Page 51 of Enemies to Lobsters
She shrugs. “Stevie’s right. You’re dangerously close to moving into real marriage territory. And we’re coming to watch the game with you tonight.”
Brady chooses that moment to sidle up to the table. “What can I get you fine young ladies?” he asks in a tone so sarcastic I can tell his sister is moments away from smacking the notepad out of his hand.
Marlow sighs heavily. “Try that again.”
“Bruhhhh.” Brady groans, then pastes on a fake smile and readies his notepad and pen. “Welcome to Marlow’s Diner. What can I get you?”
“There ya go.” Marlow smiles. Then she grins at me, a little too big. “Diana’s going to need a fat stack of pumpkin pancakes. Her Yankees are going down tonight.”
Chapter 24
Diana
Ike is going to love what I have planned. I hope. I’d hate to think that I’m schlepping two brown paper bags full of living, writhing lobsters over to our island for nothing.
After breakfast with my friends, I ran to the market to pick up chips and cheese for our baseball nachos and spotted these guys in their tank. A lightning bolt from the party planning gods struck, and I’ve been giggling about my ideas all day.
I’ve taken multiple trips across the tombolo with loads of groceries. First, some Maryland blue crab for myself, plus crudites and drinks. Then I picked up the lobsters on my last trip. I’ll let the Boston fans have the red steamed lobster and serve blue crab for the singular Yankees fan. May the best crustacean win. All that’s left to do is Google how to steam shellfish, melt some butter, and put out the veggie trays. Simple enough, right?
I need to get these lobsters on ice, but our fridge is jam packed. Luckily, I spotted a small cooler tucked behind the boat shack that I can throw them into. These suckers are heavy after a long walk across the rocks, and the way this bag moves is unsettling. I make my way across the grass and dump the bags in the breezeway, turning back to grab the cooler. The game startsat 7:05, and it’s going to be dark soon. Ike will be home any minute. I need to hustle.
I never go out to the boat shack—it’s Ike’s territory. But I’m positive he’s going to love this. He won’t mind if I borrow his little red ice chest for the evening. I grab the handles on either side, trying to hurry. Are Igloos usually this heavy? I’ve never carried one before. And what is that sloshing? Rainwater must’ve gotten inside or something. There’s no time to worry about it. I’ll rinse it out, just to be safe.
Changing course, I head for the hose on the side of the house, shivering in the nippy breeze. I drop the cooler underneath the spigot. Flip open the lid. Then it takes me a minute to process the soupy, slimy contents.
The smell is immediate, though. That is death. It’s the stench of death. I’ve read about it, and now the rotten odor assaults my nostrils like I opened a weeks-old casket.
The inside of the cooler is a murky brown crime scene, with shells—are those lobster shells?!—floating in a mystery liquid.
“Oh.” I gag, pressing my hand over my mouth with one hand and slamming the lid closed with the other. “Argh!” I scream. “What was that?!”
That has to be a corpse, right? Or pieces of one. I retch, then let out another guttural yell like that will clear the odor out of my nose. I was only trying to do something nice, and I found out that my husband might be a serial killer. It’s always the last people you suspect. The quiet ones. Nice to everyone.
“Argh! IIIIIIke!” I groan his name. If there was ever a time to sing opera in the lighthouse, this is it. The contents of the cooler flash through my mind, and I’m gagging again.
“Diana?” Ike bolts around the corner of the house, then skids to a stop when he sees me hunched over the cooler, dry heaving. “Oh, crap.You opened it?” he asks, like I’m the guilty party here.
I can’t even appreciate him in the flannel shirt he wore fishing. He’s a murderer. It doesn't matter how the plaid fabric tightens across his shoulders or how his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. (Okay, maybe I can appreciate him in the flannel shirt.) The man better have a good alibi.
I straighten, marching up to him. “Who did you kill, Ike Wentworth? Is it Muffie? Is an old lady in that cooler?”
He plants his fists on his hips. “Lobsters. Six of them. From our first date.” At least he has the decency to look sheepish. “I was going to make them for us, and… well…”
I do the math on my fingers, mumbling as I count the Fridays since our first date. “One, two, thr—whatever. That was likeseven months ago.”
“It wasn’tthatlong ago, Di.”
“What I just saw was at least seven months decomposed.” I press my hand over my mouth again at the memory.
“I’m sorry you found it. I meant to deal with it, but things have been so busy. Then I forgot about it, and…” He winces. “I’ll handle it.”
“Good, because we have people coming over. I have to figure out where I’m going to put the fresh lobsters,andGoogle how to steam them,andchop the vegetables…” I trail off as I march around the corner, leaving Ike with his cooler full of sins and sounding every inch the angry housewife.
Your marriage is anything but fake.Stevie’s words from the diner echo in my head.
My mother’s disapproving face flashes in my mind, fuzzy around the edges and fading with age.
I haven’t lost myself. I’m standing my ground.
