Chapter 9
Ike
August passes a box to me from the back of my truck, stacking it on top of the one I’m already holding.
“Why aren’t you telling Mom and Dad? They’re going to hear about it sooner or later.
” He hops down from the bed, sliding another box across the tailgate.
“And Mom will be ticked.” He balances the box against his torso and we make our way to the shore.
“I called. They didn’t answer.” I only called once—not my most valiant effort at communication.
Our newly-retired parents are traveling the country via RV this summer. They’re calling the trip their second honeymoon because they want to be left alone.
Gross.
Their last known location was Niagara Falls, where they posted a photo of themselves making out on the Maid of the Mist. They went dark after that, thank goodness. But my stomach curdles when I think about the surprise waiting for them when they get home next month.
“I’ll explain it to them when they come back,” I say, adjusting the boxes in my arms. That will be a great time.
Hi. This is your new daughter-in-law, Diana. Yeah, the woman who hates me and ran over my mailbox. Put down the pitchfork, Mom.
My mom doesn’t care for Diana York, mostly because she knows Diana doesn’t care for me. Have I mentioned that I’m my mother’s favorite child? August can stuff it.
He doesn’t, though. We’re halfway to the island now—close enough for August’s obnoxious laughter to bounce off the lighthouse. “Don’t do that without me. I want to see Mom’s face when you tell her you married into the paper straw fortune.”
August is so full of it. Obviously, Diana didn’t invent paper straws.
And if I understood the legal jargon on our contract correctly, I am entitled to exactly none of her fortune.
I don’t need it. All I need is to fix up this lighthouse so we’re one step closer to getting Cape Georgeana in the black.
“You know, your name came up on the list of potential husbands for Diana.”
My brother’s silence is telling. He stomps across the rocks, passing me. “Geez, did you pack your heaviest high heels in this one, sweetheart?”
“Oh, is that one box too much? I should’ve given you something you could handle, like the pillows.
You gotta ease yourself into manual labor.
” I only get away with my teasing because my older brother is kind of saintly.
Exhibits A through C: He’s helping me move after a twelve hour shift at the county hospital, and he’s on call with the fire department tonight—not that they’ll get any calls. But still. The guy isn’t human.
August scoffs and we finish the short hike to the island.
This is the first and only load of stuff I’m moving into the keeper’s house—a few boxes of clothing, shoes, and bare essentials.
I’m not transferring my every belonging onto this salty little island.
I’ll list my house on a short-term rental site, though.
No point in letting it sit empty for a year.
The only problem is no one is coming to Cape Georgeana on purpose. Yet.
We cut a path through the tall grass to the keeper’s house.
It’s always windy over here, but it’s still hot and muggy under the very late afternoon sun.
The contract said I had to move onto the island the day of the wedding, and there’s still daylight.
I wasn’t waiting until the last possible minute.
I was packing. Did I drag my feet a little?
Maybe. Besides, the place looks deserted.
My wife is a no-show, as far as I can tell.
I didn’t see her car in the parking area.
I also wonder how long it will take me to stop putting air quotes around the word “wife.”
It’s like August reads my mind. “Where’s your wife?” He also puts air quotes around the word. “Shouldn’t you be carrying her over the threshold right now?” He drops his box on the concrete steps, reaching for the doorknob.
“I dunno. And that wasn’t in the contract.” If she wanted that, her lawyer should’ve been more thorough. I prop my boxes on my knee to give my arms a break. Meanwhile, August is wrestling with the doorknob. “Is it stuck?”
He jiggles the key in the lock. “When was the last time someone came out here?”
I drop my boxes. “Let me try. Move over.”
“What? You have a trick for this eroded, antique lock?”
I bump him out of the way and try the key a few times, a few different ways. Yeah, it’s really stuck.
“Oh, you couldn’t get it? Surprising.”
My brother and I can’t go three seconds without harassing each other. I call it brotherly love. But something about his tone, combined with the fact that this is my wedding day, brings out the bull in me. “Stand back.”
August backs away from the door. I visually inspect the door frame, mostly to make sure I’m not about to make a fool of myself in front of my brother. I take a step back. Then with all of the force I can summon, I kick the door.
It doesn’t budge.
August doubles over, his hands on his knees. He’s laughing so hard no sound is escaping.
“Move your ugly butt back. I’m going to try again.”
He holds up a finger, his eyes pinched shut and his shoulders shaking. A deep belly laugh finally escapes.
“Move, or you’re spending the night out here. The tide’s coming in.”
“Oh man, I needed this,” he says with a breathless laugh, wiping the wetness under his eyes. But he moves further back with an obnoxious flourish. “Proceed.”
This time I rear back and kick so hard that when the door gives way I crash through it into the narrow breezeway.
There’s a pair of gasps and a feminine voice shouts, “Ike!” Diana and Stevie crowd the doorway from the breezeway into the house, their mouths gaping open.
Their matching horrified expressions make me bite back a grin. “Honey, I’m home.”
Diana frowns. “What happened?”
August walks in behind me with his box, his eyes watery from laughter. “That’s how he opens doors. It’s his thing.”
I shove August’s shoulder. “The lock was jammed.” I go back for my boxes. By the time I come back inside August is finished shaking Diana’s hand.
She dips her head, and her dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. “We’ve met before.” She’s blushing. Why is she blushing?
August puffs his chest. “Oh, sorry.”
Stevie comes after me while I’m distracted. She slugs my shoulder. “You know, you could’ve knocked.” She flashes her trademark grin. “You scared us to death with that banging.”
“I didn’t think anyone was in here.” I shrug, making my way inside and taking in the combined kitchen and living area. We’re working with two stories, a thousand square feet, and lots of brown and gold linoleum, all permeated with the smell of salt and must.
This place is the reason the lighthouse was rejected for the National Register of Historic Places.
The remodel done in the late 1970s is something out of a horror movie, complete with flickering lights.
Where there isn’t wood paneling there’s avocado green paint to match the green appliances.
A set of rickety wooden stairs leads to the second floor, which holds a bedroom and bathroom.
Only one of each. The old keeper and his wife did it all, and none of it up to any sort of code or with any planning.
There’s a short door at the back of the kitchen that leads directly to the attached lighthouse tower.
I remember it from the walk-through we did when I was trying to get it nominated for the National Register.
I had to duck to pass through it. The only things saving this place are the big, uncovered windows and the view of the Atlantic ocean.
There's plenty of natural light to see the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
There's a pair of nice, big couches in this mess, I notice with a frown. The tags are still hanging off the arms. I scowl at them.
“Oh, my grandparents had furniture delivered this afternoon.” Diana won’t make eye contact. And she’s still wearing that pristine white dress. I wonder if she’s lifted a finger today. “I hope that’s okay.”
I nod. Of course it’s okay. I won’t have to hike back to my truck for my air mattress. And why wouldn’t it be okay?
“Can I give your husband the grand tour?” Stevie asks. I guess August and I aren’t the only ones using air quotes.
Diana presses the back of her hand against her forehead. “S-sure. I’ll finish unpacking here.” Her eyes flit to her grocery bags on the counter, then to August.
I give my brother a look that says “don’t be a crap head” then follow Stevie up the narrow, creaking stairs to the second story.
The stairs land directly in the bedroom, with a door to the bathroom on the opposite wall.
The room is sparsely furnished with a singular queen-sized bed, already made up with stuff that looks like it came from a cheesy, coastal-themed Airbnb.
“Yeah.” Stevie snickers. “You should’ve heard Diana on the phone with her grandparents about the one bed situation. You almost had an annulment on your hands.”
“I’m taking the couch.” Obviously. No way am I crawling into Charles and Patty York’s grandbaby maker. I shudder.
“Hey,” Stevie whispers.
“Yeah?” I ask, distracted and taking in Diana’s bedroom with my hands on my hips. There are tiny starfish embroidered on the white bedspread.
“Go easy on her,” Stevie says in a quiet rush.
My eyes dart to my friend. “Yeah, okay,” I say to appease her.
She should be saying that to the person downstairs who got us into this.
I’m grinning, and I’m sure Stevie is reading it wrong, but I can’t stop.
The thought of Diana needing protection from me is amusing.
Stevie loves her friend so much that she’s blind to her flaws.
“I’m serious.” She lowers her voice. “You don’t know her. I do. She’s more fragile than you think, and if you hurt her, I will annihilate you,” she hisses with a severe stare. Somehow her red hair looks more red when she’s making threats.
“I already got this from her grandpa.” I chuckle. “I promise to treat her with respect. Have you ever known me to treat a woman another way?”
Stevie squints, thinking. “I haven’t.” Then she bites her lip like she’s choosing her words cautiously. “Except Diana.”
This isn’t our usual territory. We don’t talk about her friend. Stevie usually sees Diana on her turf—in the city, far away from me. We're in uncharted territory now.
“You have nothing to worry about. I’ll sleep on the couch and keep my distance.
” I sit on the edge of the bed and regret it immediately.
This thing is top-of-the-line, and it’s Diana’s bed.
I don’t belong here. But this has been a long day.
“All we both want is for this lighthouse to be taken care of. One year. That’s it. I can be respectful for one year.”
Stevie eyes me, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. She looks skeptical.
“Your lack of faith in me is insulting.”
Finally, she cracks a hint of a smile. “What is it with you and Diana, anyway?”
I should have never agreed to this tour. I should’ve known her goal was to corner me and talk about stuff I don’t want to talk about. “Nothing. She hates me, I don’t care for her. The end.” I stand in an attempt to put an end to Stevie’s sneaky, surprise interrogation.
“I don’t buy that. You don’t dislike anyone. You’re like if Mother Teresa had a beard and knew her way around a chainsaw.” She sits on the bed, yanking me back down beside her. “What happened?”
She’s digging, but I’m not giving her anything. The past is the past. My present is downstairs alone with August. I need to get down there. “Maybe you should be asking her these questions.”
“I have. Diana won’t speak negatively about anyone, but she responds to how she’s treated.
Full stop. This town hates her, so she retreats into her shell like a turtle.
She’s been nothing but kind, and you’ve never been nice to her.
” The words fly out of her fast and heated, but under her breath.
How long has she been holding all of this inside?
“Do I need to show you the pictures of what she did to my mailbox?” I tease, but at her warning glare, I hold my hands up and tack on: “Okay, okay. I’ll be nice.”
“You’ll treat her the way you treat everyone else?”
I exhale. “She’s my wife. It’s the least I can do.
” I’m serious. I have no interest in being miserable for a year.
I consider the next twelve months of my life and the woman downstairs in an immaculate white dress who’s loading our green refrigerator with caviar.
I also don’t want to feel like I’m walking on eggshells for a year.
I don’t have terrible manners, but I’d like to wear sweatpants at home, and anything less than a three piece suit feels underdressed around Diana.
“Can you talk to her about relaxing a little bit?”
Stevie looks genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
Is she for real? “You know, how she’s always so—” I don’t know how to say it, so I pantomime a constipated member of the British Royal Family.
She snickers. “Like a butler from Downton Abbey?”
“You know what I mean.” I bump her shoulder. “If I promise to be nice, can you get her to be ninety percent less stuffy?”
She shakes her head. “You really don’t know her at all.” Then she stands, dragging me back to my feet. “But I’m going to enjoy watching all of this unfold.”