he work is piling up now.
The last photographs for the gallery's upcoming "War Is Hell" exhibit are being delivered today, and Delia should be making room on the walls, choosing frames, printing copies of the artists' contracts and addressing postcards for the client list.
             But it's hard to focus on work when you're convinced your landlords are on crack.
             Ever since she spied those sacks of contraband in the Beachwoods' kitchen, she's been worried about her own safety, living in a place where dope fiends presumably come and go during the night, and the safety of Jackson, whose parents may at any given moment be high as hang gliders over Parma Park.
             She ponders the morality of baby-sitting for drug lords and - she can't help it - bristles at how much rent the Beachwoods are charging her when they appear to have a side business that's both lucrative and tax-exempt.
             She wants answers, and knows only one person in Santa Barbara who can provide them. She fishes Officer De La Mora's business card from her gingham handbag, dials his number and waits for the beep.
             She is debating between spilling the beans on his voice mail or asking him on a date so she can pick his brain between tapas at Alcazar and a heated grope session at the end of the breakwater. But when a UPS guy enters the gallery with a delivery and a familiar face, Delia slams down the phone.
             It's the rugged blond who carried her wounded, slightly inebriated body down the hiking trail last week.
             "Well if it isn't the hiccuping hitchhiker," he says, with a friendly smile. "How's that ankle, Delia?"
             "Oh, hi, um ... " Tristan? Russell? Lester?
             "Dusty," he reminds her. "Sign here."
             "Sure," she says, shocked at how gorgeous his tan, muscular legs look in those goofy, mud-brown shorts. "What a coincidence. You know, I never thanked you properly for schlepping me down that mountain. I was so mortified, I just drove off."
             "Not at all," he says, handing her the package. "I've carried parcels bigger than you, but they weren't as soft. And they didn't smell like grapefruit."
             Oh, my, Delia thinks, and congratulates herself for splurging on a memorably-scented shampoo. She tries to think of a clever and charming response, something about citrus fruit or special deliveries, but is too busy blushing.
             "Anyway," Dusty fills the silence, "I just got transferred to this route, so I guess I'll be seeing more of you now."
             "Great," she says, grinning stupidly. "Come by with your package any time." Now he's blushing.
             "I mean my package! The gallery's packages, rather. Our boxes. Drop them off whenever you want. Or can. Thanks."
             That night, she regales Rodrigo with the story of her humiliating slip of the tongue as they crawl State Street in search of a bar that's not too young, too old or too cheeseball for their tastes.
             They leave Sharkeez when a college student spills something called a Big Ass Beer on Delia's chiffon skirt, and blow the Wildcat when she sees her boss' sleazoid brother, Phil, hitting on a young woman in line for the bathroom. Rodrigo says Rocks and Blue Agave are too yuppie for his blue-collar mood, so they wind up at the dark, divey Tiburon Tavern on upper State.
             It's a tiny neighborhood joint with stiff drinks, a worn pool table and a karaoke machine. After a couple of the former, Delia heads for the latter, but is uninspired by the contemporary schlock in the song catalog.
             "Guess I'll go it a cappella," she half-whispers into the microphone.
             For the first time since she moved here, she is claiming the spotlight, and it feels pretty damned good. The bartender, two smirking bikers, a businessman and a trio of gabbing girlfriends stare at her, expecting - in fact, hoping - to be hugely amused.
             But when Bull Moose Jackson's soulful blues ditty "Why Don't You Haul Off and Love Me" begins pouring out of Delia's husky, brandy-warmed pipes, they are more than astonished. They are riveted.
             For just over three minutes, she is not diminutive Delia Flude from Fullerton, but Delia the Don't-Mess Diva.
             Most of the sodden and nearly sodden patrons wonder who she is, but two of them already know. One is Rodrigo. The other, a shady-looking character applauding vigorously in the corner, is Sean De La Mora.
            Delia never sees him.

« Episode 9: High society indeedEpisode 11: Delia wants out »