Page 63 of Enemies to Lobsters
Desmond drops the lobster on the counter, and I pinch her between my fingers, moving toward the door. How is she so slimy and yet sandpapery?
“Where are you going?” Ike calls from the kitchen.
“I’m putting her back.” I pause by the door, attempting to step into my ankle boots with a wriggling lobster in hand—no simple task.
Stevie is breathless with laughter. “The market is closed, Di.”
I shake my head. “She’s not going back in a tank.” What is my plan? Am I stomping down to the shore with this lobster? I guess so.
“Oh, right. Someone else might buy her and put her in a bisque.” Thanks, Stevie.
“And they won’t know how to hypnotize her,” Desmond supplies, unhelpfully.
“Don’t listen to them,” I whisper to the crustacean. Geez. I really can’t get into these boots.
Suddenly Ike is behind me. “I have an idea.” He puts one hand on my shoulder and reaches for her with the other. “Let me put her back in the fridge. I’ll take care of her.”
I step back, holding her out of reach.Pffft. Like I’m going to let him take the lobster. “Like you did last time? Don’t think I’ve forgotten yourlittle red murder Igloo,” I hiss under my breath so the lobster doesn’t hear. “I don’t think so.”
“Trust me, Di.” His thumb traces calming lines on my shoulder, not unlike the way Desmond hypnotized this lobster. “I used to have fish. My parents still have my 265 gallon tank in their garage. I’ll YouTube it. Get all the stuff.” I love the way his voice turns gravelly when he murmurs. I’m falling under his spell much too easily. “She’ll be happy living in a lighthouse, don’t you think?” His dark brown eyes are overkill is what I think.
I nod to the side, conceding. I can attest that even when a woman has been bamboozled, living in a lighthouse with Ike Wentworth isn’t a bad deal.
“Fine.” I pass the slimy shellfish to him. “But I get to name her.”
He chuckles. “Okay, crazy.”
∞∞∞
The next afternoon, I’m curled up on the couch under Ike’s blanket, working on my laptop while Tom Shelleck explores his new tank. The sounds of the bubbling filter and his little claws digging in the sand are comforting. And I’m sure Tom Shelleck is comforted to know I no longer think he’s female.
Ike figured that out. He spent the evening on YouTube, then half the day tracking down supplies and hauling them to the island while I met with the window guy. Now, my lobster is trying to move rocks around his tank on weak, spindly legs. Ike says he needs to get his strength back. I said Tom needs a wife. That’s where Ike drew the line.
Thanks to my lobster rehoming project, Ike will be working late tonight. He’s also on call at the fire station, so I won’t see his face until morning. It’s only me and my spreadsheets again. Just like old times.
Except I can’t focus. I’m not getting anything done. My gaze keeps drifting to the lobster tank, or I catch Ike’s cologne on the sweater I borrowed, or I stop to listen to the sound of the seagulls screeching outside. This isn’t working.
I stomp over to my purse and dig out my earbuds. Stuffing them into my ears, I scroll on my phone until I find something to shut out the world so I can lock in. I turn on a random playlist of thunderstorm sounds and crank it up. Leaving my phone on the table across the room, I face away from the front door so I’ll stop checking for signs of Ike. Then I get my butt to work. For real this time.
I don’t know how much time passes before a hand touches my shoulder and I screech, spinning around.
Jumping to my feet, I yank out my earbuds. “Grandma,” I say through a gasp. “What are you doing here?” And why do I sound guilty? I live here. She’s the one who came in unannounced—andbroughtIke’s mother, I finally notice now that I’m getting my bearings.
Shelly Wentworth is standing by the door, clinging to the strap of her purse like it’s a shoulder restraint, and she’s not looking forward to this roller coaster. That makes two of us.
“I called, but you didn’t answer. We also knocked, multipletimes,” Grandma says, her eyes shamelessly scanning the combined kitchen and living room. Her gaze catches on the lobster tank. “Is that a…” she says under her breath.
“Yeah,” I say, distracted by Shelly, who is also looking around the place like she’s gathering intel. She’s still clinging to her purse like a lifeline, but the corner of her mouth hitches at Tom Shelleck, who is scuttling around his tank more energetically now. I was right to save him. He’s so happy in there. “What are you doing over here, though?” It’s a hike to get up to this lighthouse, and it’s going to be dark soon.
My grandma makes herself comfortable on the couch she chose. “Why do you have a lobster in a tank? I feel as though I’m visiting a frat house. Don’t tell me there’s a tower of empty beer bottles in the kitchen.” She snickers as she pulls an old school paper planner out of her purse. “We need to plan your reception, of course. We’re organizing this with very short notice. The clock is ticking. Have a seat.”
I do as I’m told, sitting primly beside her on the couch. “Do you really need my help, though?” I pull down the sleeves of Ike’s sweater to cover my fingers. Even after all the work we’ve done, this house is still drafty, and Ike isn’t around to start a fire tonight. Now that I’m not sitting under my overworked laptop, it's chilly in here. Or maybe it’s my icy mother-in-law. “You love planning parties. I trust your taste, Grandma.” Leave me out of this charade. I don’t want to be complicit.
In the corner of my eye, Shelly sits on the loveseat. She’s still looking around the living room. I catch the moment shespots Ike’s folded blankets and pillow, and the puzzle pieces click together. Her look of satisfaction is maddening. She clears her throat. “Ike said you’d want to be involved,” Shelly says like she doesn’t want to be here either, but I stole her son so here we are. She’s only here to placate her perfect son.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Ike said that?” I ask, not bothering to hide my skepticism. Ike knows how I feel about this reception. If she wanted an excuse to drop in and confirm that I’m ruining her son’s life, she should just say that.
Shelly smiles, but her eyes are icy. “He did.” The words are a dare.
