Page 23 of Enemies to Lobsters
Tina Murphy raises her hand from a booth against the back wall. If this town was a beehive, Tina would be the queen bee in charge of troublemaking and gossip. I’ve heard she has a social media page dedicated to town gossip and the pranks she pulls. She was the same in high school. And is she really waiting for me to call on her like this is an actual press conference?
“Tina?” I gesture to her from behind my nonexistent podium.
I swear she holds up an invisible microphone. “Why wouldn’t the Yorks just fund the lighthouse to begin with? Why did they make you marry Elphaba?” A few people snicker at the nickname that I don’t understand. I’ll have to ask Stevie about that one later.
But Diana’s worried eyes when she said “I do” and the way her voice shook when she requested physical boundaries flashes through my mind. She might not be the over-confident ballbuster I thought she was. I don’t know what she is, but she’s doing this for the lighthouse, and the Yorks are doing it for her. However crazy their method, the outcome is philanthropic—and absolutely not their responsibility. I feel the inexplicable urge to defend my weird new in-laws and my new wife. “They didn’t need to fund the renovation at all. Marrying Diana is a small price to pay to make this happen for the town.” That came out wrong, but I only realize it when a few people titter. “I was happy to do it. Diana is a good person.”
Silverware clatters against a plate. Mouths are hanging open.
My shoulder is already aching from my night on the couch, despite how comfortable it was. The irritation I’m feeling makes the knots harden. I rub at them while I explain myself. “Listen, I know I’ve said things about her in the past—”
“Like a hot second ago at the town meeting,” Tina butts in.
She’s right. Why am I suddenly jumping to Diana’s defense? She doesn’t need me to vouch for her. Except it seems like she does. The people in this diner are salivating over this gossip, and Diana has to live in this town for a year. It was one thing when we were in high school, and Diana only came home from her hoity-toity boarding school on the weekends to look down her nose at us. But things are different now.
“I can’t change what I’ve said about her in the past, but I won’t put up with anyone talking crap about her or putting her down.” I turn a stern eye on the room. “Diana and I are married now. Got it?”
Muffie Horowitz chooses that moment to push through the glass door, anger etched in her wrinkled face. “Youmarried her?” She looks genuinely miffed. “I didn’t know you were desperate. I would’ve married you, Mr. Everything.”
I cringe. I hate that nickname. I don’t know who started it, but I haven’t been able to outrun it. And Muffie is not joking.
“But would you have paid to renovate the lighthouse?” Hal asks around a bite of omelet. “The Yorks are funding it in exchange for Ike prostituting himself—”
“That’s enough,” I bark. I’m not going to explain the intimate terms of my marriage with the room, but I’m not about to let Hal go on like that.
Muffie’s mouth hangs open. “That’s what you’re getting out of the deal?” She tugs at the waistband of her pants. “Who do I have to marry to get those power lines cinched up a few feet?”
I growl at the annoying reminder that I should be in my office right now, not explaining my decisions to a bunch of lookie-loos. “I’m on it, Muffie.” Then I announce to the room, “And if anyone has any questions concerningthe town, you know my office hours.” Before I shove through the door I add, “Just remember I’m doing this forthe town.” The door swings closed behind me and I grumble, “You’re welcome.”
∞∞∞
After a long day of putting out fires—literally and figuratively—I trek across the beach to the island. I’m barely beating the tide. Desmond and I had to deal with an oil fire at Tina Murphy’s place this afternoon. The people of Cape Georgeana have too much karma coming their way to have only one full-time firefighter in town. We can’t afford another one, though.
I walk into my new home to find Diana slumped at the table, her face buried in her hands. An untouched sandwich and pile of baby carrots is waiting pathetically on the plate in front of her. I guess she didn’t hear me come in.
Is she crying? Her shoulders are shaking. I’d sneak away to my bedroom to give her privacy, but the table is in my bedroom. It looks like someone folded my blanket and laid it over the back of the couch. I was in such a rush to miss her this morning that I guess I forgot to do that.
“Diana?” I ask cautiously. She needs to know I’m here, but I don’t want to startle her.
She gasps, rearing back. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Her eyes are dry, and her lips are the ever-present perfect shade of red.
“I guess not.” I can’t help but smile, especially now that I know she wasn’t in this empty house sobbing over the fact that she’s married to me. “What’s for dinner?” I peek at her plate, but the wheat bread gives nothing away. It’s probably layered with caviar and one hundred dollar bills. Or I’m over-tired, extra hungry, and my patience is tapped after working on Muffie’s tight underpants crisis all day.
Her cheeks turn pink. “I made a fluffernutter,” she says, clearly embarrassed. “There’s plenty of stuff if you want one.”
What alternate reality have I slipped into? Diana York is sitting there in a pair of blue jeans and a loose-fitting white t-shirt eating a fluffernutter. And I don’t hate it. Stevie must’ve talked to her about relaxing.
Watching her take a bite of that sandwich is like watching Kate Middleton pull up to the Taco Bell drive through and order a chalupa. But Diana’s still watching me, waiting for an answer. Do I want a peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwich? I love to cook. I experiment with new recipes, and I especially love to grill. I’d even go for a chalupa. I love those nasty things. But today was exhausting. I’m not going anywhere. Tonight is a fluffernutter night.
“I’d love one.” I wander to the kitchen where the ingredients are sitting on the green counter. I take one of Diana’s plates out of the cupboard and assemble my sandwich quietly while she nibbles at her food, staring into space. The silence is brutal. “Are you ready to talk renovations?”
Her blue eyes brighten at the question. “Whenever you are. I have everything lined out on my laptop.”
“Let's see what you’ve got.” I take a big bite of my sandwich and drop into the chair beside hers. Diana has a candle burning in the center of the table that smells like peaches, despite the fact that we’re sitting in a dump. It’s a nice try.
She’s blushing again, this time running her fingers through her dark waves. Did I say something wrong? She’s so uncomfortable around me, but I’ve been treating her the way I treat everyone else, per Stevie’s request. Diana jumps from the table while I work on my fluffernutter. “These things are underrated,” I announce to the room after a particularly satisfying bite.
She slides back into her chair and positions her laptop between us. “Aren’t they?” she asks breathlessly. “I haven’t had one in so long. I had forgotten how good they are.”
