Page 19 of Enemies to Lobsters
This time I rear back and kick so hard that when the door gives way I crash through it into the narrow breezeway.
There’s a pair of gasps and a feminine voice shouts, “Ike!” Diana and Stevie crowd the doorway from the breezeway into the house, their mouths gaping open.
Their matching horrified expressions make me bite back a grin. “Honey, I’m home.”
Diana frowns. “What happened?”
August walks in behind me with his box, his eyes watery from laughter. “That’s how he opens doors. It’s his thing.”
I shove August’s shoulder. “The lock was jammed.” I go back for my boxes. By the time I come back inside August is finished shaking Diana’s hand.
She dips her head, and her dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. “We’ve met before.” She’s blushing. Why is she blushing?
August puffs his chest. “Oh, sorry.”
Stevie comes after me while I’m distracted. She slugs my shoulder. “You know, you could’ve knocked.” She flashes her trademark grin. “You scared us to death with that banging.”
“I didn’t think anyone was in here.” I shrug, making my way inside and taking in the combined kitchen and living area. We’re working with two stories, a thousand square feet, and lots ofbrown and gold linoleum, all permeated with the smell of salt and must.
This place is the reason the lighthouse was rejected for the National Register of Historic Places. The remodel done in the late 1970s is something out of a horror movie, complete with flickering lights. Where there isn’t wood paneling there’s avocado green paint to match the green appliances. A set of rickety wooden stairs leads to the second floor, which holds a bedroom and bathroom. Only one of each. The old keeper and his wife did it all, and none of it up to any sort of code or with any planning. There’s a short door at the back of the kitchen that leads directly to the attached lighthouse tower. I remember it from the walk-through we did when I was trying to get it nominated for the National Register. I had to duck to pass through it. The only things saving this place are the big, uncovered windows and the view of the Atlantic ocean. There's plenty of natural light to see the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
There's a pair of nice, big couches in this mess, I notice with a frown. The tags are still hanging off the arms. I scowl at them.
“Oh, my grandparents had furniture delivered this afternoon.” Diana won’t make eye contact. And she’s still wearing that pristine white dress. I wonder if she’s lifted a finger today. “I hope that’s okay.”
I nod. Of course it’s okay. I won’t have to hike back to my truck for my air mattress. And why wouldn’t it be okay?
“Can I give yourhusbandthe grand tour?” Stevie asks. I guess August and I aren’t the only ones using air quotes.
Diana presses the back of her hand against her forehead. “S-sure. I’ll finish unpacking here.” Her eyes flit to her grocery bags on the counter, then to August.
I give my brother a look that says “don’t be a crap head” then follow Stevie up the narrow, creaking stairs to the second story. The stairs land directly in the bedroom, with a door to thebathroom on the opposite wall. The room is sparsely furnished with a singular queen-sized bed, already made up with stuff that looks like it came from a cheesy, coastal-themed Airbnb.
“Yeah.” Stevie snickers. “You should’ve heard Diana on the phone with her grandparents about the one bed situation. You almost had an annulment on your hands.”
“I’m taking the couch.” Obviously. No way am I crawling into Charles and Patty York’s grandbaby maker. I shudder.
“Hey,” Stevie whispers.
“Yeah?” I ask, distracted and taking in Diana’s bedroom with my hands on my hips. There are tiny starfish embroidered on the white bedspread.
“Go easy on her,” Stevie says in a quiet rush.
My eyes dart to my friend. “Yeah, okay,” I say to appease her. She should be saying that to the person downstairs who got us into this. I’m grinning, and I’m sure Stevie is reading it wrong, but I can’t stop. The thought of Diana needing protection from me is amusing. Stevie loves her friend so much that she’s blind to her flaws.
“I’m serious.” She lowers her voice. “You don’t know her. I do. She’s more fragile than you think, and if you hurt her, I will annihilate you,” she hisses with a severe stare. Somehow her red hair looks more red when she’s making threats.
“I already got this from her grandpa.” I chuckle. “I promise to treat her with respect. Have you ever known me to treat a woman another way?”
Stevie squints, thinking. “I haven’t.” Then she bites her lip like she’s choosing her words cautiously. “Except Diana.”
This isn’t our usual territory. We don’t talk about her friend. Stevie usually sees Diana on her turf—in the city, far away from me. We're in uncharted territory now.
“You have nothing to worry about. I’ll sleep on the couch and keep my distance.” I sit on the edge of the bed and regret itimmediately. This thing is top-of-the-line, and it’s Diana’s bed. I don’t belong here. But this has been a long day. “All we both want is for this lighthouse to be taken care of. One year. That’s it. I can be respectful for one year.”
Stevie eyes me, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. She looks skeptical.
“Your lack of faith in me is insulting.”
