Chapter 20
Ike
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
I only wanted to grab my unglazed fritter and a whoopie pie for Diana before she wakes up, but I’m getting a steaming side dish of gossip about my wife.
I’m sitting on a desk chair behind the swinging doors at Marlow’s.
She lets me come back here when my to-do list is full, and I need space from the locals.
And the people of Cape Georgeana and I are officially on a break.
It’s not me, it’s them. I’m sick about how they treated Diana at the play last night, and how they’re talking about her now.
“Yeah, she was all over him last night,” a nasally, feminine voice whispers. “Shameless. Like, we get it. You’re obsessed with the town hottie. Aren’t we all? But it’s like she was marking her territory. Like, get out of here, little miss New York.”
Someone comes to Diana’s defense. “They are married.”
There’s high-pitched laughter, then, “Yeah, but it’s not a real marriage. You think Ike would really go for someone who’s in love with Tom Selleck and casts spells in the lighthouse for fun?” She laughs again.
I want to pelt her with a whoopie pie, but that would be a waste of a perfectly good whoopie pie. I take another bite of my fritter, chewing while I decide how to confront them.
“She’s in love with Tom Selleck?” A male voice comes from another direction. He must be sitting at another booth. He sounds like he has a mouthful of eggs. “The Tom Selleck?”
“That’s what I heard. She came here to get her head on straight because she’s in love with him. I guess he rejected her, and that’s why she ran away from New York.”
This person is a lunatic. It’s not worth the oxygen it would require to correct her.
A new voice interjects. “No, not actual Tom Selleck. She’s in love with the idea of Tom Selleck,” she says with a hateful snicker. This one sounds like she’d invite Diana to a non-costume party and tell her to wear a costume.
There’s a nasally giggle now. “Oh my gosh, that’s so much worse.”
There’s no way this rumor is true, right? I feel idiotic for entertaining the thought, but Tom Selleck’s name does enter the conversation a lot around Diana given the current decade. And she seems to blush every time.
Is my wife in love with Tom Selleck? Does she have a thing for mustaches?
I rip a bite off of my fritter, frowning while I chew.
Then I shake my head at myself. I’m being a moron.
So what if Diana’s in love with the guy?
She’s married to me. I’m the one who got to watch her high five Boone last night.
I’m the one who got to walk her up to her room.
I chickened out before I could kiss her, though.
We were on the top steps. There was a break in the conversation.
She said good night. I was going in. Then she yawned.
I’m not the smartest man, but it was a pretty heavy-handed hint.
It killed me to walk downstairs to the couch.
If it had been up to me, I would’ve kept Diana awake half the night.
Her soft smile as she closed her bedroom door will live rent-free in my head until the day I die, though. I should’ve kissed her.
“Huh. Maybe I oughta grow a mustache,” the guy with the eggs in his mouth says, way too loudly. There’s omelet everywhere after that, guaranteed. “Maybe she’d let me move into her lighthouse if she’s that easy.”
“Gross, Matt,” the nasally one whines.
Okay, that’s it.
I push through the swinging blue doors, fritter in hand, ready to smack the rest of the omelet out of the dude’s mouth. When I drop into the seat across from him, the table of ladies across from us is suddenly very interested in their plates.
“I’m going to clear some things up, since Diana and I seem to be the topic of the day,” I announce. A few heads swivel our direction.
Omelet guy turns out to be Matt Ouellette, who works on a fishing boat and smells like it. He drops his fork, folding his arms across his chest. He doesn’t look at all ashamed of getting caught insinuating things about Diana. His face is daring me to step up to him.
“The woman you’re talking about is my wife.
” Placing my fritter on a napkin like I have all the time in the world, I grab the dusty bottle of hot sauce from behind the ketchup.
The label reads “Firearreah” in menacing block letters, with flames and a laughing Satan underneath.
Marlow’s brother puts those out because he’s a little butthead.
No one has ever tried this hot sauce without experiencing severe gastrointestinal consequences.
Matt’s eyes tighten when I unscrew the lid.
“You’re right, Diana was all over me last night.
” I pour a gentle line of hot sauce across the remainder of Matt’s scrambled eggs, looking him dead in the eye.
“But guess what, Matt? I was all over her, too.” It’s really coming out now and even my eyes widen at the amount of hot sauce.
I’m not trying to kill anyone today. But I’m committed.
I maintain eye contact with Matt as I continue drizzling.
“Because I’m her husband. We're married. The only man allowed near Diana’s lighthouse is me.
Not Tom Selleck. Not you. Not even the guy goes over there.
Got it?” I replace the cap, setting the bottle on the table with a comforting clink.
Get that stuff away from me. I tried it once, and I was singing “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash for days. I frown at the memory.
I gesture at Satan’s eggs with my eyes, then at Matt. I’m silently daring him to go for it. Man up, big guy.
The theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly is playing from somewhere behind us like it’s high noon at the O.K. Corral or something. A tumbleweed rolls by.
Matt picks up his fork without dropping eye contact.
Holy crap, I didn’t think he’d actually do it. Someone should stop him.
He scoops up a forkful of the now-reddish eggs, pushing it into his mouth defiantly. He’s a bigger idiot than I thought.
He chews once. Coughs. Gasps for air. The women he was gossiping with are snickering. Someone presses “stop” on the O.K. Corral music. Matt coughs and gasps again, and his eyes go wide. His mouth is a huge “O” shape, but nothing is going in or out, not even a wheeze.
“Are you choking?” I ask.
He grabs at his throat. That’s the universal sign, right?
Oh, brother. I’m going to have to give him the Heimlich, aren’t I? I stand slowly. Human beings can go a few minutes without oxygen. He’s fine. “Get up.”
Matt listens quickly, making an unsettling gagging sound. I wrap my arms around his portly torso, shoving my joined fists upward toward his stomach.
Once.
Twice.
Oof, this guy smells like mackerel. On the third pump a reddish-yellow chunk pops out of his esophagus, landing on the table with a tiny plop. A few people clap. Matt coughs.
Marlow slides a glass of milk onto the table, and Matt gulps it down. She winks at me. “Stop trying to kill paying customers, Ike.”
∞∞∞
“Diana?” I call up the stairs a little while later. “You up? I brought you a whoopie pie. Marlow says hello.”
Nothing. Just the smell of salt air and musty, old house. The fresh, white paint Diana chose for the walls looks good, though. It’s brighter in here, even on a cloudy morning. I whistle while I wait for her answer.
“Di?” I try again, listening for shuffling or the creak of her floorboards. Instead, something echoes from the direction of the lighthouse tower. Someone is screaming.
Diana.
Heart pounding, I sprint through the living room and kitchen, toward the short entry to the lighthouse. I’m sure it’s coming from there. I almost push through the door when I realize what I’m hearing isn’t screaming.
It’s… singing?
That can’t be singing.
I turn the doorknob slowly, without letting the mechanism make noise, a feat for this rusty old thing.
I move inside silently, crouching low like that will make my six-foot-two frame invisible.
Yeah, the screaming is definitely supposed to be singing.
I force my mouth into a firm line as I enter the lighthouse tower.
Diana is sitting halfway up the stairs, belting operatically in her pajamas.
Her garbled Italian—or maybe it’s Latin—is heavy on the vibrato.
That’s what Stevie calls it when a singer makes their voice wobble like they’re riding on the hood of a truck down a bumpy dirt road.
Yeah, that’s exactly what it sounds like.
Diana sounds like she’s shouting Italian threats from the hood of a truck. I picture it with a goofy grin.
I am so gone for this woman.
I step toward our new staircase, wary of being spotted.
What can I say? It’s the day for me to eavesdrop on everyone in town.
And I want to enjoy this rare “Diana in the wild” sighting while I can.
She’s peering out the narrow window at the Atlantic, and wearing those little pink pajama shorts that seem to be her favorite.
She’s really going for it on the chorus or whatever that’s supposed to be, her tone sad and tragic. I close my eyes, soaking in the falling-for-her feeling and the sound of my wife’s atrocious opera. I love this side of her—the real her, with the messy hair and the unpleasant singing voice.
Then she screeches.
I startle and yelp, clamping my hand over my mouth.
The tower falls silent. I don’t move. There’s a chance she didn’t hear me. A seagull squawks outside. She tilts her head toward the sound.
Yes. That was it. A seagull was joining you in “song.”
“Ike?”
I curse under my breath. Clearing my throat, I straighten my ball cap. “I brought you a whoopie pie,” I announce like I haven’t heard a thing.
I climb the stairs toward her, scrambling for a way to keep her from feeling embarrassed. That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. When I find her halfway up the steps, her arms are crossed over her knees, and her face is buried in her arms.
I hold out the brown paper bag. “Whoopie pie?”
She snatches it, barely looking up. “Thank you.” She re-buries her face.
It’s quiet for a beat. Then I ask, “Whatcha doin’?” as tenderly as I can, lowering onto the stair beside her, maybe a little too close.
“Bumph rumffatic.” Her words are muffled against her arms.
“What was that?”
When she doesn’t answer I bump her with my shoulder.
“I fedd ah bumph remffatic,” she uselessly emphasizes every word.
“Nope. I got nothing.”
Her shoulders and back raise and lower slowly in a defeated sigh. She pulls only her mouth away from her arms. “I said I’m being dramatic.”
I think I know what might loosen her up. A dozen childhood memories flit through my mind.
“Can I scratch your back?” It’s something my dad does whenever my mom’s keyed up. Married people stuff. I don’t know. It’s worth a shot, right?
I’m shocked when Diana shrugs. “Ukehhh,” she grumbles into her arms.
I think that was an “okay.” I’m fist-pumping on the inside. Then I gird up my loins. I’m well aware of the uncharted, risky territory I’m entering. Diana York territory. I draw a mental map of the no-fly zones. I’m doing this. I’m going in.
I reach over and drag my fingers across her upper back through the heavy, oversized t-shirt she always seems to sleep in.
My hand makes slow arcs across her shoulder blades until I spot goosebumps on her arms. She unfolds her arms, letting them dangle at her sides.
Her forehead drops onto her knees. This time her sigh sounds totally content.
It gives me the courage to dig. “Why are you being dramatic halfway up the stairs, sweetheart?”