Page 4 of Enemies to Lobsters
“Themiddle. The part that hovers over the center of thehuge, gaping void.” Her sarcasm isn’t surprising, but at least I can hear her moving. “Pfft. No, thank you.” Her voice shakes on her last word, and it’s obvious she’s terrified.
“Suit yourself, Princess,” I say with a grunt as I clear the remainder of the path. She can do what she wants. I just want to finish rescuing this kitten so I can get home to my leftovers and the show I’ve been binge watching. I have to work tomorrow, but the lure of the albondigas I made last night puts some pep in my step.
August and Desmond crash through the entrance. They attempt it, anyway, knocking the ladder against the wide door first, then the wall. I wince. This old lighthouse can’t take much more. It’s painful to see the effects of the years up close. The deterioration is worse than I thought it was, and I can’t stand it.
“Take it easy, guys.” I grab the end of the ladder, helping them find the right angle to get it through the door.
Diana hasn’t quite reached the edge of the stairs. I don’t blame her. The situation looks dangerous, but the center pole is still firmly anchored to the tower. It’s not going anywhere. If she stays near the center she’ll be safe—safer, anyway. But that would require her trusting me, something she’s never been inclined to do. I’m a townie, after all.
“You have to come closer, Diana,” I remind her. The tide is higher. It’s going to be up to our knees getting back to the parking lot as it is. “Unless you’re wearing a swimsuit under that dress, you need to hurry.”
Delete, delete, delete.
Man, I wish it were possible to delete words from the air.
Why did I have to mention Diana’s swimsuit? As she inches toward the ladder, I push back images I’ve fought for years. The memory of her in a red swimsuit, lying on a towel in StevieSullivan’s backyard, has been burned into my brain since I was a sophomore in high school.
Up to that point, no one in Cape Georgeana had ever seen Diana York wearing anything but her prim, proper, plaid school uniform—if they saw her at all. Then I came barging through the wooden gate with my push mower and got an eyeful. That red swimsuit short circuited my sixteen-year-old brain.
A frustrated groan echoes through the tower.
Oh shoot. That sound came from me.Apparently, the idea ofadultDiana in that red swimsuit is too much for me as well. I snap my mouth shut.
“I’m moving as fast as I can, Ike.”
Her voice trembles, but—wait, she said my name. Has she ever said my name? I shake off the irksome pleasure I feel at the sound of it as Desmond and August extend the ladder. We make wordless eye contact with each other. The guys jam their boots against the side rail of the ladder to secure it in place. I guess that means I’m going up there. “You’ll be okay, Diana.” I climb the first few rungs. “I’m coming up.”
Her quiet, shuddering sigh reminds me of why I volunteer for our local department. I like to help people—even snobby, entitled ones like Diana York. When I get to the top of the ladder, she’s still a few stairs out of reach. She’s frozen, her arms crossed in front of her blue dress. Oh, man. Time has been good to her. Of course it has.
My jaw tightens. “You need to come closer.”
She shakes her head, and I can hardly hear her when she says, “I-I can’t.”
“You’re scared of heights?” There’s surprise in my question.
It’s hard to imagine this woman being afraid of anything. The years-long rumor that she’s an actual practicing witch has made everyone wary of her. When she deigns to pass through town,mothers pull their children behind them like she’s Maleficent on her way to curse someone’s baby.
“My broomstick doesn’t reach this high, okay?” she claps back like she read my mind. Okay, she might be a witch. But she sounds so real. Vulnerable. After a pause her standard uptight tone returns. “I’m sorry. Yes, I suppose I am. Well, I'm not scared of heights, per se.” Her shaky foot tests the next stair before she puts weight on it. “I'm scared ofbrokenheights.”
That makes sense. I watch as she descends the last few stairs, lopsided with one high heel and one bare foot. “Where’s your shoe?”
She juts her chin. “It fell off when everything f—” Her perfectly painted red lower lip quivers for a millisecond. She presses her mouth into a line. “When everything fell apart. It’s down there.”
Yikes. “You were on the stairs when it happened?” She’s trying so hard to keep it together, but why? A huge, ancient staircase crumbled underneath her feet. She’s earned a freak out.
She nods, taking the last step. The waves are crashing closer now. We’re out of time. I reach for her. “Okay, turn around. I’ll guide you onto the top rung, then I’ll be right behind you the whole time.”
She purses her red lips. “I’m wearing a dress.”
“Okay?” We need to get going. Why are we talking about fashion? “Do you want to spend the night up here in that dress?”
She exhales and turns, dropping to her hands and knees and scooting back like she’s never used a ladder in her life. She probably hasn’t. Her family has people for that. She lowers a shaking foot toward the first rung. I take her ankle and guide her foot into place. I brace my knees against the side rail to secure myself while I help her take the first few steps down.
Sheiswearing a dress. And she’s positioned a few feet above me, facing away. This isn’t my first ladder rescue, but it’s my first rescue with Diana York’s perfectly proportioned backside at eye level. I don’t know where to look. I have a job to do, though, and she’s trembling so hard I can feel it through the metal of the ladder.
“You’re safe.” I position my arms around her, holding the side rail on either side of her firmly as we descend. “I’ve got you.”
Her breathing is erratic and every slow step is torturous. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t st-stare at my butt.”
