door is slammed.
A pair of heels clicks past the closet, followed by the aimless shuffle of two small sneakers.
              A set of keys is plunked onto tile, and a purse thuds onto the counter beside her.
              When she hears Mrs. Beachwood and Jackson head upstairs, Delia slips out of the closet, tiptoes out the side door and tears back to her cottage.
              The sun has set, which means it's less than 12 hours till the underground terrorist cell living just across the lawn detonates its instruments of destruction on Santa Barbara's Eastside.
              Her body is shaking with shock and fear. Why does this odd little town keep whomping on her expectations? All she wanted was a normal life in a fairly hip, somewhat sunny locale. A job where she could be valuable, a few friends to laugh with and maybe the occasional date.
              Perhaps it's fate that the only romantic proposition she's had so far was from a cop.
              She finds Sean De La Mora's curled business card, dials his number and is disappointed to get his voice mail once again.
              "Hi, this is Delia," she says, hoping he'll recall her froggy voice, if not her name.
              "The answer is yes, I'd love to have dinner with you. Breakfast and lunch, even. But first we need to prevent my diabolical landlords from blowing up this peculiar city of yours. I know it sounds quackers, but you have to trust me. I'm not a lunatic. But I am very, very scared."
              She gives him her address, checks the lock on her front door, curls up on her bed and waits.
              Hours have passed when - shoot! - she realizes she fell asleep. It's 4 a.m., and her man in uniform never showed.
              "Hmph," Delia mumbles to no one. "Guess a badge and a chiseled jaw do not a hero make."
              Out her window, she sees a light in the Beachwoods' kitchen, and before she can formulate a plan, she's charging across the grass to the main house.
              Through the open side door, she has an unobstructed view of the kitchen, and what she sees is nothing short of astonishing.
              Sean sits at the counter with white powder on his lips. Winston lies at his feet, licking a sticky spot on the floor. Mrs. Beachwood leans over a giant fry kettle and wipes her forehead on her sleeve.
              If Delia is not mistaken, the woman is making - donuts.
              Mrs. Beachwood spins around, incensed at the intrusion. She is wearing a soiled apron bearing the words Darla's Donuts in 1950s-style script. She wears no makeup, and there are dark circles under her eyes.
              On the counter beside her are trays of donut holes, powdered cakes and cinnamon twists with labels: Coffee Bean 5:15, Beach Cafe 5:45, Pierre Lafond 6:00. On a high shelf, Delia sees the bags of flour she assumed was cocaine and even - oh god - Anthrax.
              She considers diving into the drum of hot oil and living out her life as a maple bar just so she won't have to explain herself.
              "What are you doing here?" Mrs. Beachwood snaps.
              Delia looks to Sean for a prompt, and he makes a quick lip-zipping gesture.
              "I saw the light and wondered if, um, Jackson was sick," she improvises.
              "No, we're all fine," Mrs. Beachwood says, crossing her arms.
              There is a long and agonizing silence. Delia looks around the room. Mrs. Beachwood is frowning. Sean is smirking. Winston is now sleeping.
              "Can I ask," Delia starts, "uh, what's all ... ? I mean, why are you ... ?"
              Mrs. Beachwood sighs.
              "Why am I elbow deep in shortening and custard?" she says, the trace of a Midwestern accent revealing itself. "Because shopping sprees at Saks and high tea at the Biltmore don't come cheap, darlin'. Because my husband, bless his heart, is a Hollywood has-been who spent everything he had to buy me this Taj Majal of a house."
              She pokes a long metal utensil into the kettle and flips a dozen sizzling golden rings, one by one.
              "And because, if you haven't figured it out yet," she adds, "you do whatever it takes for the privilege of living in a sweet and magical little town like this. You fry dough, or you print up business cards calling yourself a feng shui consultant, or you sell your family's treasures off piece by piece at estate sales. You don't talk about it - and you sure as hell don't let any snooty natives catch you doing it - but you make ends meet, that's all."
              Sean stands up and brushes confectioners' sugar from his uniform.
              "And when cops drop by," he says, "to check up on neighbors' complaints about delivery trucks rumbling through here all night long, you ply us with pastries in exchange for our silence, is that it?"
              "You bet," she says. "And the salvation of my social standing."
              "Works for me," he says, wiping red jelly off his chin with a paper towel. "Those Cherry Bombs are tasty. Practically explode in your mouth."
              He winks at Delia, whose relief is slowly overtaking her embarrassment.
              "The recipe belonged to my mama, Darla," Mrs. Beachwood says. "Now, if y'all don't mind, I have seven more batches to make before sunrise. Take a donut, Delia, but keep your mouth shut about this or you'll be out on your fanny quicker than you can say 'Charming Montecito cottage for rent.' "
              "Yes, ma'am," Delia blurts, snatching a pink-frosted cruller from the cooling rack.
              "It's late, miss," Sean says to Delia, giving away nothing. "Can I see you safely home?"
              Outside, they both begin to snicker, then chuckle, then roar. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek.
              "Thanks for covering for my idiocy," she says, "and for showing up in the first place."
              "No worries, lunatic," he replies, wrapping his arm around her cold, bare shoulder as they pad across the damp grass. "But you know, this is the second time you've called me out on a false alarm. Next time we see each other, there had better be some seriously questionable behavior involved."
              She lifts the donut to her mouth and the sweet taste and creamy texture instantly remind her of home. But there's another flavor it takes her a moment to recognize.
              Ah, yes.
              It's hope.

The End.

« Episode 12: Terror strikes