Chapter 23
Diana
I’m trying to live Ike’s way: I’m not overthinking. I’m letting myself be happy. It’s only been twelve hours since our talk on the beach, but so far the results are mixed.
I’m sitting on a rocking chair Ike put in our breezeway, eating half a grapefruit.
Ike said he had some things to take care of today so I came down early in my pajamas so he didn’t have to wait to use our shared bathroom.
I’m having a slow breakfast al fresco, and I’ll shower later.
I’m a new Diana. Not overthinking. Enjoying life.
I dig out a section of grapefruit with my spoon, and a spurt of acidic juice squirts me in the eye.
Like I said, mixed results.
After rubbing away the juice with my napkin, I rock back in my chair to give my grapefruit a minute to think about what it did.
I love this spot because I can watch the sun rise over the Atlantic while I have breakfast. That’s why Ike moved this chair out here—the view is stunning, but the breezeway keeps the wind away. It’s idyllic, honestly.
The chill in the morning air is a crisp reminder that fall is close.
I still want to plant some late season flowers in the yard—maybe some yellow coneflowers and purple aster.
I also need to have the storm door and window seals checked.
And the grass needs a trim. I grab my phone to make a note before I forget.
Stop thinking, Diana, Ike reminds me in my head. Just be happy. Be in the moment.
He’s right, Tom Selleck chimes in, his voice gruff. Let yourself enjoy the little things.
Great. The voices in my head are ganging up on me now.
They’re right, though. So instead of focusing on the additions to my spreadsheet, I focus on the horizon.
I close my eyes, listening to the waves and the seagulls swooping and diving just off the island.
The door creaks open behind me, and my heart thumps. Ike.
He’s across the breezeway in less than three steps, his hand already on the exterior doorknob. “See you tonight.” He waves over his shoulder without looking back.
He’s leaving so fast? It’s Sunday. What’s his hurry?
“Hey.” I drop my grapefruit bowl on the floor by my chair, scrambling to my feet. “Hold up.”
He hangs his head, not taking his hand off the doorknob.
Then I see it.
His cheek is bare. Clean-shaven. And turning a nice, bright shade of red.
“Ike?”
He turns slowly, and there it is.
I gasp. “What did you do?”
He tilts his head up, his eyes closed in either embarrassment or shame.
What he reveals is even more tragic than I expected.
I thought he was clean-shaven. Instead, a freshly-trimmed Tom Selleck-esque mustache is perched atop my husband’s upper lip.
He doesn’t answer, just gestures to his face with a look that says, “Let’s get this over with. ”
I bite my lip. My voice is a few octaves higher than usual when I squeak, “I like it.” Heaven help me, I just lied to my husband.
His eyes brighten. “Really?”
There’s a tan line where his beard used to be. “Of course. It’s s-sexy.” It’s a travesty. But his handsome face is so earnest, he could have a handlebar mustache with Christmas ornaments dangling off either end, and I’d still want to snuggle with him.
He runs his hand over his jaw where the beard was, a mannerism that isn’t quite the same without the facial hair.
His self-consciousness makes my heart ache. I wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head on his solid chest. This way the mustache is out of my line of sight.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask into his T-shirt.
His hands make their way around my back, and I feel him shrug.
“Tom Selleck?” I ask softly.
He exhales, long and deep. “Maybe.”
I tighten my hold on his waist. I can’t believe he did this for me.
It’s atrocious, but he did it because someone in this town told him I have a thing for Tom Selleck.
I’m guessing the gossip pipeline went from Stevie to Marlow, to Marlow’s brother, to the rest of the county within an hour.
Something like that. But it doesn’t change the fact that he did this for me.
I burrow closer to his chest. “I like it.”
He makes a sound that’s a cross between a groan and a whine, and I know he hates the mustache.
I hide my smile. “You can grow the beard back, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I pop onto my tiptoes and kiss his bald cheek. “The sooner the better.”
∞∞∞
Weeks pass and Ike and I fall into a cute little 1950s sitcom-style rhythm.
We set up boundaries quickly—a necessity for both of us since we’re married, living in the same house, and drawn to each other like a couple of high-powered magnets.
We’re going slow. Not thinking too much.
I kiss him goodbye when he leaves for work, and we eat dinner together in the evening.
Ike’s cooking has saved me from a life of cold cereal.
We have a weekly date night, and I join him and Boone for their sandwich nights.
I haven’t made any progress with that kid. He slapped me a few Saturdays ago. Ike was so frustrated he wanted to take a week off, but I wouldn’t let him. Instead, I spent the next sandwich night letting Marlow trim my hair while Stevie watched.
I spend half of my days managing Dynamic Dumper’s finances, and the other half managing the work on the lighthouse.
It’s coming along quickly. The exterior is painted, and I had the flooring in the house redone—goodbye gold linoleum, hello beautiful hickory hardwood.
We’re having some of the windows replaced before winter sets in. Things are right on track.
Fall came with a fluke early storm that brought chilly temperatures that never quite left.
The other day I even spotted some bright red leaves on the highest branches of a maple tree across the water, and the nights have been downright cold in the drafty keeper’s house.
Still, fall on the coast of Maine is a spectacle. Life has been good.
Best of all, Ike’s beard grew back in.
This morning I’m going to breakfast at Marlow’s Cafe during peak hours, and Ike is on the phone in my ear, psyching me up.
I only venture onto the mainland alone when absolutely necessary—mostly to pop in at my grandparents’ so they don’t pop in at the lighthouse.
Ike helps me get through these interactions with the local color.
He’s out with August today, though. I’m so glad he's doing something for himself for once that I decided I can be brave. That didn’t stop him from calling me to check in, though.
The man can’t take a day off from saving everyone.
“Okay, seriously.” His voice is low in my ear. “Look at their faces. Are they staring at you? Still? After all of these months?”
“That’s the point,” I whisper in a rush. “They don’t stare when I’m looking. I can feel their eyeballs on me when I look away.”
He chuckles. “You can?”
I don’t appreciate his skeptical tone. “I can. And they still hate me. I can see inside their weird little souls.”
He laughs again. “You’re never going to beat the witch allegations by talking like that.
” I can hear his smile, and I know the face he’s making.
He’s apologized dozens of times for the rumors.
He vocally defends me when the occasion arises, but the people of this town are hard-headed. And weird. I stand by that.
Someone shoves past me from behind on the sidewalk outside of Marlow’s. “Move it, Hermione,” the teenage boy grunts as he lunges for the door. It’s Marlow’s brother, Brady. The town crier. Spreader of rumors. I don’t know how Marlow handles the little turd.
There’s a lump in my throat when I say, “I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” I press End without waiting for Ike’s response. I don’t want him to give Brady community service for almost making me cry.
I follow the kid inside the cafe, where Marlow has an orange phone propped between her ear and her shoulder, its long, curling cord tethering her to the wall.
She glares at her brother and points at her watch silently.
It takes a lot to make my friend frown like that—usually her sixteen-year-old brother showing up late for his shift, or an elbow to the nose.
“It’s Saturday,” he says with enough attitude that I’m amazed Marlow doesn’t vault over the counter fist-first to deal with him.
She disentangles herself from the orange cord and slams the receiver onto the hook.
“Exactly. It’s our busiest day, and you were supposed to be here an hour ago.
” She sees me behind her brother, and her eyes fill with relief.
She turns serious eyes back on her brother.
“You’re up, Brady. We talked about this.
I’m taking a break, and you’re going to step up.
” She unties her apron and passes it to her brother, who pulls it over his head with a major eye roll.
Then she turns to me, “I saved us a booth in the back.”
Stevie is already back there, slouching behind a menu. She straightens, pulling her feet off the opposite bench when she spots us. “You made it. No one egged you, and you didn’t even have to bring your E.S.I.”
Marlow drops beside me in the booth across from Stevie, redoing her blonde topknot and making it worse. “Her E.S.I.?” She sounds so tired. Poor Marlow. She needs so much more than a fifteen minute breakfast break.
Stevie grins, tucking her red hair behind her ear. “Her Emotional Support Ike.”
My face burns. They love to tease me for using Ike as a buffer. They’re right, of course.
Marlow snickers, but doesn’t rub it in. She kicks her feet up on the bench on the other side of Stevie. “I never thought that of the three of us, Little Miss Women’s Liberation here would be the first one to get married,” she says off-handedly. “Where’s your husband today, anyway?”
“He’s fishing.” But I wish he were here.
“He’s fishing,” Stevie says, imitating me, her voice high-pitched and breathy.
“Yeah, he’s fishing. And I’m not Little Miss Women’s Liberation.” No one who has witnessed my Donna Reed lifestyle these past few months could accuse me of that. “I just don’t want to get married.” I’m fighting a grin as I say the words. I know how it sounds.
Stevie smirks at my simple gold wedding band. “I have some bad news for you—”
“Why not?” Marlow cuts her off.
In all of the years we’ve been friends, I’ve always told them that I didn’t want to be trapped or lose my identity.
I don’t want to live a life that was prescribed for me by my grandparents.
But a few months in Cape Georgeana married to Ike have made me question myself.
Marriage to Ike is nothing like that—of course, it’s not really marriage.
I can’t put my feelings into words, though.
The thought of marriage—a real one, not the thing Ike and I have going on—makes me want to run.
I want to hide in my apartment in New York and live in my sweatpants.
Then I wonder if I’m turning into my mother and whether that’s a good thing.
And that brings on a round of introspection I don’t have the bandwidth for on an empty stomach.
“I need pumpkin pancakes.” I pick up my menu. “You guys have those again, right?”
Marlow nods, but she’s not letting me off the hook. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything, but I want to live life on my terms. I have no interest in giving up my identity so that my grandparents can sleep better at night,” I snap over my plastic menu.
Stevie imitates a catty sound. Marlow gives me a look that says she sees right through me.
Luckily, my phone buzzes in my bag giving me an easy out.
It’s Ike. Normally I wouldn’t answer at the table, but my friends are being annoying, and what if something happened to him in the last five minutes, and he needs me?
And maybe I need my Emotional Support Ike after that hard conversation.
“I’m going to grab this really quick. Sorry.
” I swipe to answer, and my friends' eyes are on me. “Hey, Magnum—Ike! Ike.” I’ve never used the joking nickname in public.
I called him Magnum until he grew the beard out, and he absolutely hated it.
It still slips out occasionally, especially when I’m frazzled. “What’s up?”
“Just making sure we’re on for the game tonight. I forgot to ask earlier.”
Duh. The Yankees are about to beat the daylights out of the Red Sox.
The teams keep trading spots at the top of the division, but I smell another World Series in our future.
“Of course. Should I grab some stuff from the market since I’m already over here?
” I know he loves to demolish a few plates of nachos when baseball is on the T.V.
Marlow and Stevie are still silently watching me.
“Yeah, but could you grab a lot? I invited August and a few friends. I hope that’s okay. We all want to celebrate when the Pinstripers go down.”
I bark out a laugh. “Pfft. My boys will be fine. It’s your Red Sox you should be praying for.” I know I must be smiling like a teenage girl on the phone with her crush, but I can’t seem to rein it in. “I’ll get the stuff. Text me if you want anything specific.”
“You know what I like.” There’s a loud sound on his end. “Shoot, I gotta go. Thanks, Di.” He makes a short kiss sound into the phone. It’s his version of “goodbye,” I guess.
My cheeks turn warm. He’s so cute. “Bye.” I swipe to end the call, smiling as I drop my phone into my bag. When I look up, both of my friends' faces are ninety percent toothy grin.
“What?”
“Byyyyye,” Marlow imitates me this time.
“Girl.” Stevie shakes her head at me. “Don’t make me state the obvious.”
I can only shake my head. “Don’t read into things—”
“Your marriage is anything but fake,” Stevie announces over me.
My eyes dart around the room. It doesn’t seem like anyone heard her. “Good grief, keep your voice down.”
“Okay, it just seems like you aren’t having any problems hanging onto your identity as a fan of the worst baseball team in the history of baseball. You’re holding your own. And it’s, like, stupidly obvious that you’re falling for him.”
Stevie always thinks she knows everything. I look at Marlow like, “Can you believe her?”
She shrugs. “Stevie’s right. You’re dangerously close to moving into real marriage territory. And we’re coming to watch the game with you tonight.”
Brady chooses that moment to sidle up to the table. “What can I get you fine young ladies?” he asks in a tone so sarcastic I can tell his sister is moments away from smacking the notepad out of his hand.
Marlow sighs heavily. “Try that again.”
“Bruhhhh.” Brady groans, then pastes on a fake smile and readies his notepad and pen. “Welcome to Marlow’s Diner. What can I get you?”
“There ya go.” Marlow smiles. Then she grins at me, a little too big. “Diana’s going to need a fat stack of pumpkin pancakes. Her Yankees are going down tonight.”