The Language of Sand (21 page)

The early-morning air was brisk. Standing outside Merle’s house
waiting for Ruth, Abigail wished she’d worn a sweater. She felt so terrible about what had happened at the Kozy Kettle that she was impatient to make amends.

Merle lived on the north end of the island. His property sloped into the bay. A lone motorboat was tethered to his private dock. Floral drapes hung in the windows of his gray-shingled cottage, and there were tulips embossed on the welcome mat, roses stenciled on the mailbox, and a plastic daisy wreath gracing the entry.

“Flowers would have been thoughtful,” Abigail told herself as she paced the sidewalk, feeling guilty for arriving empty-handed. “If Merle’s front door is any indication, he does seem to like them.”

As she was eyeing the neighbor’s bed of marigolds, contemplating stealing some to improvise a bouquet, Ruth arrived.

“Why didn’t you head in, hon?”

“Merle wasn’t expecting me, and I wasn’t sure if he was, well, miffed about yesterday.”

“When Merle Braithwaite is miffed, trust me, you’ll know.”

Ruth let herself in the front door, hollering, “I brought you a visitor.”

The home’s interior was furnished in feminine antiques and reams of mauve chintz. Abigail tried to imagine a man as large as Merle getting comfortable on the small tufted sofa or setting a beer
on the diminutive maple coffee table. The swirled legs of the armchairs seemed as if they would splinter if he looked at them too intently.

“You-know-who’s a bit of a bull in a china shop here,” Ruth whispered. “His ex-wife loved this girly stuff, so he won’t change a lick of it.”

“Ex-wife?”

“He married a gal who visited the island one summer. This was back, oh, years and years ago. After a few months, she couldn’t stand it here. The isolation drove her nuts. Couldn’t hack it, so she divorced Merle. Only she didn’t tell him she was pregnant. He found out through an in-law and volunteered to leave Chapel Isle, to move to California to be with her and the baby boy. She told him not to. She’d already shacked up with another fella.”

“My God, that’s horrible—” Abigail began. Then she heard Merle clomping toward the living room.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Oh, hey there, Abby,” he said, pleased to see her. Merle was using an umbrella as a cane and wearing a special vest with pockets for lures. The vest was wet.

Ruth folded her arms. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, were you fishing?”

“Maybe.” Merle hung his head.

“You could’ve killed yourself in that little boat of yours with a sprained ankle. I have half a mind to put you under house arrest until you’ve healed. Get off your feet this instant.” She badgered him toward the kitchen table and started making coffee.

Abigail joined him. “How are you feeling?”

“My leg hurts some.”

“Not enough to prevent you from fishing.”

“I’d have to be in a full-body cast not to fish. Even then I’d float myself on the water and put a line in my mouth.”

“That would be a sight.”

“You won’t have to wait if he doesn’t stay off that ankle,” Ruth threatened, setting out two cups for them.

“Aren’t you having any?” Abigail asked.

“Since our patient is obviously doing fine, I’ve got to get back to the Kettle. Give a jingle if you need me, Merle.” She scooped up her purse and went for the door as the coffee continued to perk. “Toodles.”

“How are the renovations coming?” Merle inquired once Ruth was gone.

“You say that like I’m putting a new wing on the house.”

“Are you?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I’ve witnessed you in action. I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m making progress. I’d planned on stopping by your store today to buy some new drawer pulls for the kitchen. Scratch that.”

“You can go and get what you want. Back’s always open.”

“You don’t lock your doors? What about the robberies?”

“If those burglars want to steal a dozen boxes of threepenny nails and some WD-40, they can have at it.”

“This from the mouth of the man in charge of Lottie’s security.”

“Speaking of which, I have a favor to ask.”

“Whatever I can do, consider me at your service. Groceries, cooking, cleaning, you name it.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I can’t drive because of my ankle. If I can’t drive, I can’t check on the rental properties for Franklin.”

“You’re saying you want me to take over your night watchman post? Merle, no offense, but you’re humongous. I have trouble opening jars when the lids are too tight. There’s no comparison.”

“Abby, my brain may be a quart short o’ full, but my vision’s top notch. I realize you’re a…delicate flower. This isn’t a job where sizes matters.”

“What about Bert?”

“He doesn’t drive.”

“Doesn’t drive? How does he get around?”

“Walks. Chapel Isle isn’t what you’d call a sprawling metropolis.”

“Then how about Denny?”

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sweet kid. Not the sharpest tool in the kit.”

“What if something happens? What if I see the robbers?”

“Go straight to the sheriff’s station. All you have to do is make sure the cottages haven’t already been broken into and that the doors and windows are locked. Easy-peasy.”

“You mean I have to get out of the car?”

“Unless you’ve got a real long reach.”

As much as she would have liked to, Abigail couldn’t turn Merle down. She owed him.

“I can’t pay you, so you can have whatever supplies you want from the store.”

“Some offer. You were prepared to let the burglars take you for everything you own.”

“Okay, how about this? Make my rounds for a week while I heal up and I’ll get an electrician to recheck the wiring for you at the lighthouse. Deal?”

Merle took a map from his back pocket. Lottie’s properties were circled in red. Abigail reluctantly accepted it from him.

“Deal.”

The morning fog had cleared, revealing a bald blue sky. Somehow the total absence of clouds kept Abigail from feeling as though she had just agreed to a ludicrously bad idea.

“Nothing could be that awful on a day this beautiful.”

That’s what you think
, bemoaned the voice in her head.

A cardboard box was waiting for Abigail on the front steps when she returned to the lighthouse.
Enjoy
, read the attached note, with Lottie’s signature in script at the bottom.

The box held dozens of paperback romance novels. Every cover was emblazoned with buxom women, cleavage heaving from their corsets, as muscled men with chiseled features embraced them
lustily. Some were soldiers, some princes, some cowboys, some cops. No matter their stripe, each wore an outfit strategically torn to reveal rippling muscles.

“Can’t wait to dive into these.”

Abigail added the carton to the others in the study—the next room to be painted. Piled as it was with books, it took more time to empty the tiny space than it did to tape around the crown moldings and baseboards. Before popping open a new can of yellow paint, she plugged in the radio. Dr. Walter was on the air.

Today’s topic was a proposed two percent tax hike to fund programs for schools. A man phoned in criticizing the increase. “I pay a king’s ransom in taxes as is. School was fine for me. Should be fine for kids today. We don’t need no changes.”

Dr. Walter didn’t hold back. “Given your less-than-exemplary grammar, sir, you’ve made a concrete case for upping the school tax a full two hundred percent. Next caller.”

Abigail applauded. “Bravo, Doc.”

What she appreciated most about the show was that Dr. Walter said what was on his mind. He shot from the hip and didn’t sugarcoat his opinions. That took gumption, an attribute Abigail considered herself sorely lacking.

Paul had the same type of spirit. He spoke from his heart and was practically incapable of telling a lie. To him, lying was like bad math. It would be wrong in the end regardless. Honest to a fault, Paul lectured the telemarketers who would call during mealtimes, calmly taking them to task on how they could consider themselves upstanding citizens if they purposefully phoned at inappropriate hours. It amused Abigail to hear him harangue them, presenting his argument to the dumbfounded salespeople, who could either listen patiently or disconnect. She wanted to believe that some measure of Paul’s zeal had rubbed off on her during their years of marriage. She often doubted it had.

“Give me a break,” Dr. Walter was bellowing. “Call back when you grow a brain.”

The sound of him cutting the connection was followed by a dial tone that whined across the airwaves.

“You did stick it to Nat Rhone,” Abigail told herself. “Even if it was Dr. Walter’s line, you have to start somewhere.”

The study had been the watch room for a reason. It had the best view in the house, which Abigail realized while touching up the window trim. The position provided a broad vantage of the Atlantic, a panorama that spread for miles. A large part of the lighthouse keeper’s days would have been spent in this room, gazing through these very panes of glass. Abigail imagined him watching passing ships, the changing weather, the coming and going of the tides. She stood at the window, thinking she was seeing the very same sprawl of ocean Mr. Jasper must have looked at every single day.

When she was done painting, Abigail moved the final piece of furniture—the shelf—in from the hall, then started on her books.

“You’re really going to put them away. No reading. No dawdling.”

Each book had its own personal story—where she’d bought it, how many times she’d read it, why it held a place in her soul—but seeing her books stacked on a thrift-store shelf in the small study wasn’t where she’d envisioned them. It was like putting a sentimental family photo in a cheap plastic frame. With the bookcase filled, there was no space left to spare for Lottie’s paperbacks, except on the top ledge.

“What, have you become a book snob? Romance novels aren’t of regal-enough caliber to sit next to literature and history? They can’t be
that
dreadful.”

Abigail crouched on the floor, cracked one of the bodice rippers, and read the first paragraph. The writing was decent, albeit melodramatic, and she was soon turning page after page. A period romance, the tale traced the love affair between a ravishing heiress and a pirate captain. The lovers were separated by twists of fate and
a conspiracy to keep them apart, orchestrated by the girl’s suitor, a villainous count. A chapter in, Abigail was hooked, so much so that she forgot she was squatting until her thighs started to burn. She was about to move onto the cot to continue reading when a rumble reverberated from below, making her flinch. Her backside hit the floor with enough force that the impact shook her shoulders.

“Fabulous. Another bruise.”

Abigail kneaded her tailbone as she got to her feet. The noise hadn’t come from the living room or the kitchen. This sound seemed deeper.

“I bet it’s your favorite. The basement.”

She stalked across the study, summoning her valor.

“You’re going to go see what it is. There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is all in your head.”

Before she could lose her nerve, Abigail flew downstairs and threw open the basement door. Common sense intervened.