Page 35 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

Touched, because these people in Bell Cove were well-meaning, and every absurd, outrageous gesture of the ceremony showed not just an honest communal wish for success in their venture, but a welcome of him and his company to the town. Besides, it had been funny. If a guy couldn’t laugh at himself, he had no sense of humor at all.

The best part had been seeing the look on Delilah’s face as she stood at the rail of Sweet Bells watching the band come marching in to “Anchors Aweigh.” The worst part had been when he’d noticed his parents, along with Ben and Vanessa, at the edge of the crowd, looking horrified and embarrassed before turning to leave. Without even saying hello to him! Talk about no sense of humor! Did anyone else notice them?

It was two p.m. before he and his crew had been able to depart, but clear skies and calm seas made for a pleasant trip, and, yes, they were all laughing at what they’d left behind. In the hour or so it took to arrive at the site, five miles out, people exchanged reminiscences of the day.

“I couldn’t believe that Doreen referred to us as buccaneers,” Gus said. “Now, a Viking, that’s another story.”

“Some folks say I look like a young Johnny Depp,” Famosa claimed.

“In your dreams!” the rest of them hooted.

He just laughed.

“In Loo-zee-anna, we prefer our pirates to look like Jean Lafitte,” Charlie called out from the wheelhouse where she was steering at a low rate of speed, not wanting to push the engine too fast, too soon.

“Father Brad’s prayer was kind of nice,” Merrill interjected, “although I noticed that he mentioned the importance of sharing wealth. Do you think he’s envisioning a big church donation? I do like his assumption, though, that we’re going to make some big discoveries.”

“From his lips to God’s ears,” Famosa joked. “The last treasure I cashed in on went to back alimony for my second wife. How about that little tuba player who farted every time she blew her horn?”

“She was not farting!” Bonita elbowed Famosa. “It was just the sound she made in the lower registers because she didn’t have enough wind . . . um, breath.”

Famosa grinned at her misspeak.

“I used to be able to do a triple flip like that dancer did,” Gus said.

Bonita glanced at his six-foot-three frame and arched her brows. “When was that . . . when you were ten years old?” She was obviously not a football fan, or she would know about Gus’s antics.

“Nope. Every time I made a touchdown, I did that on the sidelines . . . until I got too many penalties for showboating. The fans loved it. Bet I could still do it.”

“Please, don’t,” Merrill urged.

And so it went with light conversation as they settled in and got to know each other. He noticed that Delilah remained silent, listening but not sharing any personal info. Then she went down below. Soon they saw their designated spot, pinpointed by bobbing flags they’d set in place previously, and loud cheers greeted some startled birds overhead.

A map had been drawn of their licensed search boundaries as pinpointed by specific latitude and longitude lines on the open waters of the Atlantic, with the site divided into squares like a checkerboard. All of it had been programmed into Merrill’s high-tech computer. They anchored the boat on the bottom left square and would begin diving there in the morning. Square by square they would move the boat, as many as six times a day, like a lawn mower, until they hit pay dirt.

Actually, it wasn’t as hit-and-miss as that. He and some of the crew had already made a sweep of the site last month using side and bottom sonar equipment and a proton magnetometer, which could detect ferrous metals. With that data logged into a computer, the original five hundred or so blocks in the grid had been reduced to less than three hundred considered diveworthy. The problem was, time was money, and their permit expired one year from their starting date. That meant only four months left this year until winter set in, rendering dives impossible. If they found nothing by November, they would have to wait until April or May to return. By then, the bottom terrain could have changed, due to ocean currents and storms, meaning a whole new redo of prep for their dives. And of course, they had to get through hurricane season, which on the Outer Banks was July through December, but most likely August or September.

A cold lunch was set out by Delilah, but Merrill was busy on deck all afternoon, and wasn’t able to go below until almost dinnertime. He found her alone in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a salad in a huge wooden bowl. On the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the salon sat several loaves of garlic bread ready to go into the oven. An equally large trencher on the table held various fresh fruits: apples, oranges, peaches, plums, and grapes. Delicious smells of some kind of pasta sauce emanated from a pot on the stove.

“That smells delicious,” he said, going up to the sink and washing his hands.

“You missed lunch. You must be starving. Do you want me to make you a sandwich or something?”

He shook his head. “I can wait for dinner. What’s on the menu?”

“Nothing fancy. Seafood linguine with a summer salad and garlic bread. A store-bought fruit tart for dessert. I didn’t have time to make anything from scratch today. Sorry.”

“No cinnamon rolls?” he teased.

“Are you saying that I overdo the cinnamon rolls?” She pointed the sharp knife in her hands at him.

He laughed and put both hands up in surrender. “Your cinnamon rolls are heavenly. Can any man have too much heaven?”

“Good answer,” she said, and resumed cutting tomatoes into neat wedges which she tossed into the bowl.

Delilah appeared more relaxed today. Not so prickly and quick to take offense. He wasn’t sure if it was because they were away from town, or she was growing more comfortable with him and the other crew members. He wasn’t about to question a good thing.

“That was some launch celebration the town held for you,” Delilah remarked. “Did you expect that?”