by Sandra Hill
Today, Delilah wore tight pink yoga pants and a sleeveless pink-and-white-checked shirt. He also noticed that she rarely wore tight shirts or tops. Another of her hang-ups. Obviously, he had opinions on that subject, too. Her hair was piled on top of her head with one of those claw hair clips. In other words, good enough to . . .
No, not going there! Not if I want to get any work done today.
For a moment, he was just fascinated by the movement of her fingers. Pressing, massaging, almost caressing the yeasty mixture to a smooth ball. He could imagine them at work elsewhere—like, maybe, on his skin, which might not be yeasty, but definitely sweaty after hours in the blistering sun. But then he could also picture his hands . . .
Focus, man! Focus! He shook his head to clear it, and directed his attention back to the phone call. Assuming he was the poopyhead in question, he smiled to himself, and shamelessly listened some more. He’d been under the misconception that he’d made friends with the little girl by making up that fool Little Orphan Andy story. But then, what did he know about kids?
And he couldn’t really be offended. It was his fault for eavesdropping. What was it they said about eavesdroppers never hearing good things about themselves?
“He is not a poopyhead, Maggie.”
That’s telling her, sweetheart.
More kneading.
Was it dough for bread, or maybe more of her cinnamon rolls?
“And I told you not to use that word anymore.”
Wait till the kid hears some of the blue words that escape your lips sometimes, Ms. Potty Mouth.
“Mister Merrill is Mommy’s friend . . .”
Oh, no, no, no! Not a friend! Not even friends with benefits. We are more than that, Ms. Delilah.
“. . . and it’s not his fault I can’t be there with you.”
Well, okay, then.
“Mommy has a job so she can make money for us to live together.”
Great! The money fixation again!
“Gramma says you could get lots of money if you’d sell that crapola diner.”
Oooooh, boy!
Delilah sighed and muttered, “Gramma talks too much.” To her daughter, she said, “That’s another word that little girls should not use.”
But Maggie was off on another subject—well, maybe not really, since it involved money, indirectly. “There’s a bald man at Miss Mildred’s house. Maybe he could be our Daddy Warbucks.”
Could she possibly mean Elmer Judd, the former veterinarian? He’s about five-foot-five and seventy years old. Whew! For a moment there I thought I might have competition, some new boarder who looked like Bruce Willis or David Beckham.
“When were you at Miss Mildred’s house?”
“Yesterday. Gramma is teachin’ them how ta be showgirls . . . and guys. One man fell on his bum on a high kick, but he was laughin’ so hard I doan think he was real hurt. They dint call an am-boo-lance or nothin’.”
“Oh, Lord!” Delilah said on a groan. “What are you doing while Gram and the others are dancing?”
“Sellin’ Avon on a TV stand on the front porch. I made thirty-seven dollars. Is that enough for you ta stop workin’?”
“No, sweetie, that’s not enough,” she said, swiping at her eyes with a forearm. In an undertone, she whispered, “I’m gonna kill the old lady. I really am.” Speaking aloud again, she added, “And you shouldn’t be working, either.”
“I only did it for a little while. Tonight I’m gonna be a waitress at the poker torn-men.”
“The what?”
“Shhh! It’s a secret. Gramma is gonna hold a poker torn-men right here on the patio. She even rented some card tables and folding chairs. And Mister Raw-ool . . . that’s Ms. Mildred’s boyfriend . . . is gonna fire up the grill fer a parr-ill-ada. That’s a Spanish barbecue. We’re having beef ka-bobbies and shrimp tapas.”
“Where’s . . . your . . . grandmother?” Delilah gritted out. “I want to talk to her right now.”
“Gram-ma!” Maggie yelled so loud that Delilah had to lean away from the phone. After a pause, she told Delilah, “Gramma says ta call back later. She’s laying outside in her bikini gettin’ a suntan, and she doesn’t wanna be half-baked.”
Delilah made a growling sound, and just then noticed Merrill standing at the bottom of the steps. “Listen, Maggie. I need to go. Tell Gram I’ll be calling her in an hour, and she better be there. Love you bunches.”
“Love you more bunches,” Maggie chirped, and the line went dead.
Slowly, Delilah turned more fully to look at him. “You heard all that?”
“Yep.”
She sighed. “I’m worried. My grandmother is a wacko.”
“Don’t be worried. She’s no more wacko than the rest of that town. And no one’s gonna let anything bad happen. They take care of each other.”
“If you say so,” she answered, dubiously. “So, what’s up? You were looking for me?”
“Yeah. We’re about to start the new experiment. With the metal detector. Thought you might like to watch.”
She nodded and set the bowl aside, placing a towel over the top for the dough to rise. While she washed her hands, she remarked over her shoulder, “I thought metal detectors were for old fogeys working the touristy beaches.”
“This is much more high-tech.”
“And expensive,” she guessed.
He shrugged.
“Men and their toys! How expensive?”
“Nine thousand.”
“Whaat!”
She was probably thinking that she could buy all new furnishings for the motel or high-end appliances for the diner with that amount of money. He stepped forward and embraced her from behind at the sink, kissing her neck. She allowed him to hold her for just a moment, even turned and kissed him, quickly, before shoving him away.
Although everyone on the ship probably suspected something was going on between him and Delilah these past five days they’d been back on-site, the two of them—well, mainly Delilah—had agreed to keep their relationship private. Hands off in public, which meant almost all the time aboard a crowded ship. Not an easy task for him. Not just the “no sex.” Now that he’d had her, he wanted her. All the time. But even not being able to touch, or kiss, was difficult. He found himself catching her at the odd moment, like now. Which was not nearly enough.
“What are you making?” he asked, pointing at the covered bowl.
“Pizza,” she said.
“Oh, please, God, not lobster pizza.”
She smiled. “No. Not lobster pizza. Just regular tomato cheese pies with sausage, mushrooms, and banana peppers.”
“Perfect,” he said.
These five days back on the site this time had been pretty routine. No big finds, but some promising small artifacts that indicated something was—or might be—there. What the divers had found lots of, though, were spiny lobsters which hung around wreck sites. Another promising sign. But, man, they were all getting sick of lobster on the menu.
Spiny lobster had no claws, and the meat was tougher and less sweet than Maine lobsters. As a result, the shellfish had found their way into Delilah’s lobster omelets, lobster rolls, lobster bisque, lobster tacos, lobster mac and cheese.
“C’mon. Hurry up,” he said, frog-marching her up the steps, which of course gave him a good view of forbidden parts—for now. “We’ve stopped diving for the day, and are going to do some metal detecting,” he told her.
Even with K-4, they were still only running three dives a day. They might try to squeeze four in later, with K-4 relieving one or the other in alternate dives, but what they really needed was six qualified divers to do more. But first, they needed more information.
And, actually, six divers would be excessive. Even five was a lot. Face it, while “slow and steady wins the race” was the recommended course of action, he was an impatient man, always had been. Fast and furious was more his style.
Once topside, Delilah said, “I thought you already had a thingee t
o spot metals.”
He smiled at her use of “thingee” to describe a piece of complicated equipment. “I do. The side scan sonar thingee detects objects that aren’t buried, like shipwrecks, and the proton magnetometer thingee measures magnetic fields, instead of the topographic terrain, including metal objects.”
She jabbed him with an elbow for teasing her.
“This metal detector we’re trying now is another tool . . . or you could say, I admit it, a new toy. Actually, these professional models are nothing like the cheesy wands you see on beaches. We drag ‘towfish’ from the end of the boat where their reach is very wide. In fact, we’re going to run three coils. The computer will tabulate the path of the frogs, and when a target is reached, as in a high level of ferrous material, the coordinates will change color.” He realized on seeing the glazing of her eyes that he’d gone off on lecturing mode, and concluded, “Bottom line—it’s a gamble, just like shipwreck salvaging is a gamble. We shall see what we shall see.”
At first, she just stared at him, but then she grinned and said, “I love when you go all Albert Einstein-y.”
Huh? Albert Einstein was a physicist, not a computer nerd. Bill Gates would have been a better choice. But, hey, she used the word love in connection with something about me. I’ll take whatever I can get. “Does that mean you’d like to come to my place sometime, baby, and view my etchings . . . I mean, computer software?” He waggled his eyebrows at her in a Groucho Marx kind of way.
“You are such a child sometimes,” she said, with a laugh.
“I’ll keep you young, sweetheart.”
“Promises, promises. Remember, I grew up with the super saleswoman of all time for Avon products that guarantee to turn back the clock on wrinkles. Promises of eternal youth. Gram raises the bar very high on the fountain of youth. The Ultimate Avon Lady.”
“You could call me the Ultimate Avon Man.”
“God forbid!”
They walked toward the stern, where Famosa and Bonita were securing the tow lines, talking in an engrossed manner as they worked. Merrill didn’t know if the two of them had something going on romantically, but they apparently had discovered a lot of common interests in their academic work, Famosa as a professor of oceanography at Rutgers and Bonita as a doctoral candidate in marine archaeology. There was even talk of them writing a book together.
“Are we about ready to go?” Merrill asked.
“All set,” Bonita said, straightening.
Famosa stood, too.
Is that really a Speedo he’s wearing? Holy shit! It takes some kind of ego to pack your goodies in one of those skimpy things.
Delilah looked at him and winked. Apparently she shared his view on male attire. See, another commonality, he almost said aloud.
Instead, Merrill raised his hand, giving Charlie the signal to start moving the boat. They would travel over the entire grid today, if they had time. Fortunately, the water was calm. Any change in the weather could affect everything on the site. The prospect of starting all over was daunting.
Merrill was especially excited to try out a new computer program he’d developed. It would take the readings from the metal detector and overlay them, frame for frame, over the previous recordings of the magnetometer. Hopefully, there would be signs of identical loads of ferrous objects. Sometimes my Mensa brain comes in handy. If it worked, he could probably patent his invention, and pull in some extra cash that way, in addition to the treasure.
“Delilah thinks we’re like old fogeys on the beach waving our metal detector wands over the sand,” Merrill remarked.
“I didn’t say that, exactly,” Delilah protested.
“Hey, when it comes to treasure hunting, don’t discount the craziest ideas. Whatever works,” Famosa remarked. “I knew a guy who bet the bank on a device that followed schools of amberjack, which tend to congregate around shipwrecks. About killed himself catching those fish live, they can get up to six feet long and 175 pounds. No teeth to speak of, but jaws like a steel clamp. Anyhow, he managed to implant GPS chips in a dozen or so of them. Everyone made fun of him, but he’s sitting in the Bahamas now after a multimillion-dollar shipwreck discovery.”
“That’s not so outrageous, actually,” Bonita said. “Shipwrecks become natural reefs to marine life. In fact, they call amberjacks ‘reef donkeys.’”
Sometimes Merrill forgot that Bonita’s expertise was in the marine life aspect of oceanography.
“You’ll be interested to know, Ms. Doubtful,” Merrill said, turning to Delilah and, without thinking, putting an arm over her shoulder, “that while some people . . . crazies, in my opinion . . . eat amberjack, they’re loaded with white worms, called spaghetti worms.”
“Yuck!” she said, and shrugged out of his embrace, casting him a scowl of warning.
He just grinned.
“As for that guy with his amberjack theory”—Merrill directed his words to Famosa now—“they say ‘follow the money’ in crime detection. Why not ‘follow the fish’ in sunken treasure detection?”
“Sounds like a great title for a book,” Famosa commented to Bonita.
Bonita smiled at Famosa as if he’d said something particularly clever.
Hey, I was the one with the clever observation. Not that I want Bonita looking at me that way. Delilah, on the other hand . . . He glanced at Famosa and then Bonita. Yep. Something definitely going on there.
They all headed toward the wheelhouse, where they could view the readings on the computer screen. For the next four hours, Charlie trolled over one lane after another of the grid. Everyone watched the screen with excitement, and occasionally one or the other of them spelled Charlie at the wheel.
There was reason for excitement. A number of squares in the grid showed potential, especially since they were clustered together near the center of the site. Luckily, they weren’t along the edges because then there would have been the worry over exceeding their license limit or of other salvaging companies moving in to legally steal, or rather, take advantage of all their work.
By the time they all sat at the table down below, well past their usual dinner hour, eating pizza and drinking beer, there was an air of euphoria. First thing tomorrow morning, they would begin to dive the first of the six areas that looked most promising. Of course, there were no guarantees, but everyone was cautiously optimistic. All, or most of them, were dreaming of what they would do with their share of the profits if a discovery turned out to be as prosperous as they hoped, but no one spoke those dreams aloud for fear of jinxing the outcome.
By the next evening, though, the euphoria turned to jubilation. The remains of the Falcon had been found. Scattered by 150-plus years of battering tides and shifting sands, they’d only skimmed the surface of four blocks, but they’d already brought up buckets of encrusted gold and silver coins and bars that had to be worth millions. A piece of brass that once graced the wooden steering wheel clearly identified the find as being the Falcon.
Merrill had called Gabe, who owned a large percentage of the business, and Harry, who got a small cut in this one mission, telling them about the discovery but cautioning them both to remain silent. The longer they could work the site without the public, or other salvagers, knowing about it, the easier it would be for them to complete the operation. Of course, the state and some historical agencies would have to be notified, but again Merrill wanted to work, uninterrupted, as long as possible.
After dinner, Merrill brought out the champagne he’d saved for just such an occasion, and he proposed a toast. “Thanks be to God for favoring our quest. Thanks be to the ocean, and especially the Falcon, for giving up this bounty. Thanks be to hard workers and good friends to share the joy.”
There were responses of “Amen!” “Cin Cin!” “¡Salud!” “Bonne Chance!” “Skål!” and “Hoo-yah!”
They all took long drinks from their plastic glasses.
“In the words of Mr. Spock, who was just as eloquent as my friend Geek, but more brief,” K-4 sa
id then, connecting a high five with Merrill, “live long and prosper.”
Everyone nodded and took another drink.
Charlie surprised them by offering a toast related to her own situation: “Two ins and one out. In with health and wealth. Out with debt.”
After they drank to that toast, Merrill opened a second bottle of champagne.
Bonita stood then, already a little wobbly. “There are good ships and there are bad ships that sail the seas. But the best ships are friendships. Forever may they be.”
“Hear, hear!” everyone said, and took another drink.
“You guys are so full of nicey-nice shit,” Gus said. “Here’s to you, and here’s to me. Friends may we always be. But if by chance we disagree, up yours! Here’s to me!”
Time to steer this party in another direction. “I know what I’m going to do with my share of the treasure,” Merrill said. “Buy a house in Bell Cove. How about the rest of you?”
Delilah stared at him in surprise.
What? Does she think I’m going to live in a motel room the rest of my life? Or does she think I’m going to skip town? Not anytime soon, baby!
But the others had taken his cue on changing the subject.
“I’m going to quit my job with the National Park Service and finish up my PhD. About time, too.” This from Bonita.
“I like teaching,” Famosa contributed, “so I won’t give that up. And I like shipwreck ventures, like this one on the side. Maybe I’ll buy a diving boat . . . a small one . . . and teach shipwreck diving off the Jersey coast.”
“How about you, Gus? Will you give up your convenience store and gas station for the high life?” Merrill asked.