At last, Nat turned the key, started the truck, and drove into the wind.
Ruth Kepshaw’s house had a wide front porch, and Nat pulled as close to it as he could.
“Are you okay?” Abigail asked. “For the storm, I mean. Do you have candles and food and—”
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
Abigail realized she was treating him the way her parents treated her. She was fully aware that being badgered by other people in the name of sympathy wasn’t fun. Abigail also knew that what awaited Nat made the hurricane pale in significance. With Hank’s death came countless duties, from making funeral arrangements and notifying next of kin to stopping his mail and dealing with his personal effects. There would be much to do. The first travail would be going home to the apartment over Hank’s garage, where everything would remind Nat of his friend.
“Thanks for the ride.”
Nat said nothing. Abigail understood. There was nothing either of them could say.
Hood on, she hurried from his truck to the porch and rang the doorbell. Nat didn’t leave until Ruth came to the door.
“I’m going to have Denny’s head on platter,” Ruth growled, ushering Abigail inside.
Candles were burning in the living room, which made the oak paneling glow. The furniture smacked of a bygone era but was well maintained, giving the house the feel of a seaside rental rather than a permanent home. A can of diet soda and a book of crossword puzzles sat beside a lounge chair.
“Small change in plans,” Abigail explained.
“You don’t say? Give me those wet clothes and I’ll find you something dry to put on. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
Abigail hung her soaking sweater and pants over the shower rod and stood shivering in her underwear in the bathroom until Ruth opened the door a crack and offered her a flannel nightgown.
“Ain’t pretty, but it’ll do.”
She slipped into the extra-large gown, then returned to the living room, where Ruth appraised the outfit.
“Better you look frumpy than continue dripping on my carpet. Take a load off. You look beat.”
Abigail dropped onto the couch. “I feel beat.”
“Saw that was Nat Rhone who dropped you here. He figure out you’re the one who freed him from the slammer?”
“Nope.”
“And that’s how you want it to stay?”
“Yup.”
“Consider my lips sealed,” Ruth said, sipping her soda.
“Thanks for talking to the sheriff.”
“Funny—this morning Caleb didn’t care a lick about what I had to say regarding Hank. He must have had a change of heart.”
“That’s what it must have been.”
If Ruth sensed what Abigail had done, she wasn’t letting on. For that, Abigail respected her even more.
“So, you think you’ll stay here, Abby, after everything Chapel Isle’s put you through? A fight at the Kettle, a suicide, a hurricane, bingo?”
“If you were me, what would you do? Would you stay?”
“Depends.” Ruth put aside her soda and folded her hands in her lap. “Have you heard of the
“Have I? It was the ship that sank when Wesley Jasper was the caretaker.”
Abigail realized belatedly that it was a loaded question. As usual, Ruth already knew the answer.
“That ship was named after a real bishop. He’d been a sailor, an old salt through and through. Gave up sailing to preach the gospel. According to legend, after years of being a priest, he missed the ocean so much that he was going to leave the clergy. Only he couldn’t do it. The Lord was his first love. The sea would have to be his second. Whether you stay here on Chapel Isle or take the next ferry home, it won’t make a bit of difference. It’s like trying to serve two masters. You’ve got the grief and you’ve got your life. The one you choose to serve is up to you.”
Having a choice hadn’t occurred to Abigail. She still had an opportunity to decide.
Ruth coughed and reached for her drink. “Sheesh. This serious talk done dried my throat. Now listen, hon, I’ve got a spare bed. Why don’t you go lie down and leave a gal to her puzzles.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay up with you?”
“Positive.”
“Night, Ruth.”
“Night, Abby.”
That had become her name, and Abigail was okay with that. She had only begun to get acquainted with
