Page 10 of Enemies to Lobsters
Then I showered in Stevie’s cramped bathroom and got to the town meeting just in time for Ike to shut me down in ten seconds flat. My right eyelid twitches at the memory of his last words:There’s no money. Meeting adjourned.I'm having visions of clunking him over the head with his stupid gavel.
I massage my aching eyelids as I head toward the stairs. There has to be a solution. There always is. I can’t believe Ike has given up.
“Patricia?” My grandfather calls from the direction of his study.
“No, Grandpa.” I move toward the sound of his voice. “It’s me.”
“Diana?” There’s the familiar sound of his chair rolling away from his desk.
I push through the heavy door and circle the desk to him. He stands, giving me a brief hug. Some people air kiss in greeting. My grandfather is famous for his aftershave-scented air hugs.
“What are you doing here so late at night? And what has you so upset?” He sees right through me, like always. He’s not a demonstrative man, but he developed a sharp, intuitive eye after long years in a boardroom.
“I just left the town meeting.” I release a slow breath and take the seat across his desk. I knead the bridge of my nose. The aching won’t stop. The joyful feeling of youth I rediscovered at the top of the lighthouse is a distant memory. I need a long night of sleep, some ibuprofen, and a retirement home. That meeting shaved fifty years off my life. Maybe I'll invest in paper straws out of spite.
“Why on earth did you attend a town meeting?” he asks, one eye on his computer screen.
“I want them to nominate the lighthouse for the National Register of Historic Places. They can’t. I asked them to find another solution.” I omit the part where they basically ran me out of the building with pitchforks.
He chuckles as he scrolls through a spreadsheet. “I can guess how that went over.” He clicks a few things. “This town can’t afford to sink money into an outmoded building, I’m sure.”
Grandpa taught me everything that I know about winning a debate, but I’m rusty after a few years in the ergonomic toilet products world. There’s not a lot of debate happening there. Everyone loves an efficient bathroom experience. I suck in a long breath. “The lighthouse may be outmoded, but it has historical significance.” And I love it. It stands for everything beautiful and hopeful in this world. If they’re willing to let beauty and hope fall into the ocean, what does that say about them? I keep these thoughts to myself. Pathos has never won a debate with my grandpa. “If they renovate it, it will bring in tourists, which will bring in money for further maintenance.” The problem is Cape Georgeana is too close to more charming, well-maintained towns that aren't entirely populated by weirdos. The money goes there. Always has.
His bushy gray eyebrows raise. “The old chicken and the egg scenario, then.”
“Yeah.” I slouch in my chair.
“May I ask why you care so much about the lighthouse?” he asks slowly, with a worried frown. He's never asked this before.
He can ask, but I won’t tell. How do I tell the man that the only time I feel whole is when I’m inside that lighthouse? Sure, my mother left me with my grandparents when I was young, but she came back. She’d always take me up to the lantern room. We’d take a picnic up the big staircase and count the steps. But then she stopped coming back. I kept the tradition, though. My mom became a memory and the town turned on me, but I always feel hope inside that lighthouse. My grandpa won’t understand that. He’s a facts and figures guy. I choose to ignore his question.
“I worked up the numbers with the projected cost of renovation. It’s feasible if you’re not dealing with the criminally insane.”
“In this town, that puts you in a sticky position.” Grandpa chuckles, a knowing look in his eyes. I’d worry that he’s on to me—that he senses my emotional attachment to the old building—but I don’t think so. And his next question settles it. “May I see what you worked up?”
I nod, digging out my phone and forwarding the document. This isn’t the first time my grandpa has checked my work.
He pulls up the email and scans my spreadsheet on his screen while I fidget. This is like having Babe Ruth critique my batting swing. He’s done this many times, but it hasn’t gotten any easier.
“This is very well done, Diana.” He narrows his eyes as he reads, then leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “Very well done.” He smiles, taking me in while a clock ticks. And ticks and ticks. “Your grandma will be happy to see you.” I guess he’s over the topic of the lighthouse.
I’m not. “I want them to fix it, Grandpa.”
“And I want your grandmother to stop worrying over you so we can enjoy our retirement.” His eyes flick to his monitor, crinkled at the corners and full of teasing light. “We all want things.”
Here we go. “Grandma has nothing to worry about.” Technically, that is untrue. For years I’ve skillfully dodged my grandparents' efforts to entrap me in the life they want for me. I can practically see my mother rolling her eyes, and hear her warning me not to let them “take me”—as if their traditional lifestyle is cult. Grandma’s only wish is for me to get married and bear children, and my last date was—what year is this? I can’t remember the last time I went on a date. I’d have to leave the house to get that ball rolling. Grandma should be very worried. Shaking off the desire to bolt out of Grandpa’s study, I nod toward his computer and some heavy-handed deflection. “Is this you enjoying your retirement, by the way? Spreadsheets at ten p.m.?”
He chuckles at my ribbing. “Spreadsheets make the world go ‘round, my dear.”
“If I had a glass, I’d toast to that.” Our light laughter fades, and I sigh. I’ve missed this back-and-forth with my grandfather. If I were born forty years earlier, and a man, we would be the same person. And I haven’t seen the geriatric version of myself since the holidays, which he and my grandma spent in the city with me. If I had come home, I might’ve noticed sooner that the lighthouse needs attention. The muscles in my brow feel tight again. I doubt they’ll fully relax until that lighthouse is gutted, rebuilt, and has a fresh coat of paint.
My grandpa’s eyes are on me. “Let me see what I can do, Didi.” I haven’t been called that since I was a child. I must’ve touched a nerve, and I don’t want him to help with this project out of pity.
I shake my head. “I’ll solve this, Grandpa. I know there’s a way.” I stand, ready to collapse into my bed though my mind is whirling.
He gives me a knowing smile. “Solving problems with no clear solution is one of the joys of your life, isn’t it?” he asks as I take the handle of my luggage. He would know all about that—I inherited the trait from him.
Something about the question makes me think of Ike helping the guys angle the ladder through the lighthouse door. He can solve problems when he wants to. Without warning—or my permission—the memory of Ike carrying me through the water flashes through my mind. Heat crawls up my neck. I swear I can still feel his big hands on my thighs like he left warm imprints there. He's so barbaric. I shake off the feeling, running my hands down my legs.
