Chapter 8
Diana
Some people say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. I disagree. The definition of insanity is marrying your lifelong enemy and moving into a lighthouse with him for a year for money.
I’m tapping my toe on the terrazzo tile in the lobby of the county courthouse, waiting for Ike to turn up. He'd better not stand me up. He promised. And he e-signed the thorough legal agreement I sent yesterday.
My grandparents are here, wearing matching smug expressions. Frankly, I’m appalled that they’d marry off their only granddaughter to the first and only bidder. I’m appalled at myself for going along with it, but the lighthouse—
“Tell me more about this boy while we wait.” My grandpa runs his thumbs under his suspenders. He took the morning off of his retirement spreadsheets for this sham, and he's looking much too pleased with himself.
Grandma is seated on his other side, her arm threaded through his. “You saw him at a town meeting, Charles. He’s the town manager.” Since when do my grandparents go to town meetings? And why does Grandma have stars in her eyes?
She was a little too giddy when I told her I’d found someone to marry and was ready to move ahead with their deal. Apparently she likes Ike Wentworth. I should check in on her more often. There’s obviously something in the water in Cape Georgeana that makes people lose their dang minds.
“The gray-haired fellow?” There’s only a hint of worry in Grandpa’s question. “Diana, he’s over twice your age. But I suppose he’s upstanding.”
He’s describing the other guy on the select board. And I’m irked that they don’t care who I’m marrying, just that I'll no longer carry the stigma of being thirty-two and unmarried. Gasp.
“I like older men.” I shrug.
Grandma swats at me with her free hand. “She’s marrying Ike Wentworth—the bearded fellow. The one who solved the issue with the cell coverage.” She leans around Grandpa to talk to me. “He got our carrier to add a tower closer to town.”
Well. I might as well marry the guy.
“Him?” Grandpa’s smile is wide and genuine. “I like that boy.”
Ugh.
Speak of the devil. Ike breezes through the glass doors, and I double take before I can stop myself.
He dressed up. He’s wearing a tie and a pressed white shirt.
His dark beard is neatly trimmed, accentuating his strong jaw.
The contrast of the beard and the tie makes me swallow.
I press the back of my cold, shaking hand against my forehead to soothe the heat washing over my face. That man is about to become my husband.
He finally spots us. “Ready to do this, Princess?” he asks with a crooked grin.
I arch an eyebrow. He’s already breaking the rules, and his boyish smirk tells me he is well aware. I’ve never met a grown woman who appreciates being called Princess. That has to stop.
“Last one.” He holds up three fingers like a Boy Scout. “I promise, Diana.”
We stand, and Ike shakes my grandparents’ hands, introducing himself.
Stevie rushes through the door. Even my best friend dressed in a cute little vintage dress and curled her red hair for the occasion. Everyone seems to be treating this business agreement like an actual wedding. “Did I miss it?”
We follow my grandparents across the lobby. They’re the ringleaders of this charade. “There’s nothing to miss. We’re going to sign some papers in front of a judge.”
“Just what every groom wants to hear from his bride.” Ike’s hand finds the small of my back as we make our way to the officiant.
I shrink away from his warm hand as Stevie says, “You two aren’t even going to pretend this marriage is sincere?” Her eyes dart to my grandpa.
She’s always been a little intimidated by him. Her mother was my grandmother’s housekeeper for years, and she’d join her at work in the summer. That’s how we met. Stevie showed me the narrow trail through the woods on my grandparent’s property that leads to her street. It became our lifeline.
Every weekend and every summer for years Stevie and I snuck back and forth. And now it’s my wedding day. I sigh. This isn’t at all what I pictured, back when I used to consider marriage. I certainly didn’t picture Ike Wentworth as the groom.
My grandpa cuts into the conversation. “We aren’t asking for anything other than a legal marriage and that they live together for one year, or until the renovation is complete,” he quotes the contract almost verbatim.
We'll get this thing done in a year. I'm not dragging this marriage out longer than necessary.
Ike tugs at the knot of his tie in my periphery. Is he having second thoughts? He better not, or so help me—
“Well, mazel tov,” Stevie says, allowing my grandparents to pass her into the officiant’s office. Then she murmurs to Ike with a smirk, “You didn’t invite anyone? Where’s August?”
He clears his throat. “He had to work.”
Sure. It’s Monday, I suppose. And we gave next to no notice. But it’s far more likely that he’s not broadcasting this indecent proposal. I wonder if he even told his parents. From what I remember of Shelly Wentworth, she would burn the place to the ground before she went along with this.
Obviously, I didn’t invite anyone. My mom? It would be a waking nightmare if she showed up to my wedding. Charlotte York wouldn’t just object. She’d hurdle over seats to swat the ring away from my left hand.
I smooth my sweaty palms over my white dress.
Yes, I wore white—the same dress I wore on Saturday.
Grandma insisted. Plus, it’s the only suitable dress I packed, and this trip has gone on far longer than I initially planned.
Last night when I called my boss to request a few days off, she didn’t ask why.
At some point I'll have to fess up that I'm working remotely from the Cape Georgeana lighthouse and that I've gotten married.
Married.
My heart feels like Ike’s gavel hammering steadily against my ribs as I stand in front of the officiant. Bang—bang—bang—bang—bang!
This is happening now. I am marrying Ike Wentworth, my sworn enemy. Well, not my sworn enemy—that’s dramatic, even for me. But the guy did tell everyone I had a glass eye when we were thirteen. That’s a terrible age to have boys randomly ask you to take out your eyeball.
I don’t have a glass eye, for the record.
The sound in the room is muffled behind the thumping of my heart.
Ike says something to the middle-aged judge who’s acting like this is just another day at work.
I expected a severe old man who would lecture us, or maybe talk Ike out of this.
But no. This is happening. This marriage is coming for me like a heat-seeking missile.
“As a county judge for the state of Maine I am authorized to solemnize this marriage. Isaac Patton Wentworth, do you take this woman, Diana Araceli York, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
I think Ike says, “I do.”
My lungs feel too small, and my hands are cold. I count the individual thumps of my heart in an effort to ground myself.
Ike nudges me. “You’re up,” he whispers.
I repeat the words “I do” robotically and a rushing sound fills my ears.
My grandparents sign some papers—they’re our witnesses—then Grandma drops her pen, spinning to look at me with wide eyes.
I don’t know why she’s excited. This isn’t the wedding or the marriage she wanted for me.
Suddenly my ears are working again, and it’s sensory overload.
Grandma coos and throws her squishy arms around my neck.
Stevie squeals, joining her and bouncing up and down on her toes.
Grandpa cuts off their celebrations. “Aren’t you going to kiss your bride?” he asks Ike, his brow stern. A record scratches. Crickets chirp. There are faint sounds of cars crashing in the distance.
Stevie, Grandma, and I freeze. I follow Ike in the corner of my eye. His Adam's apple bobs. He takes a step closer. He can’t be serious about this. I shoot daggers past Ike to my grandpa, and there’s a sparkle in his demented old eyes.
Ike asks a question with his gaze, moving closer still. My mind is too scrambled to form an answer. And when did he get so tall? The man is towering over me. But instead of kissing me the way a husband should kiss his wife, Ike leans down like he’s going to kiss my cheek. Then he pauses.
My lungs catch, and I close my eyes. I can’t breathe—it isn’t safe.
His cologne smells like chopping wood, putting out fires, and all things manly.
It’s designed to make intelligent women ignore their instincts.
I sense him breathing in, then he closes the distance.
His short beard scratches my skin as he presses a kiss to the apple of my cheek.
It’s lighter than air. Almost too gentle.
I’m not accustomed to Ike being careful with me.
That’s not true, a voice reminds me, summoning images of Ike leading me down a long ladder and carrying me across the water.
My heart is thumping now. I can’t afford to think of him like this, or to smell his manipulative cologne.
I shake my head, forcing my mind to fill with paper straws, glass eyes, and crunched mailboxes. This is Ike Wentworth.
Ike Wentworth. Memories of him hurrying to single-handedly move an entire iron staircase flicker through my mind. Those arms, those broad shoulders—
“No.” My voice fills the office like a whip crack and my eyes blink open.
Ike startles, backing away with an unfamiliar look on his face. His jaw is tight. He nods, quickly replacing the undecipherable expression with a smirk and a wink. “Won’t happen again.”
∞∞∞
An hour later, after I’ve dropped off my smug grandparents—that will be their only descriptor until I sign the divorce papers in three hundred and sixty-five days—Stevie hops in my car.
“Hey, Diana Wentworth.” She buckles her seatbelt. “Want to go to Marlow’s? Comfort food?”
“Ugh. I am not changing my name.” I back out of her driveway. “And we can do takeout, but you’ve lost your mind if you think I’m going into the diner.”
She snickers. “Come on. No one knows you married Ike except me and your grandparents. Don’t you miss Marlow?”
She’s playing dirty now. Marlow is my only other ally in Cape Georgeana, and I do miss her. But I’m still wearing the white dress that will forever be a wedding dress in my mind. I’m going to have to donate it now, or burn it. It’s too conspicuous for a casual lunch.
“Comfort food, Di.” Stevie croons. “Soft, pillowy bread layered with meat. And whoopie pies,” she says with wonder, like she doesn’t live in the land flowing with whoopie pies. “How long has it been since you’ve had a whoopie pie?”
She knows my weakness.
“Fine. Marlow’s.” Ugh. “But you’re running interference. No one can find out about the marriage, okay? They hate me enough. This town doesn’t need to know I stole their golden boy.”
A few minutes later Marlow’s teenage brother, Brady, seats us in a booth in the corner, handing us a few plastic-covered menus we don’t need.
“Marlow’s checking a delivery. She’ll be out when she’s done.
” He doesn’t take our drink order, or even wait for us to settle onto the red pleather seats.
Nepotism must've gotten that kid his summer job.
Seconds later, Marlow careens through the chipped turquoise swinging doors from the kitchen.
“Girl, you married Ike Wentworth?” she shrieks, skidding to a stop beside our table.
Silverware clatters. Whispers start. Marlow plops into the booth, winded.
“What?” she asks when I run a hand down my face.
Stevie looks sheepish. “Sorry,” she says with a wince.
“I wasn’t going to tell anyone.” It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.
Marlow looks confused. “The guy who just delivered our paper products told me about it. He heard from Sharlene in the county clerk's office.” She shrugs. “I figured the word was out.”
Stevie’s eyes are full of laughter, which she wisely holds inside. “I guess it is.”
One hour. It took one whole hour for that rumor to circulate. That’s a record, even for this town.
“I heard about it from Nellie,” a guy in the next booth chimes in.
“If you want my opinion, it’s past time Ike fixed up that old dump.
” He stuffs his sandwich in his mouth, chewing as he assesses me from top to bottom.
“But he could’ve done better. Sure, you’re a Cape Georgeana eight, but you’re probably only a five in New York. ”
This. This is why I never come back here, and why tourists don’t stay long. A coastal town in Maine should be silly with visitors this time of year. Instead, they have a guy with a chip-flecked goatee rating innocent bystanders.
“I can’t believe you felt comfortable saying that out loud, Kevin.” Stevie shoots lasers out of her eyes at the guy. “A man who sunbathes in a leopard print Speedo has no business rating Diana York, or any woman.”
“He does that?” I don’t bother lowering my voice. I’ll lower my voice when the Kevins of the world lower theirs. “Ugh.”
“In the town green,” Marlow adds. “In broad daylight. Despite multiple warnings from the police.”
“I have nothing to be ashamed of.” Kevin puffs his chest. He obviously spends time in the gym, but the muscles don’t make up for the shards of Fritos in his facial hair.
“Yes, you do,” a woman across the diner interjects.
Kevin goes back to his sandwich, red-faced and muttering.
“Anyway.” Stevie turns back to us, shaking her head at Speedo Kevin. “We’re going to get her settled in the lighthouse after this if you want to help.”
“Aw, man. I wish I could sneak away. It’s just me and Brady here.” Marlow frowns. “Have fun setting up the love nest. I want to come see it when you’re all moved in.”
“It’s not a love nest.” How could I be more clear about the terms of this marriage? “This is business.”
“Yeah, it is,” Stevie croons. “The business of looooove.”