“Mercer!” the man roared, his voice echoing through the vast space. “Who holds the patent for this million-dollar goldmine?!”
The man strode forward, his expensive leather loafers crunching on scattered metal shavings. His gaze swept over the workshop, dismissing the grease-stained chaos before landing squarely on Vaughn, then on the fan, and finally, on Delancy, still reclined in her suspended canvas, one hand idly trailing in the Slumber Breeze 3000’s output.
“Sterling Finch,” he announced, his voice losing none of its booming authority even as he produced a crisp business card from his jacket pocket. “Finch Innovations. That… device. That cordless marvel. I saw it from across the street. My engineers have spent years chasing portable climate control. You’ve done it. You’ve cracked the atom of personal ease.” He gestured wildly with the schematic, then slapped it onto Vaughn’s workbench, pulling out a fountain pen.
Vaughn blinked, taken aback, then a slow, doting smile spread across his face. “Well, Mr. Finch, the design is mine, but the inspiration…” He gestured vaguely towards Delancy. “That’s all my wife. She has a very delicate constitution, you see. Prone to over-heating.”
Delancy sighed contentedly, the fan a cool balm on her forehead. “It’s a real problem, Mr. Finch. Just yesterday, a single bead of sweat threatened to ruin my entire afternoon nap.”
The executive stared, a flicker of bewildered amusement crossing his features before he refocused on the prize. “A nap, you say. Fascinating. Regardless, Mercer, name your price. I’ll write you a draft right now. For the patent. For exclusive manufacturing rights. I’m thinking… two hundred and fifty grand? Upfront.”
Kip, who had been wrestling silently to re-cap a jar of neon-pink axle grease, dropped it with a clang that bounced off the corrugated metal ceiling.
Vaughn, however, merely hummed. “Two hundred and fifty grand? For my sweet Delancy’s well-being? Hmm.” He stroked his chin, considering. “Tell you what, Mr. Finch. You make that draft out to Mrs. Delancy Mercer. And make it for… oh, let’s say seven figures. A leisure fund. Just to ensure she never has to lift a finger for the rest of her days.”
Silence descended. Kip stood agape, the grease jar still rocking on the floor. Finch’s pen hovered over the ledger, his expression unreadable. Delancy, however, merely closed her eyes, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips. Seven figures? Just like that? Her retirement plans had just gone from ‘maybe by twenty’ to ‘right this very second’ without her even having to sit up. It was beautiful. Glorious. Almost made her want to… *do* something. Almost.
Finch, after a moment that stretched into an eternity, finally chuckled. “A full million, for a wife’s ease. I like your style, Mercer. Very… retro. Consider it done.” He scrawled furiously, tearing the voucher from the book with a flourish and pressing it into Vaughn’s stunned hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow with the legal team. Don’t you dare talk to anyone else.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode out as abruptly as he’d arrived, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and a lingering sense of unreality.
Vaughn stared at the check, then at Delancy, his eyes shining. “Delancy! We’re… we’re rich! You’re rich! You can nap forever!”
Delancy merely hummed again, a distant memory stirring in the peaceful quiet. The way Aunt Hestia had looked, offering that ‘sleepy tea’ after her parents’ accident. The same brew Hestia prepared for them every evening before their ‘accidental’ drive off Serpent’s Bluff. A sudden pang of urgency tightened Delancy’s stomach. This newfound wealth changed everything. It meant she had something to lose. Something worth getting out of her canvas nest for.
Just then, the bay door shuddered open, revealing Pru, looking like she’d wrestled a sea monster and lost. Her usually immaculate blonde hair was plastered to her forehead, her designer cocktail dress was splattered with mud and what looked suspiciously like clam chowder, and a single, bedraggled seaweed frond clung stubbornly to her ear. She was panting, fury burning across her sweat-streaked face.
“The yacht party,” Pru gasped, leaning against the doorframe. “It was a disaster! Theron Weatherby Junior thinks ‘sailing’ means capsizing a dinghy in the harbor and using a fishing net as a rescue rope! I spent three hours aiming to look delicate while pulling him out of the muck! And then he offered me a half-eaten tuna sandwich as a reward!” She pushed herself upright, glaring around the floor, her gaze finally landing on Delancy, still serenely reclined.
“And you,” Pru seethed, pointing a trembling, muddy finger. “You’re just… napping? While I’m out there, fighting for our future, working to marry into money so we don’t end up destitute, you’re… napping? You lazy parasite! You have no idea what it takes to secure a rich husband, to escape poverty!”
Vaughn, still clutching the slip, stepped forward, a protective arm going around Delancy’s ropes. “Actually, Pru,” he said, his voice unusually firm. “Delancy just made a million bucks. For her rest fund. So she never has to do anything she doesn’t want to do.” He held up the slip, the bold numbers glinting in the harsh neon light.
Pru’s mouth dropped open. The seaweed slipped from her ear, landing with a wet plop on the oil-stained concrete. She stared at the slip, then at Delancy, then back again, her face draining of all color. “Seven figures? From… from napping? What kind of cosmic joke is this?”
Delancy slowly opened one eye, fixing Kip with a languid gaze. “Kip,” she drawled, her voice a low murmur. “I have a very important mission for you. A highly sensitive, top-secret, snack-requiring mission.”
Kip snapped to attention, forgetting Pru’s shock entirely. “Yes, ma’am! Anything for the Delicately Constituted One!”
“I need you to procure some… intelligence,” Delancy continued, her voice gaining a surprising edge of seriousness. “Specifically, you’re going to need to liberate something from Aunt Hestia’s house. Her special sleepy tea formula. I suspect it’s in her study, probably tucked away in that dreadful floral tin she keeps.”
Kip’s jaw dropped. “Break into Aunt Hestia’s house? But… that’s risky! She has a really yappy chihuahua!”
Delancy reached under her suspended mattress, producing a crinkly bag. “These,” she said, holding up a package of premium, imported cheese crackers – the good kind, with actual cheese dust, not just orange powder. “Are all yours. Plus, a whole box of those chocolate-covered coconut bars you like. And a brand-new, unopened bottle of Cherry Fizz soda.”
Kip’s resolve crumbled faster than a stale cookie. “Chocolate-covered coconut bars? An *unopened* Cherry Fizz? You got it, Boss! Consider that blend liberated!” He snatched the snacks, grinning ear to ear. “I’ll use the old storm drain entrance around back. She never locks that one.” With a salute, he dashed off, a blur of lanky limbs and snack-fueled ambition.
Delancy watched him go, a tiny frown marring her otherwise serene expression. This was it. She’d actually have to… *do* something. Plan something. All to protect her hammock and her newly secured nap schedule. The injustice of it all was almost enough to make her sigh.
Hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of bruised purple and fiery orange, a staticky squawk erupted from the walkie-talkie Delancy kept beside her. She picked it up, pressing the receiver to her ear.
“Boss! Boss, do you copy?” Kip’s voice was a frantic whisper, laced with panic.
“Copy, Kip. Report. Do you have the recipe?” Delancy mumbled, already half-asleep.
“Forget the recipe! I heard her on the phone! She’s not just selling the land, Boss! She’s… she’s hired someone! An arsonist! She’s going to burn Mercer’s Garage to the ground tonight!”