Page 88 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

“No one is responsible,” his father said, loud and firm enough to zip Van’s already-thinned lips. “There’s a history of heart disease in the women of Delia’s family.” To Merrill, he added, “As you’ll recall, Grandma Fulton died when she was only fifty-seven.”

Merrill did remember. He’d been only ten at the time, but he’d been grief-stricken. As different from her daughter, Merrill’s mother, as night and day, Grandma had been a homemaker who loved cooking, and baking, and her half dozen grandchildren. He recalled her kitchen being the heart of her home, and that it had always seemed to be filled with sunshine and laughter. She’d graduated from college and taught school for a few years, but didn’t consider that academic credential essential to her self-identity.

Duly chastened, Vanessa took out a biophysics book, which she proceeded to read. A clear “Fuck you!” signal to the rest of them, mostly him.

“Do you and Van have any kids?” he asked his brother.

Van stiffened but pretended not to have heard the question.

“No. Van . . . we decided early on that our work was too important to be diverted by child rearing.”

Seriously, Ben? You expect me to buy that bullshit? But Merrill said nothing. It was their business.

“Are you and Mother still working?” Merrill asked his father.

“Oh, yes. In fact, we were planning a trip to Russia next month for a symposium on the molecular biology of dormant particles of energy. A very prestigious, invitation-only event. Of course, we will have to decline now.”

“There’ll be other symposiums,” Merrill assured him.

The expression was trite, and Van snickered, but his father seemed to take it to heart. “You’re right. The most important thing is getting your mother back to good health.”

Vanessa turned her chair and clicked a remote so that the TV that was attached to a far wall turned on. She immediately lowered the volume to almost mute. The nightly news was on. The usual Democrats hate Republicans, Republicans hate Democrats, and nothing gets done in Washington.

The rest of them continued talking.

But suddenly, Vanessa exclaimed, “Oh, my God! This is the absolute end! How humiliating!”

They all turned to look at the television. Even his mother, who’d awakened, was asking, groggily, “What? What?”

On the screen was a picture of Merrill in full white dress uniform from his Navy SEALs days. It must have been the only one those idiots, Annie and Sam from NBX, were able to scrounge up. The two of them were on the air wearing pirate hats, and Sam even had a patch over one eye. They were talking about the big story in Bell Cove and how Merrill and his crew had discovered a shipload of gold off the barrier islands, recovered from the shipwreck of the Hawk, a Spanish galleon sunk as a blockade runner by a Yankee clipper during the Civil War.

Merrill let out a guffaw of disbelief.

“Is this true?” his father said.

“No!” Merrill declared. “Well, only parts of it. These two newshounds are more like pit bulls on crack. Yes, we recovered a sunken ship. There is gold, but not a shipload of it. The ship was the Falcon, not the Hawk. It was a French ship, not Spanish. No pirates involved, although there might be by the time I get back to the site with all this publicity. And there were no galleons or clipper ships around during that period. Other than that, just a peachy keen news nonevent.”

His father and Ben looked at him like he was crazy. His sister-in-law was hyperventilating. His mother had fallen back asleep, thank God!

If only that were the end of the newscast.

Mayor Doreen Ferguson was on the air now, about to be interviewed on the Bell Cove town square where the bells of St. Andrew’s, Our Lady by the Sea, and the town hall tower were doing their competing bell chimes of the hour.

Annie waited for the bells to quit tolling and said, “Now here’s a word from the mayor of Bell Cove, where its famous bell forge has been its greatest claim to fame . . . up till now. Well, other than the Grinch Contest last Christmas. Now, tell us, Ms. Ferguson, how does Bell Cove plan to celebrate its golden discovery?”

“With much fanfare. In conjunction with the Lollypalooza set for this Labor Day in Bell Cove. Folks from throughout the Outer Banks will be coming to show off their talents, and now we’re planning a pirate-themed celebration for the Sweet Bells crew, too. That’s the team led by Merrill Good, a former Navy SEAL, who moved to Bell Cove recently and plans to make this his home.”

Merrill groaned. Navy SEALs, even former Navy SEALs, did not like to be identified as such. It would be like counting coup for some terrorists to nab them and chop off their heads on nationwide TV. He would bet his left nut that he would be hearing from Commander MacLean at the Coronado Special Forces center by tonight. And since when had he said that Bell Cove was going to be his permanent home?

Doreen continued expounding on all the outrageous events being planned around his discovery, as if it was the town’s discovery, and somehow linking it all in with the crackpot Lollypalooza that was already scheduled. He leaned across the bed, took the remote out of Vanessa’s hand, and clicked it off.

“Hey!” she protested.

He saluted her with a quick, between-you-and-me middle finger. Hoping that no one else had noticed his gesture, he glanced around, innocently, and to his surprise, Ben was grinning.

“Well, I for one am hungry. Anyone in the mood for dinner?” Merrill said then.

Everyone agreed, except Vanessa of course.