Page 49 of Enemies to Lobsters
There’s a tan line where his beard used to be. “Of course. It’s s-sexy.” It’s a travesty. But his handsome face is so earnest, he could have a handlebar mustache with Christmas ornaments dangling off either end, and I’d still want to snuggle with him.
He runs his hand over his jaw where the beard was, a mannerism that isn’t quite the same without the facial hair.
His self-consciousness makes my heart ache. I wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head on his solid chest. This way the mustache is out of my line of sight.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask into his T-shirt.
His hands make their way around my back, and I feel him shrug.
“Tom Selleck?” I ask softly.
He exhales, long and deep. “Maybe.”
I tighten my hold on his waist. I can’t believe he did this for me. It’s atrocious, but he did it because someone in this town told him I have a thing for Tom Selleck. I’m guessing the gossip pipeline went from Stevie to Marlow, to Marlow’s brother, to the rest of the county within an hour. Something like that. But it doesn’t change the fact that he did this forme. I burrow closer to his chest. “I like it.”
He makes a sound that’s a cross between a groan and a whine, and I know he hates the mustache.
I hide my smile. “You can grow the beard back, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I pop onto my tiptoes and kiss his bald cheek. “The sooner the better.”
∞∞∞
Weeks pass and Ike and I fall into a cute little 1950s sitcom-style rhythm. We set up boundaries quickly—a necessity for both of us since we’re married, living in the same house, and drawn to each other like a couple of high-powered magnets. We’re going slow. Not thinking too much. I kiss him goodbye when he leaves for work, and we eat dinner together in the evening. Ike’s cooking has saved me from a life of cold cereal. We have a weekly date night, and I join him and Boone for their sandwich nights.
I haven’t made any progress with that kid. He slapped me a few Saturdays ago. Ike was so frustrated he wanted to take a week off, but I wouldn’t let him. Instead, I spent the next sandwich night letting Marlow trim my hair while Stevie watched.
I spend half of my days managing Dynamic Dumper’s finances, and the other half managing the work on the lighthouse. It’s coming along quickly. The exterior is painted, and I had the flooring in the house redone—goodbye gold linoleum, hello beautiful hickory hardwood. We’re having some of the windows replaced before winter sets in. Things are right on track.
Fall came with a fluke early storm that brought chilly temperatures that never quite left. The other day I even spotted some bright red leaves on the highest branches of a maple tree across the water, and the nights have been downright cold in the drafty keeper’s house. Still, fall on the coast of Maine is a spectacle. Life has been good.
Best of all, Ike’s beard grew back in.
This morning I’m going to breakfast at Marlow’s Cafe during peak hours, and Ike is on the phone in my ear, psyching me up. I only venture onto the mainland alone when absolutely necessary—mostly to pop in at my grandparents’ so they don’t pop in at the lighthouse. Ike helps me get through these interactions with the local color. He’s out with August today, though. I’m so glad he's doing something for himself for once that I decided I can be brave. That didn’t stop him from calling me to check in, though. The man can’t take a day off from saving everyone.
“Okay, seriously.” His voice is low in my ear. “Look at their faces. Are they staring at you? Still? After all of these months?”
“That’s the point,” I whisper in a rush. “They don’t stare when I’m looking. I can feel their eyeballs on me when I look away.”
He chuckles. “You can?”
I don’t appreciate his skeptical tone. “I can. And they still hate me. I can see inside their weird little souls.”
He laughs again. “You’re never going to beat the witch allegations by talking like that.” I can hear his smile, and I know the face he’s making. He’s apologized dozens of times for the rumors. He vocally defends me when the occasion arises, but the people of this town are hard-headed. And weird. I stand by that.
Someone shoves past me from behind on the sidewalk outside of Marlow’s. “Move it, Hermione,” the teenage boy grunts as he lunges for the door. It’s Marlow’s brother, Brady. The town crier. Spreader of rumors. I don’t know how Marlow handles the little turd.
There’s a lump in my throat when I say, “I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” I press End without waiting for Ike’s response. I don’t want him to give Brady community service for almost making me cry.
I follow the kid inside the cafe, where Marlow has an orange phone propped between her ear and her shoulder, its long,curling cord tethering her to the wall. She glares at her brother and points at her watch silently. It takes a lot to make my friend frown like that—usually her sixteen-year-old brother showing up late for his shift, or an elbow to the nose.
“It’s Saturday,” he says with enough attitude that I’m amazed Marlow doesn’t vault over the counter fist-first to deal with him.
She disentangles herself from the orange cord and slams the receiver onto the hook. “Exactly. It’s our busiest day, and you were supposed to be here an hour ago.” She sees me behind her brother, and her eyes fill with relief. She turns serious eyes back on her brother. “You’re up, Brady. We talked about this. I’m taking a break, and you’re going to step up.” She unties her apron and passes it to her brother, who pulls it over his head with a major eye roll. Then she turns to me, “I saved us a booth in the back.”
Stevie is already back there, slouching behind a menu. She straightens, pulling her feet off the opposite bench when she spots us. “You made it. No one egged you, and you didn’t even have to bring your E.S.I.”
