Page 4 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

The other men at the table nodded their heads in agreement.

“In fact, that dress looks just like the one Marilyn Monroe wore in that Billy Wilder classic comedy, Seven Year Itch. The scene where she’s standing over a subway vent,” Merrill said. “It sold at auction a couple years ago for almost five million bucks, as I recall.”

They all looked at him with amazement. He had a fool habit of reeling off data his brain amassed like a computer encyclopedia. “I’m just sayin’.”

Not surprisingly, F.U. asked, “Do you think those hooters are real?”

“Shhhh!” Merrill and several others cautioned F.U. when it appeared he might be overheard by some women nearby. That’s all Merrill would need—the female viewpoint on his love/lust interest. Seated at the next table were some former SEALs, who’d served with Wendy, accompanied by their wives. Zachary “Pretty Boy” Floyd and his wife, Britta, Torolf and Hilda Magnusson, Justin “Cage” LeBlanc and Emelie. Commander Ian MacLean, who still served as the senior officer at the Coronado base, was there with his wife, Madrene. WEALS member Camille Dumaine had come with her husband, Harek Sigurdsson, a computer guru whose I.Q. was almost as high as Merrill’s, or so he claimed. Other WEALS teammates of Wendy’s, Diane “Grizz” Gomulka and Delphine Arneaux, were in the “Pretty in Pink” wedding party up on the dais, where Merrill should be, as well, actually.

Excusing himself, he made his way around the dance floor, making sure his path didn’t cross with she-who-hated-his-guts. Wendy’s aunt Mildred and her senior dance club were demonstrating “The Shag,” a dance step that was made popular back in the sixties and continued in the Carolinas to this day. They were really good! Especially at their ages, or maybe because of their ages and all those years of experience. Ranging from sixty to eighty, they were proving that age was relative with moves that were almost professional.

With the intricate footwork and hand gestures, they soon had the wedding attendees on their feet, clapping to the beat of that old song “Sixty Minute Man,” some of the men calling out crude suggestions to the groom related to the lyrics. Finally, the crowd joined in and there was a pathway down the center where individual couples danced, or rather shagged, their way through the gauntlet.

Merrill saw Gabe Conti leaning against the wall, watching the dancers, and went over to join him. Gabe looked just as miserable as he was in a matching white tux and pink accessories.

“Do you think if we live here long enough we’ll be shagging our asses off like that?” Merrill asked.

“I can shag. Hell, I was raised in the Carolinas. It’s a rite of passage to learn those dance steps.”

“So?” Merrill raised his brows in question. “Why aren’t you out there?”

“I don’t like to dance, and I feel like an idiot when I do,” Gabe slurred out. “Besides, the only reason men . . . most men . . . dance is because they view it as a form of foreplay. As in ‘I’ll do the friggin’ dance if you let me do you later.’ I don’t expect to be so lucky tonight.”

Whoa! That was a mouthful for the usually reserved architect. Merrill guessed that Gabe had imbibed as many adult beverages as he had, if not more. Good thing this was his home. He wouldn’t have to worry about a DWI.

“What’s with you and Laura? I thought you two were the new hot item.” Merrill was referring to Laura Atler, editor of the local newspaper, The Bell.

Gabe shrugged. “I got tired of her ordering me around.” At Merrill’s look of disbelief, he laughed and said, “She dumped me.”

They both watched Laura smiling flirtatiously as she danced down the center pathway with Hamr. How had those two connected already? Hah! Hamr was known for his smooth moves, and, yes, he was looking smooth on the dance floor, too. Who knew Vikings could shag! The dance, not the other kind of shagging, which was an inborn trait, according to all the boastful males in the Magnusson clan. Hamr’s brother Torolf was a SEAL, too. Merrill knew the Magnussons well.

Something occurred to Merrill then. “Good Lord! My tongue is numb,” he remarked.

“Mine, too,” Gabe said.

They both probably looked like idiots then as they tried to stick out their boozy tongues and look at them.

Then Gabe had a sudden inspiration. “Do you think we should try sucking on those vodka ice cubes?”

“Good idea!” Merrill saluted Gabe’s suggestion with a high five.

They both pushed away from the wall and almost fell forward. Laughing, they headed toward the bar where the punch bowl was laid out.

But then, a vision in white stepped in front of them, smelling of lemons and sex.

Okay, the scent of sex was probably a fantasy of his alcohol/testosterone-loaded brain, but he definitely detected the odor of lemons, which he happened to love.

“I need to talk to you,” Delilah said.

Merrill twisted to see who she was addressing and leaned a little too far to the left, finding the damn floor was suddenly slanted. Blinking to regain his balance, he decided it must be someone behind him she was talking to.

But no, she was looking right at him, oozing lemon sexiness. And wearing moist-looking red lipstick in a color that could only be called Crimson Slut. Not that he meant slut in a bad way. No, this was good sluttiness.

His numb tongue got a sudden hard-on, just taking in her mouth. No joke! A tongue hard-on. They ought to put me in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I wonder what I would get if I saw something more blatantly sexual, like maybe her tongue peeking out with a Hey-Howdy welcome.

“Did you hear me, Mister Good? I need to talk to you,” she repeated.

Mister Good? Is my father around? No. That’s impossible. “Me?” he asked dumbly.