“You tell ’em, Dr. Walter,” Abigail cheered.
“Do you have a dating horror story? Are you an incurable romantic? Is chivalry dead? The phone lines are open.”
Caller upon caller recounted tales of blind-date catastrophes as well as perfect matches that resulted in marriage. Meanwhile, Abigail turned her attention from the walls, where the paint was drying, to the bedroom furniture. She propped the rocker on a drapery panel and took a brush to it, slathering on a coat of white. Next came the nightstand, which was stubby and bland. The paint certainly enlivened it. The same went for the dull dresser, which took the white well after some sanding. Pausing between drawers, Abigail stole a glance at the ceiling in the direction of the lamp room, to make sure what she was doing was okay. The only noise was from Dr. Walter. So she kept painting.
“This jerk stood me up,” a female caller sniffled. “Don’t you think that’s cruel to do to someone when they’ve put on their prettiest dress and done their nails? To me, it’s mean.”
The usually salty doctor turned sensitive. “Don’t cry, my lovely. I’m certain you looked beautiful that night. I’m also certain there’s a special level in hell reserved for men who stand women up. Common courtesy,” he sighed, “where has it gone? Show your fellow humans some respect and the world will show you some back.”
Was she being thoughtless, Abigail wondered, painting a place that wasn’t hers and furniture that didn’t belong to her? In a certain respect, she was. In another, she saw herself as bettering the long-neglected home. Whatever the case, the point was moot because the painting was finished. If it was an insult rather than assistance, she felt as certain as Dr. Walter that she would find out shortly.
There was one last thing Abigail wanted to try. The old drapes she’d put under each piece of furniture to protect the floor also made the items easy to move. Abigail pushed the bed into the corner at an angle, switched the placement of the nightstand and the rocker, then resituated the dresser between the windows. The new layout was cozier, taking advantage of the space. The bedroom went from looking like a cheap beach motel to cottage chic.
“Some blinds. A new lamp shade. Could be cute in here after all.”
Admiring the arrangement, Abigail had a flash of moving into her old house with Paul the year before Justin was born, each room an open expanse of potential. Paul had been making more money with his firm, and their new house was three times the size of their former home. They didn’t have even remotely enough furniture to fill it, but Paul’s attitude was: “If we don’t have it, we can buy it.” He’d given Abigail carte blanche on the dcor. The style of the home was colonial, a favorite of hers. High ceilings, inlaid floors, marquetry cabinets, and intricate crown molding in every room, it was traditional to a T. Although she’d delighted in the process of selecting historically correct paint colors and ordering custom furniture, she prized that moment when the house was still empty and replete with possibilities. Tears welled in her eyes.
“No,” Abigail said. “I don’t want to do this. I am
She refused to allow what she’d accomplished that afternoon to be overshadowed, to be lost so fast. Abigail rushed down the stairs, barreled through the front door, and doubled over in the high grass, unsure if she would faint.
“Breathe,” she told herself. “Breathe.”
Abigail unsteadily made her way to the station wagon. She was conjugating Latin verbs as she sped away from the lighthouse, desperate to be anywhere but there.
Rows of boats were bunched along the pier, masts listing against the darkening sky. Pickup trucks lined the town square. This was the most crowded Abigail had seen it since she’d arrived. By chance, her usual parking space outside the Kozy Kettle was vacant. That was as provident a reason as any for her to stop.
“You’re hungry. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”
Haggard and covered in paint, Abigail pushed the door to the cafe open and immediately had to resist the urge to pull it closed again. The place was packed. Each stool at the counter was taken, and there wasn’t a booth to be had. All eyes—including Janine Wertz’s—shifted toward her as she entered. Janine was having coffee and a cigarette with one of the women Abigail had seen her with at bingo.
“Fancy seeing you here, Abby,” someone called out.
It was Denny. She should have known. He was at her side in a second flat.
“Ruth didn’t save you a seat this time. Want to sit with us? We got room.”
“Sure,” Abigail replied, passing Janine, who exhaled a belligerent stream of smoke right at her. “Thanks for the invitation.”
Denny led her to the table he was sharing with his father and proffered a seat with a gentlemanly flourish of his hand. Janine and her cohort were two tables away. Across the aisle Abigail recognized Nat Rhone from the night before. He was with three other men, each wearing a flannel shirt, canvas jacket, cap, and heavy boots—the unofficial fisherman’s uniform. Most of the patrons had coffee cups but no plates. Either Abigail had missed the meal rush or no one was eating. The Kozy Kettle seemed to be an island hangout rather than a dinner destination. Without food to occupy them, everyone in the cafe abandoned their conversations to take in the scene that was about to unfold.
“Hey, Pop, this is that lady we brought over from the mainland the other day. Her name’s Abby.”
Denny’s father grunted his greeting and fiddled with his coffee cup. He appeared as painfully aware of the attention as Abigail was.
“You been painting?” Denny inquired.
“Yes, and I made quite a mess of myself,” she admitted self-effacingly.
“No harm done,” he said. It was the truest thing Abigail had heard in a while. “You hungry? I can grab you a menu.”
“No, no, I can—”
