Chapter 14
Diana
Ike!” I holler, my voice bumping with his every step. “You’re going to drop me.”
Memories from a few weeks ago fly through my mind: The staircase crumbling under my feet, and my shoe dropping with a clang.
The feeling of being stranded at a height while the sky darkened.
Images of Ike losing his grip, or tripping, stumbling, and dropping me over the rail assault me.
Climbing forty-five stairs while carrying a healthy-sized adult is an Olympic feat. I don’t like my odds.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he says, barely winded. Instead of putting me down, his arm tightens around my thighs. He’s doing this one-handed and hardly breaking a sweat. What a jerk.
Ugh. I focus on counting his steps to calm myself, since the Cro-Magnon man isn’t putting me on my feet any time soon.
Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five…
That new forty-fifth stair rankles. The rise on the new stairs is slightly lower, in theory making it easier to climb, but throwing off years of tradition.
Ike slides me down until my bare toes finally touch the landing.
My hands are shaking from that ride, and from being at the top of this thing.
As excited as I was to have the installation finished today, something stopped me from trying it out.
I had phone calls to make and painters to schedule, but even after I knocked everything off my to-do list I only stared up from the bottom.
I release a shaky breath and step toward the wall of the tower, away from the stairs. I’ve never been afraid of heights. This lighthouse was an important part of my formative years, and I’ve been up here hundreds of times. But here I am, shaking and dizzy.
I lean against the wall, sliding down until my bottom hits the floor.
I’m going to have to crabwalk back down to the bottom.
My legs make me too tall. Has the lighthouse always swayed like this?
I brace my hands on the floor on either side of me, holding myself in place and preparing for the lighthouse to pitch sideways. My breath is coming in short puffs.
“Oh, hey.” Ike’s voice comes from above me. I can’t see him through my pinched eyes, but I hear him crouching in front of me. His warm hand covers my knee. “You okay?”
I shake my head. I’m not okay, and he doesn’t need to apologize. He didn’t know I’m afraid of heights now. I didn’t know until thirty seconds ago.
“I was just trying to have fun. I wasn’t thinking…” he trails off. When I open my eyes his serious gaze is focused on mine. “You’re white as a ghost.” He frowns, scanning my face.
“Great. Now besides being a witch, I can be the ghost that haunts the old lighthouse.” I force a chuckle. “Fresh gossip. The townspeople will be thrilled.” I hope my running mouth and dumb joke mask the fact that I’m shaking and fighting images of the stairs falling apart.
I hate that I feel like this up here. I want to stand and stare out at the sea dramatically.
Instead, I’m slumped against the wall dramatically.
So in addition to having lost my joie de vivre, I’ve gained a fear of heights.
Fantastic. I scowl, shaking my head in frustration and pinching my eyes shut while the lighthouse sways.
Ike grunts as he moves to sit beside me, his back against the wall.
He’s going to ruin his dress pants, but I don’t mention it because I need someone here, even if that someone is Ike Wentworth.
I don’t mention that either. The room is still spinning, and it helps knowing he’s there to catch me if I fall—literally.
I remember how it felt to have him lead me down the tall ladder that day—steady, reassuring, with a heavy dash of teasing.
As much as Ike drives me insane—he leaves flecks of stubble in our shared sink, whistles constantly, and disappears every Saturday night without a word—I have to admit that he is reliable and strong.
He’d help anyone, even the witch of Cape Georgeana.
I feel safer with him beside me, dang it.
Then his warm hand wraps around mine, squeezing once. My eyes fly open, zeroing in on our hands. I don’t pull mine away.
Ike has nice hands. His skin is perpetually golden, likely from all of his working outside and do-goodery.
A prominent vein runs from his knuckles to his wrist. Even his hands look strong and ready to help.
Now my heart is thumping, but not because of the height.
Ike Wentworth—my biggest hater—is holding my hand. I like it, and I hate that I like it.
Of course, he’s only trying to soothe the crazy lady he has to live with. There’s nothing going on here. He’s a good guy, doing what good guys do. But I’m not dropping his hand. I need it too much.
He clears his throat. “Did you hear about the time August and I borrowed Muffie Horowitz’s car?”
The question is so out of left field, it startles a snicker out of me. “No.” I can’t stand the lingering tremor in my voice.
Ike relaxes against the wall, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles.
His hand tightens. “Yeah, it was the end of my third year of college, and we needed a way to Fenway because my car broke down. The Sox were playing the Orioles—the first home game of the season. I got these nosebleed tickets for next to nothing, and that season was a big deal. We all felt it.” So, he’s a passionate Red Sox fan.
I add it to my dwindling mental catalog of his flaws.
“O-okay.” I’m distracted by the pads of Ike’s fingers dragging across the back of my hand.
As a New Yorker I have my feet in another camp in terms of baseball, but I like the way Ike’s hand feels.
I won’t tell him I’m a Yankees fan, and the Red Sox winning the World Series that season was a tragedy.
I don’t think he realizes he’s tracing lines with his fingers.
He tips his head back against the wall, fully at ease while he tells his story.
“We tried everything, but we figured we’d miss the game.
So anyway, Muffie asked me to come over and reset her garbage disposal and do a few things around her house—hey, don’t roll your eyes. ”
“I didn’t roll my eyes.” Maybe I did, but who would blame me? The man is unreal, helping an old lady with odd jobs instead of going to a baseball game. I wonder how he hides his halo. Maybe that’s why he’s growing out his hair?
I’m trying so hard to be annoyed by him, but I can’t.
He isn’t bragging. This is a story about borrowing a car, and he just happens to help everyone around him.
I suspect he’s trying to help me right now, distracting me from the fact that the room was spinning a minute ago.
I figured he was faking it this whole time—a typical politician type—but I think he might actually be a good man.
He’s still talking while I’m over here trying to make sense of this confusing new reality.
I’m also trying to ignore whatever his fingers are doing on the back of my hand.
“So Muffie was asleep on the couch. Totally out for the night. We borrowed her keys from the hook by the back door, put them back before she ever woke up, and the Sox won. They had a great game—a great season, actually.” He shrugs like it’s simple math.
“Now August and I take Muffie’s car to the opener every year for good luck.
” He scratches his beard with his free hand, distracted and grinning at the memory before he tracks the skepticism on my face. “What?”
“You stole Muffie Horowitz’s car, and you think that’s why the Red Sox won?” I can’t stop smiling. “How do you explain the rest of that series?”
I happen to know that the Orioles trounced the Sox in the other two games.
Tracking baseball has been an odd, secret hobby of mine for a while.
I watch the games in my dark bedroom like a recovering food addict sneaking frozen burritos.
I’m a big fan of baseball—the statistics and the pants, anyway.
Ike’s look of surprise is priceless. “First off, we borrowed her car. And if August and I had taken Muffie’s Buick to the rest of that series, they would’ve won.
” He kneads that spot in his shoulder with his free hand.
“Why do you think the Curse ended? Aug and I were there in Muffie’s Buick.
She and her late husband took us to the opener in 2003.
” He is dead serious. There isn’t a hint of joking in his voice.
Now I’m cackling. “You’re telling me the Curse ended because you and your brother rode to a game in Muffie’s Buick?” I’m laughing so hard I can barely get the words out.
“Yeah.” He chuckles, tightening his hand. His eyes scan my face before they land on mine. The lantern room goes quiet except for the distant sound of crashing waves.
The lighthouse isn’t swaying anymore. How did he know how to do that?
I wilt, and peace settles over me. “Thank you, Ike.” I’m surprised when the words come easily.
I’m grateful to him for calming me down, even if he’s the reason I was freaking out to begin with.
He didn’t know about my new fear of heights, though.
He was just being a playful, fun-loving guy.
Isn’t that exactly what’s been missing from your life? A gruff voice taunts in my mind, sounding suspiciously like Tom Selleck.
I keep an eye on Ike while I argue with Tom Selleck in my head: I need more fun, but I don’t need a bearded egomaniac with a people-pleasing problem.
That isn’t very kind, Tom reminds me.
I sigh. Tom is right. I need to be nicer to my husband.
Memories from the last few weeks flit through my mind and I realize that marriage to Ike hasn’t been terrible.
He teases a lot, but he’s not malicious.
In fact, I’m worried he might be a nice guy.
So much of my animosity toward him is centered around the fact that he dislikes me, but does he?
He made scrambled eggs for me a few mornings ago with a comment under his breath about how I need to eat more protein.
At first it got my hackles up—I’m a grown woman who knows how to feed herself—but when I wasn’t ravenously hungry by ten o’clock I realized he might be right about the protein, and it was a thoughtful gesture.
I’ve been wrong about Ike, and I hate being wrong.
His low, cautious voice breaks into my thoughts. “What’s on your mind?”
Heat floods my face. How do I tell him I was arguing with Tom Selleck and having an ego-slapping epiphany about who he is as a person?
I don’t. Instead, I say, “Scrambled eggs,” without thinking. Now I’m blushing even harder, and I can feel Ike’s eyes on me.
He chuckles and drags his thumb across my knuckles so slowly it’s like he’s memorizing them. “Not what I expected you to say.”
“No?” I can’t explain myself.
“You looked so serious, I figured you were putting together a spreadsheet in your head.”
I snort. “Nice, Ike.” It’s a fun idea for a spreadsheet, though—tracking Ike’s kind gestures.
Maybe I’ll work on that tonight. A flutter of excitement curls my toes when I think about fine-tuning a spreadsheet in my starfish bed, running my bare feet across the cool sheets while Netflix plays in the background.
Maybe I’ll track down a bedtime whoopie pie.
That would be the guilty pleasure trifecta—secret spreadsheets, junk TV, and a whoopie pie. I need to make this happen.
“I’ve never seen you smile so big—you have a great smile, by the way.” Ike’s fingers pause against my hand. “You have to tell me what you’re thinking about.”
He’s not really complimenting me. He’s stating a fact like a scientist—like the shape of my mouth meets all of the qualifications for a technically good smile. Still, I blush from the praise and the direction of my thoughts, all while Ike hands me another item for his kindness spreadsheet.
I duck my head to hide my discomfort. “I was thinking about running to shore” — I might as well be honest; the guy couldn’t think less of me — “for a whoopie pie.” I whisper the words like I’m admitting I was going to track down some fresh crack.
“Done.” He tugs my hand, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go.”
“The tide is coming up,” I argue. I haven’t braved the tiny rowboat yet. I remember the temperature of that water with excruciating clarity. “I don’t think… I wasn't serious.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll row. You just sit there and look pretty.”
He curls his big arm around my shoulders, tucking me into him and leading me toward the stairs before I realize what he’s doing. I had almost forgotten we were perched at the top of a staircase that tried to kill me a few weeks ago. When I hesitate at the first step, Ike’s arm tightens.
“I can’t believe you think you’re r-responsible for the Red Sox winning the World Series,” I tease, a tiny tremble in my voice as I take the first step down.
“You’ve got this,” he murmurs under his breath. Then his voice brightens. “It’s true. I’m responsible for the Curse ending. And if you play your cards right you can be my accomplice when we borrow Muffie’s car for the opener in April.”
I scoff. “You mean when you steal her car.”
“Borrow.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I don’t mean it. I learned a little about Ike tonight. He’s surprisingly sensitive. He’s good. I’m sure the man has no problem sleeping at night.