Page 2 of Enemies to Lobsters
Then a boatload of screaming partiers skims close to the island, the thumping bassline of a Britney Spears song drifting faintly in the air behind them.
“You are ruining the vibe, sir,” I mutter at the driver. “I'm being dramatic here.”
I mouth the words of “Toxic” despite myself, determined to visit my lighthouse more often. Sitting at the top of the spiral staircase, I dig a taco out of the bag before the tide gets any higher. My phone buzzes on the weathered floor beside me, and my heart thumps with the feeling of being caught. But it’s just Stevie. How does she know I’m here? I swear she has me chipped.
I swipe it open mid-bite. “Heh-oh,” I answer around my mouthful of food.
“Are you in town?” There’s no greeting, only an accusation in my best friend’s question.
My half-eaten taco lands on its wrapper with a crinkly plop. “Are you serious?”
“Marlow’s brother said he saw a car that looks like yours in the Taco Bell drive-through.”
This town. “Yeah, I’m here.” I swallow my food that doesn’t taste so great anymore. “I was just on my way to see you.”
“Diana York.” She scoffs. “Shows up in town for the first time in years and doesn’t tell her lifelong friend Stevie Sullivan.” Some people are guilt trippers. Some have Catholic guilt. Then there’s Stevie. She’s perfected the hybrid Irish-Catholic guilt trip.
I can’t hide my smile. I’ve missed her. “I’m coming. I had an errand to run first.”
“The lighthouse?” There’s no accusation in my friend’s tone this time. She just happens to know me better than anyone.
“Yeah.”
“‘Kay well, you don’t have all night to be dramatic at the lighthouse. Get your butt over here.” She finishes her threat with a few choice words and an “I love you,” then hangs up in my ear.
I chuckle as I wad up my half-eaten food. I’ve done what I came up here to do, and it’s getting late.
When I stand, the rocky base of the island is barely visible in the quickly fading light. The tide is crashing too high against the rocks. Oh, no. I need to move—if I’m not too late already.
I work my way quickly down the curling staircase, counting backward. “Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…” The light is dim down there, out of the reach of the sun. “Twenty-one, twenty—”
A scraping noise makes me freeze on the eighteenth step. Then a snapping sound fills the tower, followed by a series of cracks. The stairs beneath me shudder, then break away, inches from where I’m standing paralyzed, mouth agape. A cracking sound speeds and intensifies, and I can only watch as the bottom of the staircase topples into a mangled pile of iron beneath me, sending up a cloud of dust.
Chapter 2
Diana
Stair number eighteen shudders under my feet, and I lose my balance. My left heel slides off my foot, landing with aclangon the useless staircase below. My Taco Bell bag falls after it. I screech, clinging to the loose rail and panting as I creep slowly backward, away from the void. With quivering limbs I crabwalk into the lantern room and drop on my behind. The remains of the shuddering, old staircase finally go still, content not to be bearing the weight of its bottom halforDiana York.
Then I say a word that would make my grandmother purse her lips and make Stevie laugh. I breathe deeply, listening to the tide come in as I consider my options.
I am trapped at the top of a lighthouse. It’s simple, really. I can live the rest of my life here, or I can call 9-1-1.
It rings once, and when the dispatcher answers I knead the bridge of my nose with my free hand. “Hello. Yes, I’m trapped at the top of Cape Georgeana Lighthouse because the stairs… are out.” That’s one way to describe it. “Can you send someone?” I ask, breathless from my narrow escape.
My request is met with howling laughter. “You’re at the top of the lighthouse,” the woman wheezes. “And the stairs are out.That’s good, Tina.” There’s more snickering, then aclickin my ear.
I look at my phone. I look out at the darkening sea. Look back at my phone. What just happened? I dial again.
“Tina.” The same woman answers. “You know, prank calling nine one one is a misdemeanor—”
“This is Diana York. I am trapped at the top of the Cape Georgeana Lighthouse. Get someone out here now.” I smash the little red button to end the call as humiliation floods through me.
I should’ve kept the dispatcher on the line, but I hate that I played the York family card. I can imagine the stories that will circulate after that call. Heat washes over my face at the thought. But the sky is only getting darker and my old lighthouse is making noises. I scoot back, closing my eyes and resting my head against the dusty brick wall while I wait for rescue.
It doesn't take long. Minutes later, a distant siren filters through the air, and I scramble cautiously to my feet to peer out the filmy window. The tide is almost over the tombolo now. Waves are crawling onto the tiny strip of land that connects the island to the shore. They’re just in time. The firetruck—the only one in town—parks as near to the rocky beach as possible, its lights drawing way too much attention.
“Did you really need the siren and the lights and the whole rigamarole, guys?” I mutter as I watch three men unload in the fading light. They peer up at the lighthouse, shaking their heads while they seem to discuss my predicament. One of the men immediately climbs back into the truck. The flashing lights go dark. Thank goodness. But then the other two follow him.
