, Land, and Sea. Six degrees of separation, or something like that.
Bonita continued, “Anyhow, I’m Bonita Arias. I’m an oceanographer, too. Rather, a marine archaeologist, to be more specific. I live in Ocracoke and have worked on several shipwreck salvaging operations.”
Bonita was a classic beauty with ebony hair that hung straight down her back. Of medium height, aided by a pair of high wedge sandals, her slim body more than filled a sky-blue halter top and matching shorts.
Bonita was hot. Just not to him.
“I’ve been working for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services, but I’m on a leave of absence, hoping to receive my doctorate soon from UNC at Chapel Hill,” Bonita continued. “So, I might not be here on-site all the time.”
“We’ll appreciate all the time you can give us,” Merrill said.
“I don’t have any fancy degrees, or experience as a diver,” interrupted the next member of the team, as opposite from Bonita and Delilah as any woman could be. “I’m Charlotte LeDeux from Lafayette, Loo-zee-anna, praise God and pass the gumbo,” the person in men’s coveralls and a New Orleans Saints baseball cap said, as if impatient with all the niceties of introductions and wanting to get on with the real work. It was hard to tell whether she was thirty or forty or older. “You kin call me Charlie or Captain. Frankly, I don’t wanna become best buds with any of you. Talk about! And I expect you’ll soon feel the same way about me.”
“Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?” Famosa said, probably trying to tease her into more pleasantness.
“Bite me, Casanova,” she replied.
So, I’m not the only one who pegged Famosa as a tomcat.
“Casanova? I’m not that old,” Famosa protested with a laugh. “Lighten up, sweetheart. I was just teasing.”
“Tease this.” Charlie flicked Famosa the bird, then explained to the others, “I’ll be manning the wheel of the salvaging boat, and there isn’t anything I don’t know about boat motors. My family ran a commercial fishing boat on the Gulf for five generations, but went out of business after the last hurricane, combined with all the environmental poison being dumped by the devil’s spawn, the fucking oil companies who are raping our land and waters. And that’s all I have to say on that subject. I need to earn a shitload of money to buy back our company. So, let’s get on with this treasure hunting crap.” She tugged the bill of her cap down with a jerk, letting them know loud and clear that she was done talking.
“Okaay,” Merrill said with a grin, enjoying the rather stunned expressions on some of the faces. “Next?”
“Well, then, you’re probably going to hate me, Captain Charlie,” the big blond Norseman sitting next to her said, giving her a playful elbow nudge. “I sell gas here on the island.”
“That figures,” Charlie said, and elbowed him back, hard. “You damn Vikings were born raping and pillaging.”
Said Viking just grinned. “I’m Karl Gustafson, but you can call me Gus or Goose or Damn Viking, although I can’t recall the last time I pillaged. What the hell is pillaging anyhow? I played linebacker for the Cowboys for about fifteen minutes a few years back before my knees gave out. Maybe I pillaged there, come to think on it. Came back to the Outer Banks with a wife who also lasted about fifteen minutes when she realized I wasn’t gonna be the next Joe Namath or Joe Montana in retirement. Anyhow, I opened Gus’s Gas and Goods, a convenience store, and I’m living the good life here with my mama, who will run the business when I’m here working for Geek. I’m an expert diver and looking forward to new adventures.” He waggled his eyebrows deliberately at Charlie, as if she was an adventure he would like to explore. He probably did it just to pull her chain.
Charlie looked at him with disdain, but some of the others viewed Gus with admiration as they realized who he was. “The Goose” had been on his way to the Hall of Fame as one of the best sack leaders in the NFL during his two years with the Cowboys, not fifteen minutes.
“Hey, Gus, didn’t I see your mug on the cover of Sports Illustrated at one time?” Merrill asked. “A little false modesty, maybe?”
“You should talk. I hear you’re an Internet sensation with that invention of yours. A penile glove, I think it’s called.” Gus cast a gotcha smirk his way.
“What’s a penile glove?” Delilah asked, immediately followed by, “Never mind. Holy moley, you folks are a bunch of bleepin’ celebrities while I’m just a nobody. I’m Lilah Jones, and I’m gonna be a jack or jill of all jobs. Cook, dishwasher, fetch-and-goer.”
Merrill didn’t consider her a nobody, and he noticed that she identified herself as Lilah and not Delilah, probably because of his earlier teasing her about her name.
“I’m a nobody, too,” Charlie said, and Harry claimed the same.
“If those cinnamon thingees I just scarfed down are any indication, you can be my cook anytime,” Gus contributed.
“Actually, I’m renovating the diner and motel in town. When they’re done, you can buy them there anytime you want.”
“So much for self-promotion,” Famosa commented, reaching for the last of the pastries on the tray, followed by a wink at Delilah.
A wink Merrill did not appreciate at all.
“That’s it for our team. For now,” Merrill said. “Let’s talk about our first project. The Three Saints.” He stood and walked over to the laptop he’d set up attached to a projector. Clicking it on, an image immediately flashed onto the opposite wall which he was using as a screen. “Delilah, could you pass out these folders?” To the others, he explained, “There are copies of each of the slides for you all to study later. Any questions, just yell out.”
Famosa murmured, “Delilah? Who’s Delilah? Oh.” He grinned.
The lech!
Delilah immediately did as Merrill asked and scowled at Famosa’s grin.
Good girl!
“As you can see on this first slide, it’s an aerial view of the salvage location. The perimeter highlighted is about one square mile, slightly more than that in nautical miles. Those boundaries are stipulated on our salvage license. We don’t go one inch over those lines without being in trouble.”
“Appears to be about five miles out from here,” Charlie noted. “Has the area been searched before?”
“Never. Lots of places close by, but this is a virgin site. The locals say that the shoals out there can be wicked under the best of circumstan
ces, but during or after a storm, the shifting sandbars are brutal. Add to that, you have two strong ocean currents that collide near Cape Hatteras and have a ripple effect out to our site.”
“Hmpfh! No wonder so many ships wrecked here then!” Charlie mused, studying the slide that showed up next listing the hurricanes that had hit this coastline in the past three hundred years. “No wonder this whole blasted area off the Outer Banks is known as ‘The Graveyard of the Atlantic’! I thought Loo-zee-anna was a magnet for hurricanes, but this is ridiculous!”
“There are still three million shipwrecks sitting on the bottom of the world’s oceans and seas, you know.” This according to Famosa, ever the professor. “And that’s no bullshit. Three frickin’ million!”
“Do they all have treasure?” Delilah asked.
“Nah! Lots of them carried perishable goods that have long melded into the sea floor. And the ships were wooden. Can anyone say shipworms? Not that those wrecks don’t have historical value in themselves, but no treasure.”
“The interesting thing, though, to us Outer Bankers, anyhow,” Gus interjected, “is that there are still three thousand shipwrecks uncovered off our coastline alone.”
Three thousand! Delilah mouthed silently.
It was an amazing number.
“What do we know about the three ships in question?” Famosa asked.
“I can answer that,” Bonita said. “A trio of Portuguese ships supposedly went down in 1862. Called the Three Saints . . . the St. Martha, the St. Cecilia, and the St. Sonia.”
While Bonita talked, Merrill clicked to a slide with drawings depicting the three ships and the little bit of history about their voyage.
“The ships carried weapons and gold bullion, worth millions. This was before the Yankees had taken control of this region in a number of big battles. The three ships managed to evade Northern offensives, but not the notorious Outer Banks storms.”