need the extra set of hands. See that he gets into bed and puts an ice pack on that ankle. I’ll stop by in the morning to check on him.”
“Ruth, there’s no need to bother—”
“Don’t fuss at me, Merle Braithwaite, or that sprain will be the least of your injuries.”
He gave in, then the men steadied him on their shoulders, helping him limp out of the cafe. All Abigail could do was hold the door for them.
“I’m sorry, Merle.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Abby.”
In actuality, she had a profusion of things to be sorry for, herself included. What Abigail wanted to hear was that Merle didn’t blame her. She blamed herself for too much already.
From the window of the cafe, she and Ruth watched as the men got Merle into his truck.
“It’s not your fault,” Ruth told her.
“Gee, the voice in my head must be getting loud if other people can hear it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Money says Nat was pining for a fight before you shot him that zinger.”
“You heard that?”
“Did I!” Ruth nudged Abigail’s arm, congratulating her. “Dr. Walter couldn’t have said it better himself.”
“Do you think anybody else knew I was plagiarizing a radio personality?”
“Naw. They probably figure you’re a badass.”
“A badass? That might be a stretch.”
“Who’s to say? Boston’s a tough town.” Ruth had known Abigail was a widow instinctively but had likely heard she was from Boston through Lottie. News certainly did travel fast on the island.
“Not as tough as Chapel Isle.”
“You got that right, hon. Come on and fix these chairs with me, will ya? Give a tired broad a hand.”
Abigail cleared the mess from the fight while Ruth collected the leftover dishes. Though the cafe was closed, the smell of hot coffee and the warmth of people’s bodies lingered. Abigail had been rattling around the lighthouse on her own like a marble in a jar. She’d forgotten how it felt to be in a space that wasn’t always vacant. She gathered the plates Ruth couldn’t carry and trailed her into the kitchen.
“This here’s Zeke.”
Ruth introduced her to a sinewy man in an apron with an anchor tattooed on his forearm, the blue ink so dark it seemed like a bruise. He was vigorously scraping the grill with a metal spatula. A day’s worth of grease oozed from the burner, making Abigail glad she hadn’t had the chance to eat.
“We got the dishes for you,” Ruth told him, and he nodded.
“He cooks and does the dishes?”
“Says it clears his mind.”
“Clears the mind,” Zeke repeated, tapping his temple.
“If you ever want to clear your mind at my house, you’re welcome anytime.”
Zeke didn’t respond. Then the comment sunk in and he chuckled. “Funny,” he said.
“Yeah, this gal’s a riot. Lemme tell you,” Ruth said sarcastically. “Don’t get her riled or heads will roll. The Boston Bruiser, we’ll call ya.”
“Please don’t.”
“Bye, Bruiser,” Zeke said, as Ruth guided her out of the kitchen.
“Great. Another nickname.”
“I’ve got to cash out the till. You don’t have to stay,” Ruth said. “You’ve done enough.”
“No argument there. I don’t have much else to do, though.”
“Can you count change?”
While Ruth tallied the day’s take, Abigail sat at the counter sorting coins.
“I feel awful about Merle getting hurt.”
“Don’t. He would’ve tried to break up the fight even if you weren’t involved.”
“Me? Why would that matter?”
“He knows you’re alone here on the island. Plus, I told him you were a widow, so I think he was looking after you.”
“A widow? How did you—”
“Darlin’, it takes one to know one.”
