Page 11 of Enemies to Lobsters
“Yes.” I nod. “It’s a strange thrill.” The words describe the feel of Ike’s hands a little too accurately, and I’m blushing again. Grandpa reads me too well for me to have these intrusivethoughts in his presence. I need to get up to my room where I can problem-solve—without thinking of Ike’s hands—in peace. “See you in the morning, Grandpa,” I dart out the door and away from his all-seeing eyes.
∞∞∞
The feeling of someone sitting on the comforter by my feet pulls me out of a dream. The weight on the end of my bed makes my heart thump as I blink my eyes open to the dimly lit room. I’m not in the city. I’m at my grandparent’s house. And my grandma is watching me sleep.
“Grandma,” I say with a gasp as I sit against my tufted headboard. “It’s early.” The glowing green numbers on the 1980s alarm clock on my nightstand say it’s 6:02.
“I spoke to your grandfather.” She sounds unusually chipper. “He made me promise I’d wait until six to come in here.”
When was that? Are they nocturnal now? I rub my hazy eyes. “Okay.”
“I understand you have a bee in your bonnet about renovating that old lighthouse you love,” she says with a suspicious, teasing tone. Something is up.
I mumble in the affirmative. This is a lot of words for this early on a Saturday.
“Get dressed and come down.” She squeezes my ankle through the blankets. “Your grandfather and I have a proposal for you.”
I’m awake now. Getting dressed and coming downstairs for a proposal sounds like a business meeting. And when Charles and Patricia York have a business meeting, there is money involved. A lot of it.
I never ask my grandparents for money—it’s enough that they raised me. They put me through college. They’ve done plenty. But my burned-out heart is grappling for hope. I wouldn’t tell them no if they offered to fund this project.
“I’ll be right down.”
Not long later, I pad into my grandpa’s wood-paneled office dressed in casual coastal attire—a flowing white sundress paired with a pale blue cardigan that my grandma will approve of. My dark hair is in loose curls, bouncing around my shoulders. I look like a compliant granddaughter. I’m dressed for the job I should want, not the job I have. My grandparents are sitting in leather chairs across from one another, sharing a newspaper.
“There she is.” Grandpa folds his paper, laying it across his starched khakis. “Have a seat, have a seat.”
Grandma straightens, wiggling her shoulders and rubbing her hands together.
Warning sirens are blaring in the back of my mind, but I ignore them as I take the third seat, smoothing my dress over my legs.
My grandpa looks at my grandma like he expects her to start. She widens her eyes, nodding him along. His cheeks flush—something I’ve never seen—and he runs his thumbs under his suspenders.
“Okay.” He claps his hands together. “First off, we’re glad to have you home, Diana.”
“Glad to be h—”
“Second, we have a proposal for you.” Grandpa props his elbows on his knees, threading his crinkly fingers together. He's in business mode. Not wasting any time. “We are willing to fund the full renovation of the lighthouse,but.” He looks at Grandma. “You’re sure about this?” he murmurs only for her. She nods and he turns back to me. “We have conditions.”
My heart is jackhammering. I don’t care what the conditions are. If it means saving the lighthouse, I’ll do it. I have visions of spearheading the renovation project, and every part of me fills with life—an unfamiliar feeling after years in my current line of work. I need this. Maybe this will put thejoieback in myvivre.
“Okay.” My quivering response is overeager. I don’t care. “What are the conditions?”
My grandpa won’t make eye contact. “We want you to get married.”
My pounding heart stutters, and my stomach twists into a knot. I feel sick. He could’ve said anything else and I would have done it. “Grandpa—”
“And we want you and your husband to keep the lighthouse for one year, or as long as it takes to complete renovations.” He clears his throat. “You would need to live there,” he tacks on, almost as if he’s ashamed to say it.
Grandma looks pleased with herself. Her salt-and-pepper bouffant is extra inflated today.
The final caveat startles a laugh out of my throat. My dry eyes ache and burn. How dare they dangle this money in front of me like an impossible carrot?
“You want me to… get married and live in the lighthouse for a year.” I’m not bothering to hide my sarcasm. “Wow. Is that all?” Should I give up my full identity while I’m at it? Would they like my birth certificate and Social Security card? I release a long, disappointed breath.
Grandma is still smiling, either oblivious to my mood or willing to steamroll over it. If my mother were here, she’d have plenty to say about this proposal. It’s asinine and archaic. I wonder how many times my grandparents offered money in exchange for conformity before my mom decided she’d had enough and stopped coming back for more. Now there’s a fresh ache on top of my disappointment. And Grandma is stillgrinning. “Yes. That’s all,” she says like she’s not asking the impossible.
“Does it matter who I marry?” I arch an eyebrow at my grandpa, who is fidgeting in his chair. “I bet I could talk Jimmy from the bait shop into it.” Bait Shop Jimmy has a tattoo of a naked lady on his leg and hangs around the parking lot, vaping and hitting on teenagers. He doesn’t have an investment portfolio, family connections, or even all of his teeth. I’m not usually so sharp-tongued with my grandparents, but I’m hurt. Disappointed. And I’m not getting married—to Bait Shop Jimmy or any of the grandsons of Grandpa’s golf buddies.
