Page 5 of Enemies to Lobsters
I chuckle. So, she hasn’t changed. It’s the same old routine. “I wish I had a choice, but I’m working here, Princess. Unless you want to finish this by yourself? I could slide down this thing in two seconds. Let you come down on your own.”
Snickering comes from beneath us, and I shoot a glare at Desmond and August, who are elbowing each other.
Diana stiffens. “You wouldn’t.”
She’s right. I wouldn’t. I don’t know why provoking her brings me so much joy. Instead of responding, I focus on our descent. Nothing I say will make her trust me, so I move quietly down the ladderwithoutstaring at Diana York’s impeccable bottom.
She’s still shaking, even as we reach the ground. She steps away from the ladder, her eyes wide. Then she blinks over and over, rubbing her sternum. She turns slowly, surveying the rubble. “How did it get so bad?”
She’s not speaking to anyone, but I answer anyway while the guys collapse the ladder. “There’s no money to repair it. Even if we could fund it, the lighthouse doesn’t have a practical use. We need every extra penny to repair frost heaves.” Enough townspeople have lodged complaints about the crumbling lighthouse that I’ve tried to make it happen. The money isn’tthere. Taxpayers complain about it, but they don’t want to pay for it.
Desmond and August chuckle, backing me up. We had a particularly rough winter and the roads were crazy. Desmond even made a rare appearance at a town meeting to gripe about it. I got to use my gavel on him. That was fun.
Diana exhales and it sounds like a lecture. “This lighthouse is… a piece of history. You’re going to let it fall into the sea over a simple funding issue?” She says this as she digs around in the tangle of iron.
“We don’t have time to look for a shoe,” I warn her. Desmond and August are already moving through the door with the ladder. I’m not excited about wading back to the truck in my turnout trousers. “It’s not asimplefunding issue. This may be hard to understand if you’ve never had to think about money, but without it, it’s impossible to pay for things like a multi-million dollar historical renovation. Now, let’s move before we have to swim to the parking lot.” I’m already leaving.
She growls, and I stifle a laugh when she stomps asymmetrically past me. “You’ve been the mayor—”
“Town manager,” I correct her as we reach the edge of the shore. The rocky path to the parking area isn’t visible under the water.
“Same difference. You’ve been the town manager for how long now? Years. Basically since you graduated from whatever state college you went to. And you still haven’t solved this?” Frowning at the water, she stumbles forward a few steps, but it’s slow going on the rocks.
She’s really twisting that knife. No one wants to repair this lighthouse more than I do. And why does she know so much about my life? As I recall, she got her overpriced degree, moved to the big city, and never looked back.
Diana takes a few more careful steps into the water, sucking in a sharp breath. The Atlantic ocean doesn’t care that it’s July. It’s icy year round. But at this rate, she’ll be in it up to her neck before she reaches the other side. And so will I.
“Okay, this isn’t working.” In a swift motion, I sweep my arm behind her knees, lifting her into my arms.
She gasps. “Ike!” She swats at my chest. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting us back to the parking lot before tomorrow.” I’m also ignoring the way she molds perfectly against me, so soft and warm. She’s not fighting this. She’s just being smart, like always. If August or Desmond offered to carry me, I’d take them up on it. This water is frigid. I tamp down all thoughts of Diana’s unexpected pliability. “And my leftovers are calling me. I want to go home.”
And if I’m honest with myself, I can’t watch a person struggle like this without helping, even a prickly one like Diana York.
Chapter 4
Diana
There’s embarrassing, as in “I pushed on a ‘Pull’ door in front of a crowd.” And there’s embarrassing, as in “the only man in Cape Georgeana who makes my blood boil just rescued me like a cat in a tree.” I know for a fact that he clocked me shaking with fear back in the lighthouse.
When we reach the shore, Ike lowers me unceremoniously onto the beach like he can’t wait to be unburdened of my load. I remove my single heel, and attempt a few aching steps toward my car. The rocks are like knives against my cold, bare feet. It’s slow going.
I feel Ike’s eyes on my back. Why is he walking behind me? The other guys beat us to the shore by a longshot and are watching the show from the truck. I recognized Ike’s brother, August, right away—he always seemed like the nice one of the family—but the blond guy must be new to town. This is his first and only experience with me. That tracks.
I’ve never made the best impression on the people of Cape Georgeana. I’ve heard the whispers. Stevie and I have laughed at the far-fetched stories they’ve invented about the reclusive woman whose family’s beachfront estate is older than the town itself. That’s what I get for snubbing public school, I suppose—not that I was ever given the option. The York family lives a certain way, and for female progeny the way is: Nannies, boarding school, Ivy league, marriage, child bearing, repeat.
My mother is the only person I know who has broken the cycle. She rejected the Ivy league and marriage steps, jumped straight to child bearing, and left me in the capable hands of her parents when I was a few years old. They hired a nanny without skipping a beat. She took care of me on the weekends and summers when I came home from boarding school. And here we are.
I stalled after the Ivy league portion of the cycle. I have a decent job in New York City, but Charles and Patricia York are verklempt about my inability to get married.
Am I bucking tradition like my mother? Not consciously—maybe fifty-percent consciously. Half of me is an obedient granddaughter—I love my grandparents and want to make them happy—and half of me wants nothing to do with getting married and becoming a baby factory.
Or do I? I like kids. I love the idea of having a few babies, but not because my grandparents are breathing down my neck to do it. The internal conflict is agonizing. Inside every woman there are two wolves: One who wants to make babies and homemade sourdough, and one who wants to do brain surgery—or in my case, a mid-level accounting job.
“This is like torture.” Ike’s gravelly voice repeats my thoughts as I pick my way across the rocks, contemplating my life.
And just like what happened in the water, he scoops me up with those surprisingly strong arms of his. He tries to, anyway. This time I’m prepared. I wriggle out of his hold before he gets me off the ground. Smoothing my skirt, I try to put some distance between us.
