Page 8 of Enemies to Lobsters
I wonder at her sad eyes. I didn’t think she cared that we don’t see each other on her turf. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I’ll do better.”
She waves me away. “It’s fine. You’re here now.” She sniffs. “How long do I get you?”
I haven’t thought that far ahead, which isn’t like me. I blame Tom Selleck’s mustache. But I have one more item of business. “It depends. When’s the next town meeting?”
“Why?” Stevie asks with an amused grin.
“I'm going to talk Ike into dealing with the lighthouse.”
“You?” Stevie snorts. “At a town meeting. With Ike.”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” Nothing makes me more determined than someone telling me I can’t do something. Stevie's disbelieving tone seals the deal. This is happening.
“Oh, I have to see this.” She drags her fingers through her hair, flipping the deep, red waves. “And you’re in luck. There's a meeting tomorrow night.”
Chapter 5
Ike
Ishould’ve known we wouldn’t get through this town meeting without Muffie Horowitz talking about her underwear, but the old gal can’t seem to help herself. My hand inches toward my gavel instinctively as she takes the mic.
When I took the job as town manager nine years ago—I was young, but there were no other applicants—I didn’t need the gavel. We had a small select board of two people. No one showed up to the meetings. Business was conducted efficiently, and I got home to my leftovers no later than nine o’clock. Those were happy times.
Then, like flies on an unattended bologna sandwich, the people of Cape Georgeana found me. They discovered my love for this town and my willingness to be their underpaid muscle. The select board grew to four people, and now our meetings often stretch late into the night. Muffie Horowitz is a regular at the microphone, and her grievances range from carpenter ants to the smell of the ocean, with horrifyingly detailed stories sprinkled throughout.
“That’s what I’m saying, Hal. The power lines in our neighborhood are too low. There’s electricity in the air. I can feel it, and it’s making me swell. My underclothing is tight.” Thejewelry on her wrinkled wrists clinks when she snaps the elastic waistband of her trousers to demonstrate.
Oh no. My pinky brushes the well-worn oak gavel. My brother August gave it to me as a joke when the meetings started to go sideways. It was hilarious—at first. Hal Morris, who was a lineman before he retired and joined the select board out of boredom, is shaking with repressed laughter in his seat beside me.
Muffie continues soberly, “My panties are wearing out too fast because they have become too snug.” She snaps her waistband again. More jewelry clinks as she readjusts her underpants through her overpants. “Can’t you reach out to someone about raising the power lines?”
“You got it, Muffie.” Hal takes one for the team. “Ike is on it.”
Wait, what?
I hold back a groan, and Muffie finds her seat, satisfied until next month. I scribble a reminder to call the power company, then loosen my tie. At least Muffie’s panties are our final item of business. We can wrap things up, and it’s only eight o’clock.
I straighten my papers. “Okay, everyone—”
Then the back door opens and in walks the last person I ever expect to see at a town meeting.
Diana York.
There’s a collective gasp. Maggie Betts wraps a protective arm around her three-year-old son. A few guys straighten in their seats. Muffie puts a precautionary hand over the necklace on her throat like it’s Diana’s primary target. Whispers run through the seated crowd.
Despite the fact that the woman who popped up in my dreams last night is approaching the microphone, I continue like it’s business as usual. “If no one has any more items to discuss, I move that we adjourn this meeting until next month.”
Meanwhile, Stevie Sullivan follows Diana through the door and takes a seat. Diana adjusts the mic to her height, clearing her throat. She looks to Stevie, who gives her two thumbs up while biting her lip. A hush falls over the room.
Diana clears her throat again and makes eye contact with Nellie, who is seated on the other side of Hal. She’s been on the board since I was in high school.
It's your funeral, Princess.
Nellie might look soft with her helmet of gray hair and embroidered sweater, but she’s a human gavel. She takes no crap, and she’s constantly getting after me to use the word “no” more often. She was a county prosecutor somewhere in New York before she retired on the Maine coast about ninety years ago. Her shark-ish smile says she smells fresh meat on the stand ready to be cross-examined. Nellie misses her glory days. She is terrifying.
Diana’s red lips curl serenely, chumming the water. She’s totally unaware of the danger she’s in. “I’m here to address the disrepair of the Cape Georgeana Lighthouse.”
“Good luck,” someone gripes from the back of the room.
