Page 52 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

“Crazy in love.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, but she liked it. Too much. She tried to draw her hand away from his.

He wouldn’t let go. “I thought you were thankful.” He batted his eyelashes at her.

“Oh, so now you want to be thanked with more than words?”

“What a good idea!”

And it was, though she would have to make another trip to the laundry with the soiled sheets. As for her hair, both sets, she would need a bottle of shampoo to get rid of all the stickiness.

And as for the shower, they just fit. Barely.

When he went down on his knees before her and said he was looking for more honey to lick, she laughed, at first. Then she was no longer laughing as she reached up for the shower head to support herself in his sensual exploration.

But she got back at him when she sank to her knees and told him she was getting into this treasure hunting gig. Time for her to make her own search for gold. A gold bar, a gold staff, a golden flagpole, any old gold would do. He wasn’t laughing for long, either.

By the time they were done, the hot water had run out. But they barely noticed, their bodies were so hot, hot, hot.

Merrill stayed in the shower, cold as it was, when she got out to towel dry. She put his shirt back on and ran a comb through her wet hair as she walked outside with a new mug of coffee. It was nine o’clock but the sun was already warm on the patio stones under her feet. She loved this time of the day when everything was new and dewy clean, promising sunny weather. She loved the view of the sound where a sailboat could be seen skimming the blue waters in the distance, and a fishing boat was chugging out for the day’s haul of whatever the catch of the day would be—tuna, marlin, bass, shark, whatever. She loved this run-down property she’d inherited with all its potential for a better future.

That’s when she heard an ominous sound. A car engine. Pulling into the parking lot.

Still barefoot and only wearing Merrill’s shirt, she set her coffee cup on the patio table and walked over to peer around the corner before running inside for more decent attire.

But it was too late.

There was a big old gas guzzler of a station wagon coming to a grinding halt, filled with boxes, both inside and atop the rooftop carrier. Out of the passenger door popped a little gremlin with long wavy blonde hair, wearing a red Annie dress with white anklet socks and black patent leather shoes.

“Mommy! Mommy! Surprise!”

Delilah had no chance to run and dress now because her daughter hurtled at her with a flying leap, almost knocking them both over. Delilah hugged her little girl, kissing her face and neck and hair, over and over. “Oh, sweetheart, what a wonderful surprise!”

And someone was going to have to answer for that surprise. That someone—wearing purple pedal pushers, a low-cut silver knit shirt, blonde hair piled atop her head like a 1940s pinup, high-heeled wedge sandals, and enough makeup to plaster a wall—stepped out of the driver’s seat and arched her back like a person who’s been driving too long without a break. One of those electronic cigarettes hung from her mouth, which she gave a few expert, handless puffs, creating a cloud of vapor with a strong scent of vanilla.

Meanwhile, Maggie was hugging Delilah and rambling on, “Me and Gramma had a secret and we couldn’t tell no one, ’specially not Jimmy the Goon, who’s gonna break Gramma’s legs, both of ’em, with his HurryCane, and Honkin’ Harvey called Gramma a crazy broad fer almos’ knockin’ him on his ass with her car at the Bonzo lot, and Gramma said five bad words, and she got a ticket from the coppers fer goin’ too slow, then she got a ticket fer goin’ too fast, and what’re corns and bunions anyhow? A truck driver called Gramma a hot mama. Isn’t that silly? She’s not my mama. You are. Kin I have a dog now?”

Her grandmother was indeed hobbling toward them on the corns and bunions that she’d been complaining about most of her life—all those years in high heels as a showgirl, she claimed. The e-cig was thankfully out of sight now, though the vanilla scent remained.

But then, Gram stopped dead in her tracks and looked pointedly at something over Delilah’s shoulder. Delilah could guess what she saw, and it wasn’t the Bell Sound view.

Leaning against the corner of the building, wearing nothing but a low-riding towel and a wicked grin, was Merrill.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones with a secret, Miss Maggie,” her grandmother said. “If this is what the Outer Banks has to offer, maybe I’ll stay awhile.”

Chapter 12

When Vegas came to the Outer Banks . . .

Merrill stared with humor at the scene unfolding before him. A ball-of-fire chatterbox and an overage bimbo dragging on an e-cigarette had invaded Elvis Presley land. Obviously Delilah’s daughter and grandmother.

Delilah Jones was like a jigsaw puzzle to him. Piece by piece he was finding out things about her, like last night’s whopper of a revelation about the lifer felon ex-boyfriend. He would bet his last dollar that these new arrivals would add a few more clues to the mystery of Delilah.

“You think this is funny?” Delilah said when the little girl ran back to the car and was dragging out a stuffed dog bigger than she was, or just about.

“Don’t you?” He just noticed that the car, a honkin’ big Buick station wagon from another less gas-conscious era, was stuffed with boxes, and there were a bunch more bungeed to the rooftop luggage rack. What was the old lady hauling?

“Pfff! It’s either laugh or cry.” She shook her head at the pinup queen—who had a surprisingly hot body for a woman her age, he just noticed—as she hobbled over the gravel stones of the parking lot to stare up at the giant Elvis.