Chapter 7 #2
“It makes sense, Di.” Stevie shrugs, playing it cool. She isn’t concealing her excitement well. She’s missed her friend. “Think about it. The lighthouse. Tom Selleck. Getting your joie de vivre back. Come on.”
Tom Selleck?
Diana shoves Stevie’s leg and mutters, “You are not a vault.” But something in her expression changes. The wheels are turning. She’s picturing it. Seeing the logic of it. The corners of her mouth turn up slowly.
“Come on, Princess.” I prod her.
She shuts my mouth with a glare. “I’ll do it on one condition.”
Wait, she’s making conditions? I’m doing her a favor here. This got turned around fast. “What?”
She arches that eyebrow, and her red lips almost smile. “No more calling me Princess.”
∞∞∞
That evening I drive out to the lighthouse with Boone and a bag of takeout from Marlow’s on the seat between us.
It’s my standard Saturday night: Italian subs with my ten-year-old neighbor.
We take turns at our favorite spots. Sometimes we go to the parking area overlooking the lighthouse, and sometimes I take him to the firehouse to sit in the truck.
He loves the big, red rig and all of the controls.
Plus, it’s only a few blocks from their place, which is convenient if he has a meltdown.
Boone was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder as a toddler and is minimally verbal.
Our standing sandwich night makes it possible for his parents to have some much-needed down time, and I don’t mind the quiet company.
It’s a welcome break after a henpecked week. Plus, I have some thinking to do.
I park my truck at the edge of the parking lot, and Boone doesn’t waste any time. He mumbles something that almost sounds like the word sandwich.
I chuckle. “You’re hungry today.”
He just looks at the steering wheel with his big, brown eyes and waits for me to dig his Italian out of the brown paper bag. I unwrap his sub, situating it on the paper in his lap. “There ya go, buddy. Eat up.”
Boone ignores me, per his usual, attacking his food like a velociraptor. It’s one of the only things he’ll eat, though calling it an Italian is generous. He takes his sandwich with ham and cheese only.
I stare out at the lighthouse, making one-sided conversation while we eat. “I’m getting married, Boone,” I think out loud. I take another bite, remembering the surreal morning while I chew. “To Diana York,” I say around my sandwich with a heavy measure of trepidation.
I continue monologuing to Boone, who never seems to mind being my sounding board.
“As of Monday I will be legally married to The Diana York. Will marrying Princess Diana make me a prince?” I snort.
Hardly. “Fixing this lighthouse will score me some major points with the people of Cape Georgeana, and hopefully get this town into a lovely territory I like to call ‘The Black.’ We’ve been in the red for a long time. ”
But the whole marriage thing is happening so fast, leaving no time for me or Diana to back out.
That's the vibe I got from Charles’ email, anyway.
Diana forwarded the conditions from her grandparents this afternoon.
They move quickly when they're after something they want.
And what they want is marriage for their granddaughter.
We’ll be legally wed and living under the same leaky roof, but it’s essentially a business arrangement. I’m meeting Diana at the county courthouse on Monday morning at nine.
Boone huffs in the seat beside me, and I go on. “It’s one year of my life in exchange for enough money to completely renovate the lighthouse. On the list of sacrifices I’ve made for the good of Cape Georgeana, this one doesn’t even make the top ten most bizarre, right buddy?”
I’m baffled that Diana is agreeing to it, though. Boone just scrunches his eyes and wads up his sandwich wrapper.
The light is fading when I look out at the keeper’s house with its red roof, white-painted siding, and crumbling gingerbread trim—my new home for the foreseeable future.
The lighthouse tower, the house, and a small boat shack are the only structures on the island, all surrounded by waving green grass interspersed with granite boulders.
There’s a crooked white picket fence outlining a small yard and an empty flagpole. That’s it.
Per Charles York’s email, our arrangement begins immediately after Diana and I say “I do.” But I’m not thinking about that.
I’m thinking about how living on the tidal island will slightly change my commute.
I’m either going to have to memorize the tide chart or buy a rowboat.
And I need to pack tomorrow. I’m thinking about hauling my stuff onto the island, the fastest route from here to the town office building, and how I’m going to tell my mother—all simple tasks relative to the thought of being Diana York’s husband for a year.
Husband. That word is like a hurdle on a track. There are a few obstacles to clear before I can make this town financially viable. One of them is Husband.
“One year, Boone. I can do this.” Diana’s flashing blue eyes pop into my mind and this particular hurdle feels a little more daunting. I take the last bite of my sandwich. I’ve got this. I’m psyched. If this were Rocky, I’d be fist pumping at the top of some steps right now.
Boone grunts, interrupting my spinning thoughts. He’s letting me know that he’s done and it’s time to take him home. He’s particular about how long these sandwich outings last. We don’t usually stay long, but I’ve been consumed by my thoughts. We’ve been parked here for a while.
“Okay, buddy.” I put the truck in reverse. “Good talk. I’ll take you home.”