Page 65 of Enemies to Lobsters
Richard clears his throat on my other side. “Your family is very warm, Ike.” He smooths the lapels of his tux. “Their authenticity is endearing.”
That’s a polite way to say “I just watched your great aunt pry out her shapewear wedgie in the buffet line.” But I thank Richard and try to think of something kind to say about the Yorks in return.
“Your family is… they have very nice manners.” Aw, man. That sounded way better in my head.
Diana cringes, but Patty chuckles. “They take a while to warm up.” She nudges Richard and adds under her breath, “Perhaps by the third or fourth grandchild they will have thawed out.”
Judging by Diana’s reaction, she didn’t want me to hear that. She leans in and murmurs, “She’s speaking in general terms, not—I mean, obviously we aren’t having any kids together.”
We aren’t? No, we are not, I remind myself. I read the contract. I would’ve noticed that. But why does the reality of it make my gut ache?
Because in the fraction of a second after Patty’s comment, I pictured it. I imagined Diana’s bedhead on Christmas morning, surrounded by little people who have my last name, and their mother’s sharp mind and crystal blue eyes.
Do I want to have kids with Diana York? Now that the mental image is there, yes. I want that very much. But I am all too aware that I can’t say it out loud. I’m not stupid. So I duck to whisper in her ear. “You saying you don’t want to have three or four kids with me?” I ask, hiding the truth behind sarcasm.
She freezes. “Maybe notthree or four,” she says, her voice all seriousness. “Those are rookie numbers.”
I swallow. I hate that she’s joking about this. I don’t want jokes. I want… something else. The woman is standing there wearing this satiny wedding dress that made my knees literallybuckle when I first saw her in it. We’re married. Now that I know what it’s like to live with her, I won’t be able to live without her. This can’t end.
My jaw tightens. These are confusing thoughts to have at my wedding reception. Diana might like kissing me, she might even like me as a person, but going from that to starting a family is a Neil Armstrong-sized leap.
There’s no solution for the mess in my mind, so I follow her lead, shaking off my implausible dreams. I squeeze her hand on my arm. “Obviously, for the family to be in the Cape Georgeana baseball tournament we’d need at least nine. Well, only seven if you and I are going to play.”
Diana’s cold fingers tighten. “Eight kids, then. You can play. I’ll cheer you on from the bleachers.” Her blue eyes are bright with joy.
For a minute I wonder if she pictured Christmas morning.Tell me you saw them,I beg her with my eyes.Tell me you want Christmas morning, too.
She blinks up at me. Her delicate brows furrow. There’s a question, then a spark of hope in her returning gaze. Slowly, the corners of her red lips curl. “Ike, I think—”
“Charlotte?” The shock in Patty’s voice pops the Christmas morning bubble.
Diana startles, and my arm is cold when she pulls her hand away. Her voice is incredulous. “Mom?”
Chapter 31
Diana
Don’t act so surprised, Didi.” My mother tosses her long brown hair behind her shoulder. “Did you think I would be a no-show at my own daughter’s wedding?”
Uh, yeah. After a decade and a half without seeing her in the flesh, I didn’t expect her to show up theone timeI don’t want her around. I should’ve known her daughter getting married would spark enough anger to bring her home. To say my mother is unsupportive of the whole til-death-do-us-part thing would be an enormous understatement. She doesn’t seem to know how phones work, either—if the last decade of my life is any indicator.
I don’t know what to do with her, and I don’t know how to respond. I smooth my hands down my dress. Ike clocks it, taking my hand, lacing our fingers together, and holding tight.
The captain of the Wentworth family baseball team is holding my hand.
My mother is here. Not only is she in the continental United States, she’s in Cape Georgeana.
So many impossible things are happening, I must be dreaming again.
Oh, you’re awake this time,Tom Selleck says.And your mother looks angry.
She does. Her eyes—a little more faded than I remember, with lines at the corners—are tight and seething. Her gaze darts between me, her parents, and Ike.
Luckily, my grandma is diplomatic. “May I have a hug from my daughter?” she asks carefully.
My mom barely restrains an eye roll. “Don’t be dramatic, Mother.”
“Is it dramatic to want a hug from my daughter after so many years?”
