Page 12 of Enemies to Lobsters
Grandpa frowns. He’s actually going along with this. “Of course, we’d want you to marry someone who you respect and will treat you well. It wouldn’t hurt if he had an interest in restoring the lighthouse. Perhaps a local. This isn’t—”
“I’ll think about this and get back to you.” The well-mannered granddaughter in me finally makes a reappearance. I can’t listen to this anymore. I need to think, and I can’t do that here. I stand, the desire to run outweighing my desire for anything else—even saving the lighthouse. I want to tack on a snappish “But don’t bet on it.” Instead, I grab my purse, let the door to the garage slam behind me, and point my car toward Stevie’s house without another word.
Chapter 7
Ike
Ipark my truck in Stevie’s driveway, slamming the door behind me. She never returned my leaf blower last week, and tracking down my tools when I have work to do makes me uncharacteristically stabby. I have two yards to deal with—mine and my parents’—and I’m burning daylight. If Stevie wasn’t such a good friend she’d be banned forever from borrowing my stuff. Maybe I’ll start taking care of her yard. It would save both of us a lot of hassle. These grumbling thoughts accompany me to her front door. I knock, straightening my ball cap while I wait. Women’s laughter filters from inside.
The door swings open. “Oh, hey!” Stevie’s eyes dart to the side deviously as her breathless laughter fades.
I understand why when I see Diana seated on the couch behind her, her hands folded over her stomach. Her bare feet are crossed on the coffee table. She’s smiling. I didn’t know she was capable of relaxation. It’s a good look on her. I’m glad the reception she got at our town meeting hasn’t dampened her spirits. That was brutal. I’m not used to feeling sorry for Diana York, but here we are.
I straighten my hat again. “Hey, do you have my leaf blower?” Why am I asking? We both know she does. I got a text from her twenty minutes ago reminding me to come grab it.
Stevie grins and I know I’m in danger. That’s the smile she wears when she’s about to ask me to clear the leaves from her rain gutters or fix a plumbing issue. But she doesn’t say anything.
“What?” I prod her along, but it’s hard not to smile back. Stevie is always up to something and so full of crap. She’s like the little sister I never had.
“Why don’t you come in for a minute?” She swings the door wide. “Your timing is perfect. Diana and I are having breakfast. I’ll make you a plate.”
I don’t know what possesses me, but I step inside. There are a few dishes on the coffee table with the remains of scrambled eggs. Stevie heads to the kitchen, and I feel Diana’s icy blue eyes following me. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I try my hips, then my pockets, before finally crossing my arms over my chest. There. Now my hands are in jail.
Diana smooths her palms over her knees, drawing my eye. I stare at the popcorn ceiling. She’s dressed for a day of laughing on a yacht with all the other rich people. I’m wearing a threadbare Red Sox t-shirt and jeans, like I’m about to do her landscaping. We’re a study in opposites. That white dress does nothing to hide her legs—not that I’m paying attention. This popcorn ceiling is riveting.
Diana sighs delicately.
I clear my throat. “Sorry about the—”
“Why don’t you sit—”
We talk over each other.
“Go ahead,” she says with a deceptively sweet smile. “But please sit. You’re making me nervous.”
Ha. Doubtful. But I do as she asks, lowering myself onto the yellow loveseat. “I’m sorry about last night.” I frown. I really am. No one wants that lighthouse restored more than I do, and she didn’t deserve the Angry Villagers treatment. I clear my throat again.
She blinks, pressing her red lips into a tight line. “Thank you.”
What’s taking Stevie so long?
“I never thanked you for saving me the other night.” Now she looks uncomfortable. She drags her hands over her white dress.
I wish I could purge the memory of her rescue from my mind. Last night marks two nights in a row where I dreamed of carrying Diana through the water. In my dreams she smiles at me. She feels all too real in my arms. Then I wake up, and the real Diana is looking at me like I need to clear the plates.
“It’s my job,” I say with a shrug.
The clock on Stevie’s mantel ticks.
“Oh, my gosh.Torture.” Stevie comes in from the kitchen with a plate of eggs. She shoves it at me. “Listening to you two try to act civil is actual torture.” She plops onto the couch beside Diana. “Okay, listen up because I’m not gonna repeat myself. Diana, Ike is a good guy and my friend. He’s not” — she imitates Diana’s silky, measured tone — “a demon put on this earth for the sole purpose of terrorizing you.”
Say what now?
Stevie isn’t done. “Give him a chance. And Ike.” She shakes her head at me. “Ike, Ike, Ike.” Shetsks. “You know better than to make assumptions about people based on gossip. You also know better than tospreadgossip.”
That’s not what I do. “I don’t—”
“I did not invent paper straws.” Diana arches an eyebrow. “I know you started that one.”
