Page 60 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

“I knew it! Don’t. You. Dare.”

K-4 was putting together the grill when they got back, per Merrill’s instructions.

Which caused more scowls from Delilah. She stalked inside with some groceries while he unloaded the plastic patio furniture, which K-4 deemed, “Cool!” Then he went to get his laptop from the truck and placed it on the patio table, while K-4 continued to screw some side tables onto the grill, pretending not to notice the little drama taking place between him and Delilah.

On her second trip to get her personal groceries from the truck, having already declined his offer to help, she got her first good look at the grill, did a double take, then sliced another scowl at Merrill. “Could that damn badass grill be any bigger?” she asked. Again, no backtracking on bad language. “The local fire department might want to borrow it for their barbecue grill-off.”

He thought about quoting that proverb about sarcasm being a poor substitute for gratitude, but figured he’d go for that other proverb: Clueless men should stop when they’re ahead. And midmorning sex, after a night of passionate lovemaking, was definitely “ahead.” And, yeah, shoot me for a testosterone-loaded brain, but I meant that literally, as in giving—never mind.

He couldn’t stop grinning.

Which caught K-4’s attention. He just shook his head at Merrill’s hopelessness.

Back to the grill. It was a nifty piece of equipment, all shiny red, six feet long with enough space to grill two hundred hot dogs in five minutes, or so its label said. With the attached side tables, it was actually closer to ten feet long. It even had a—No shit!—built-in satellite radio, which was currently set on a country station playing a Toby Keith marathon.

K-4 had managed to find a cooler which he’d filled with ice and a dozen cans of beer and soda. Which was a great idea, considering that the temperature was still in the mideighties.

“What’s that smell?” he said as K-4 handed him a cold one.

“My Prime.”

“Prime what?”

“Cologne. ‘Prime’ cologne is for the bold and masculine man, dontcha know? An aromatic blend of lavender, spearmint, and cedarwood.” He smirked at Merrill.

“Let me guess. Avon?”

“Ding-a-ling! Avon calling!”

Merrill took a long drag on his beer, which really hit the spot, and opened his laptop. He had a lot of incoming mail, but the one that jumped out at him came from Bonita. The subject line read: “Good and Bad News!”

“Uh-oh,” he said.

K-4 fired up the grill, now that it was assembled and the propane tank hooked up. With a whoosh, the burners came on. He adjusted the knobs, closed the door, then sat down at the table with Merrill. “What’s up?” He pointed at the laptop with his own can of beer.

“The bad news is that the objects brought up this past week are not from the Three Saints, but are from roughly the same time period. A wreck about two years later, in 1864. The good news is that they might have come from a French privateer that was attempting to swerve around the Yankee blockade during the Civil War. Which might mean chests of gold from a group of textile manufacturers in desperate need of Southern cotton.”

“Like a lot of gold?”

Merrill shrugged. “Still have research to do. The ship in question was Le Faucon, or the Falcon. Not as big a prize as the Three Saints, but still conceivably worth millions.”

“This is exciting, man!”

“Yeah, it is.”

Before they had a chance to discuss the project more, Maggie came out, dragging a huge stuffed dog, who might be Pluto, or maybe Marmaduke. Her hair was all rumpled from a recent nap, and she looked downright grumpy.

“I don’t like you.”

“Wow! That’s harsh. What’d I do?”

“Yer gonna take my mommy away tomorrow.”

“Just for a week or so.” Merrill didn’t know much about kids, but he recognized how lame that answer must seem to her. A week would seem like a year to a five-year-old, he supposed, or at least a month.

“Five years without a mommy is tooooo long. Now I have her, I don’t want you taking her away . . . you . . . you poopyhead.”

Well, that was certainly telling him off! But wait. Five years without a mommy . . . what does that mean? She probably just means that she’s five years old, and . . . whatever! “Where’s your mom?”