John is always polite, definitely quiet, but no one who gets within a few feet of him can miss the fact that he’s clearly seen some ugly things in his time and carries them in a manner that suggests for him the war is far from over. He shouldn’t make me nervous—he always tips better than most, and he’s never given me any trouble—but there’s something about him that reminds me so much of Tom that it nearly steals my breath when I’m around him.

When I set his food on the table before him, it’s as though another man sits in his stead, with the same immense size, the power to use that physical advantage to inflict harm, and I instinctively wait for his meaty hand to seize my wrist, for him to overturn the plate of food because it wasn’t hot enough when I brought it to him, to throw his meal at me because he’s tired of eating the same thing every day and don’t I know how hard he works, what it’s like out there on the water, don’t I appreciate all the food he puts on my plate when so many have so little, when people are hungry, how can I be so ungrateful, so—

And suddenly, I’m not back in the little cottage where all manner of sins are hidden by man and mangroves, but at Ruby’s, my breaths coming quickly now.

“You all right?” Ruby asks.

I shudder. “I am.”

“If waiting tables is getting to be too much this close to the baby coming, we understand. I could come out from the kitchen to help more. Or maybe Max could try his hand at it.”

I’m lucky they didn’t fire me when I began showing; I can hardly afford to lose this job considering no one else would hire a woman in my condition.

“I’m fine, but thank you. Besides, we need the money.”

It’s difficult enough to feed two mouths right now; I haven’t quite figured out how we’re going to manage three. Then again, it hardly seems worth fretting over. Life happens whether you’re worrying about it or not, and it seems presumptuous to think we have much of a say in how things play out.

I trudge toward the new arrival, refilling a coffee cup or two along the way, prolonging the encounter as much as I can.

A wave of nausea hits me again, and I sway.

“Do you need to sit down?”

Surprise fills me.

The only things I’ve ever heard John say in addition to his name pertain to his order, as though God only gave him a certain number of words to use each day, and he’d already expended his quota before he sat in my section.

He’s a big man with a thick neck, broad of shoulder, and tall, so very tall. His body strains against the fit of his threadbare white shirt and his ragged overalls, his large hands clutching the silverware, making it seem dainty in comparison, his table manners at odds with his rough appearance.

His voice is surprisingly gentle for such a big man, the words coming out cool, crisp, and not from around here.

“I’m fine,” I reply, letting go of the table instantly. “Thank you, though.”

His cheeks flush again as he angles his body away from mine. On his weekend trips into Ruby’s, I haven’t seen him in the company of the other veterans working on the highway. They never fail to acknowledge him with a nod of their heads or a tip of their hats, but they move past him as though he has erected a barrier around himself. He is one of them, and yet, he is not.

Much of the town has given the veterans a wide berth, complaining of general drunkenness and disorderly conduct when they come down to Key West for the weekends. In the tight-knit communities up on Matecumbe and Windley Keys where the population is smaller and the days—and nights—quieter, they’re probably even less welcome. These are difficult times, and when you’re at your lowest, fear and uncertainty have a nasty habit of making you close ranks and view outsiders with suspicion, even if you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face. For all we need the railroad and highway to bring the tourists in, you’d think the locals would be a little nicer to the people working on them, but then again I’ve given up on trying to understand why people do the things they do.

People are a mystery, and the second you think you have them figured out, they surprise you.

“How much longer?” John asks, straightening in his seat, his gaze on my swollen belly beneath the worn apron. His eyes are a rich brown, a shade darker than his hair, framed by long lashes most women would envy.

I flush at the matter-of-fact manner in which he asks the question.

Pregnancy has a way of exposing your most private intimacies to the world whether you’d like them to be exposed or not.

“A few weeks,” I reply.

The baby kicks again.

John’s eyes narrow slightly as though he is attempting to work something out in his mind. “You shouldn’t be on your feet so much.”

I don’t spend much time worrying about “should.” As much as Ruby has some affection for me, she’s running a business here, and there’ve been times when this job has meant the difference between us having food and going hungry when Tom’s hit the bottle too hard to go out to sea or drunk his pay away.

“Can I take your order?” I ask, ignoring the intimacy.

“I’ll have eggs and bacon,” he answers after a beat. “Black coffee, too, please.”

He orders the same thing every time he comes in here.

“It’ll be a few minutes,” I reply.

I lean forward and brush a speck of food from the table left from one of my earlier customers, and my sleeve rides up on my forearm, exposing the dark purple bruises that decorate my skin.

Five fingerprint-sized bruises, to be exact.

I tug the sleeve back in place, my cheeks heating.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice low.

“Nothing,” I lie.

You can tell he’s not a local, because I doubt there’s anyone left in Key West who doesn’t know that Tom Berner gets a little rough with his wife when he drinks—and when he’s stone-cold sober.

“Can I get you anything else?” I struggle to keep my voice steady, to plaster a polite smile on my face.

I don’t want his judgment or sympathy; have no use for well-meaning words that would do more harm than good. What’s between a man and his wife is a man’s business, or so they tell me. I am Tom’s wife, Tom’s possession, to do with as he wishes.

The baby will be his whether I wish it to be or not.

John shakes his head in response to my question, letting me know he doesn’t need anything else, and he is once again the taciturn stranger to whom I have grown accustomed.

The bell above the front door rings, and the room quiets considerably more than usual as new arrivals stroll in.