Page 13 of Enemies to Lobsters
I did. I tighten my jaw to stop my smile. I didn’t think the story would gain so much traction. It was years ago. I was immature, but I had good reason. “You ran over my mailbox,” I accuse her. I know she did. My mailbox was smashed and her fancy black Mercedes happened to go into the shop the same day? Fishy. I take a bite of eggs, watching her.
There’s a proud twinkle in Diana’s eyes, but she doesn’t respond. She knows what she did. She looks to Stevie for rescue.
“Diana is an incredible woman, Ike,” Stevie says, tightening her red ponytail. “Now, listen. She just told me something very interesting—”
“No, Stevie.” Diana straightens. “No. Don’t drag him into this.” Her cheeks turn an almost flattering shade of pink.
“I’m not dragging him in. I’m throwing it out there. Brainstorming.” There’s a heavy measure of false innocence in her tone.
Diana groans. It’s the most unladylike sound I’ve ever heard her make.
“Charles and Patricia York have offered to fund the renovation of the lighthouse, with a few tiny conditions.”
Diana covers her eyes with her hand, rubbing her temples on either side.
Stevie has my full attention. I slide my plate onto the coffee table. I don’t care what the conditions are. Updating that lighthouse would change things for Cape Georgeana. Tourists might do more than just pass through. They’d spend money here. And side benefit: The nagging feeling of failure whenever I spot the lighthouse from the highway might finally abate. “Well? Out with it.”
Stevie bites her lip. She’s loving this. “They want Diana to get married and live in the lighthouse with her husband until the renovation is done. That’s all. For, like, millions of dollars.” Then she mutters, “Rich people are freaking crazy.”
Diana is still kneading her temples. “Not live in the lighthouse. Live in the keeper’s house, but maintain the lighthouse.”
That’s a simple enough solution. “Are you going to do it?” I ask.
Stevie’s eyes dance while Diana covers her face with her hands. “No.” The word is muffled behind her hands. She drags them away from her face, then says with resolve, “I’m not getting married.”
She’s nuts. I’d marry someone for a year in exchange for a few million dollars to spend how I want. “Why not?”
Little lines form between her arched eyebrows.
Stevie looks like she’s going to pummel me.
“What?” I ask. What am I missing? This seems like a no-brainer. It’s practically free money.
Stevie makes another face at me that I can’t interpret. She re-emphasizes the same expression silently. I’m not getting it.
“I don’t know anyone…” Diana’s barely audible voice trails off. Then she shoves Stevie away, mouthing something that looks like, “You are dead to me.”
Whoa. That isn’t at all what I expected her to say. Princess Diana—with that face, that body, and everything going for her—doesn’t know a single man who she could invite to live in a lighthouse with her for a year?
“You don’t have to look so shocked.” Diana frowns.
Stevie makes that unintelligible expression again while I consider who might be willing to agree to this. There has to be someone.
“We can ask August,” I suggest off the top of my head. “He’s single. He’d go for it.”
“Ooooh, yeah.” Stevie grins. “August is a hottie. That’d be fun.” She wags her eyebrows at Diana.
Then images pop into my head of my brother married to Diana: August coming home to her every night. Diana kissing his cheek. Him seeing what she wears to sleep and carrying her through the water when the tide is high.
Man, those dreams are messing with my head. I swear I can feel her in my arms. August is my brother, and I trust him. But no.
No.
My blood is pumping like I’ve been chopping wood.
“Not August,” I say with finality.
Stevie chuckles. “You’re the one who suggested him.” She leans back next to Diana. “What about Desmond Perry? He’s a nice guy. And cute.”
