Page 29 of Enemies to Lobsters
I hate that I feel like this up here. I want to stand and stare out at the sea dramatically. Instead, I’m slumped against the wall dramatically. So in addition to having lost myjoie de vivre,I’ve gained a fear of heights. Fantastic. I scowl, shaking my head in frustration and pinching my eyes shut while the lighthouse sways.
Ike grunts as he moves to sit beside me, his back against the wall. He’s going to ruin his dress pants, but I don’t mention it because I need someone here, even if that someone is Ike Wentworth. I don’t mention that either. The room is still spinning, and it helps knowing he’s there to catch me if I fall—literally. I remember how it felt to have him lead me down the tall ladder that day—steady, reassuring, with a heavy dash of teasing. As much as Ike drives me insane—he leaves flecks of stubble in our shared sink, whistles constantly, and disappears every Saturday night without a word—I have to admit that he is reliable and strong. He’d help anyone, even the witch of Cape Georgeana. I feel safer with him beside me, dang it.
Then his warm hand wraps around mine, squeezing once. My eyes fly open, zeroing in on our hands. I don’t pull mine away.
Ike has nice hands. His skin is perpetually golden, likely from all of his working outside and do-goodery. A prominent vein runs from his knuckles to his wrist. Even his hands look strong and ready to help. Now my heart is thumping, but not because of the height. Ike Wentworth—my biggest hater—is holding my hand. I like it, and I hate that I like it.
Of course, he’s only trying to soothe the crazy lady he has to live with. There’s nothing going on here. He’s a good guy, doing what good guys do. But I’m not dropping his hand. I need it too much.
He clears his throat. “Did you hear about the time August and I borrowed Muffie Horowitz’s car?”
The question is so out of left field, it startles a snicker out of me. “No.” I can’t stand the lingering tremor in my voice.
Ike relaxes against the wall, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles. His hand tightens. “Yeah, it was the end of my third year of college, and we needed a way to Fenway because my car broke down. The Sox were playing the Orioles—the first home game of the season. I got these nosebleed tickets for next to nothing, and that season was a big deal. We all felt it.” So, he’s a passionate Red Sox fan. I add it to my dwindling mental catalog of his flaws.
“O-okay.” I’m distracted by the pads of Ike’s fingers dragging across the back of my hand. As a New Yorker I have my feet in another camp in terms of baseball, but I like the way Ike’s hand feels. I won’t tell him I’m a Yankees fan, and the Red Sox winning the World Series that season was a tragedy.
I don’t think he realizes he’s tracing lines with his fingers. He tips his head back against the wall, fully at ease while he tells his story. “We tried everything, but we figured we’d miss the game. So anyway, Muffie asked me to come over and reset her garbage disposal and do a few things around her house—hey, don’t roll your eyes.”
“I didn’t roll my eyes.” Maybe I did, but who would blame me? The man is unreal, helping an old lady with odd jobs instead of going to a baseball game. I wonder how he hides his halo. Maybe that’s why he’s growing out his hair?
I’m trying so hard to be annoyed by him, but I can’t. He isn’t bragging. This is a story about borrowing a car, and he just happens to help everyone around him. I suspect he’s trying to help me right now, distracting me from the fact that the room was spinning a minute ago. I figured he was faking it this whole time—a typical politician type—but I think he might actually be a good man. He’s still talking while I’m over here trying to make sense of this confusing new reality. I’m also trying to ignore whatever his fingers are doing on the back of my hand.
“So Muffie was asleep on the couch. Totally out for the night. We borrowed her keys from the hook by the back door, put them back before she ever woke up, and the Sox won. They had a great game—a great season, actually.” He shrugs like it’s simple math. “Now August and I take Muffie’s car to the opener every year for good luck.” He scratches his beard with his free hand, distracted and grinning at the memory before he tracks the skepticism on my face. “What?”
“You stole Muffie Horowitz’s car, and you think that’s why the Red Sox won?” I can’t stop smiling. “How do you explain the rest of that series?”
I happen to know that the Orioles trounced the Sox in the other two games. Tracking baseball has been an odd, secret hobby of mine for a while. I watch the games in my dark bedroom like a recovering food addict sneaking frozen burritos. I’m a big fan of baseball—the statistics and the pants, anyway.
Ike’s look of surprise is priceless. “First off, weborrowedher car. And if August and I had taken Muffie’s Buick to the rest of that series, theywould’vewon.” He kneads that spot in his shoulder with his free hand. “Why do you think the Curse ended? Aug and I were there in Muffie’s Buick. She and her late husband took us to the opener in 2003.” He is dead serious. There isn’t a hint of joking in his voice.
Now I’m cackling. “You’re telling me the Curse ended because you and your brother rode to a game in Muffie’s Buick?” I’m laughing so hard I can barely get the words out.
“Yeah.” He chuckles, tightening his hand. His eyes scan my face before they land on mine. The lantern room goes quiet except for the distant sound of crashing waves.
The lighthouse isn’t swaying anymore. How did he know how to do that? I wilt, and peace settles over me. “Thank you, Ike.” I’m surprised when the words come easily. I’m grateful to him for calming me down, even if he’s the reason I was freakingout to begin with. He didn’t know about my new fear of heights, though. He was just being a playful, fun-loving guy.
Isn’t that exactly what’s been missing from your life?A gruff voice taunts in my mind, sounding suspiciously like Tom Selleck.
I keep an eye on Ike while I argue with Tom Selleck in my head:I need more fun, but I don’t need a bearded egomaniac with a people-pleasing problem.
That isn’t very kind,Tom reminds me.
I sigh. Tom is right.I need to be nicer to my husband. Memoriesfrom the last few weeks flit through my mind and I realize that marriage to Ike hasn’t been terrible. He teases a lot, but he’s not malicious. In fact, I’m worried he might be a nice guy. So much of my animosity toward him is centered around the fact that he dislikes me, but does he? He made scrambled eggs for me a few mornings ago with a comment under his breath about how I need to eat more protein. At first it got my hackles up—I’m a grown woman who knows how to feed herself—but when I wasn’t ravenously hungry by ten o’clock I realized he might be right about the protein, and it was a thoughtful gesture.
I’ve been wrong about Ike, and I hate being wrong.
His low, cautious voice breaks into my thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”
Heat floods my face. How do I tell him I was arguing with Tom Selleck and having an ego-slapping epiphany about who he is as a person?
I don’t. Instead, I say, “Scrambled eggs,” without thinking. Now I’m blushing even harder, and I can feel Ike’s eyes on me.
He chuckles and drags his thumb across my knuckles so slowly it’s like he’s memorizing them. “Not what I expected you to say.”
“No?” I can’t explain myself.
“You looked so serious, I figured you were putting together a spreadsheet in your head.”
