The Language of Sand (29 page)

Abigail awoke with a start to the sound of the ledger falling to the
floor.

“Good morning to you too.”

Groggy, she picked up the ledger, dusted it off, and got dressed, donning the painting togs she’d worn the week before; a pale plaid shirt and a pair of now-spattered khakis. She hunted around for Lottie’s romance novel, found it in the study, then settled in at the dining-room table, thinking she’d read over breakfast before undertaking more household chores.

The story of the heiress and her pirate captain continued, each chapter ending in a crescendo of betrayal, a sword fight, or a chase on the high seas. As a battle ensued between the armada commanded by the dastardly count and the pirate’s band of sea dogs, Abigail felt a pain in her stomach. It was long past lunch. A whole chunk of the day had vanished. The predictable romance novel had become unpredictably entertaining.

Abigail ate a yogurt as the story hurtled onward at a swift clip, laden with soppy adjectives and fervent verbs. The count was about to have the heiress’s beloved pirate captain murdered in a secluded
cove when a horn honked outside. Through the front window, Abigail could see Nat’s truck in the drive.

“Right at the cliffhanger.”

She closed the paperback and stood up too fast, making her head spin. She’d been sitting for so many hours that her legs were falling asleep. Abigail slapped her thighs and hopped on the balls of her feet, forcing the blood through her legs. The horn honked again.

“I’ll be right there,” she shouted out the window. Legs tingling, Abigail shuffled down the front stairs a step at a time.

Nat stared at her from the cab of his truck. “You hurt yourself?”

“It’s a reading-related injury.”

He didn’t understand and didn’t seem as if he wanted to. “You bringing any food?”

“Why?”

“This’ll take a while. You might get hungry.”

Abigail awkwardly walked back into the house, grumbling, “How was I supposed to know I needed to bring food?”

She threw together her usual sandwich and took an apple. The only bag she had to pack them in was a jumbo paper sack from Merle’s store.

Nat raised his brows at the bag as she slid into the truck. “You must have some appetite.”

They rode in silence as they crossed the island. Aside from the scuffed leather seats and sandy floors, the truck’s interior was surprisingly tidy. A paper evergreen tree dangled from the rearview mirror.

“What?” Nat said. “You assumed it’d stink of fish in here.”

“Kind of,” Abigail confessed.

“You know what they say about assumptions. They’re usually wrong.”

Abigail would have readily admitted to being incorrect about several matters regarding Nat Rhone, except one. His attitude.

“Usually,”
she added.

The northwest end of the island was flat as a tabletop and blanketed by scrub brush. Nat pulled onto a bumpy, unmarked road. A
quarter mile in, the single-lane path drained into a clearing. Scattered throughout the glade were a variety of boats in various states of repair. A handful of outboards were mounted on cinder blocks, while a damaged rowboat acted as a catchall for miscellaneous parts. Grass refused to grow in the clearing. The weeds were more persistent, though, poking their heads up through a gigantic anchor that had come to rest next to a gutted dinghy.

Between the clearing and the bay beyond was a clapboard cottage with a shake roof. The paint had been scraped away, yet traces of the former color—a ruddy beige—remained, giving the house a crusty appearance. Nat had mentioned prepping the place himself, which would easily have cost a couple hundred dollars. It must have taken days. Abigail wondered how much he owed this Duncan Thadlow.

The deal she’d struck with Nat was starting to seem unfair. All he had to do was move a few pieces of furniture, while she had indentured herself to a far more grandiose task.

“Don’t wait for an invitation,” he told her, getting out of the truck. Abigail followed.

Standing at the door to the cottage was a man with a thick brown beard so long it touched his chest. “Afternoon, Nat. Here to finish painting?”

“It’ll get done.” The man’s innocent question had rubbed Nat the wrong way. Repaying a debt in labor rather than cash wasn’t something he appeared proud of.

“Who’s your assistant?” Duncan asked.

“Oh, yeah, this is—”

“I’m Abigail. Or Abby. Whichever.”

She didn’t want to hear Nat Rhone say her name. That would make their arrangement too personal, as if they were friends instead of convenient acquaintances.

“Happy to meet you. Holler if you need anything. Besides help, that is,” Duncan deadpanned as he retired inside.

Not wasting a second, Nat said, “Get a ladder. We’ll start high and paint down.”

“Whatever you say.”

Abigail carried over one of a pair of ladders from the truck’s flatbed, as Nat hauled the cans of primer.

“Sorry. Forgot.” He took the ladder from her, propping it against the side of the house.

“Forgot what?”

“That ladder’s heavy.”

“Weren’t you just talking about assumptions?”

“Thought you might still be woozy from that ‘reading-related injury.’ Far be it from me to act like a gentleman.” Nat removed the tops from two gallon-size containers of primer and gave her a brush.

“Any tips?” Abigail asked.

“Tips?”

“On how to do this.”

“Put the brush in your hand and go like this.” He started priming.

“Always a pleasure to learn from a pro,” she said, trying to get in the last blow.

He ignored her. She did the same. It was going to be a long afternoon.

The sunny, windless day worked in their favor. The primer went on easily and dried rapidly. Abigail wished she’d brought her radio. Silence while she was alone was manageable. Silence with Nat Rhone was uncomfortable.

When the quiet became too much for her, Abigail volleyed a question. “What about the back of the house?”

“Duncan took down the shingles. Had termites.”

“Is he going to replace them? Winter will be here soon and—”

“You’d have to ask him,” Nat snapped.

Jerk.

Both returned to priming, inching inward along the side of the house so they would meet in the center. Once they did, Abigail checked her watch. An hour had gone by.

“That went pretty fast,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“Two hands are better than one.”

“Don’t you mean four?”

“Don’t know about you, but I can paint with only one hand at a time.” He took his ladder and his can of primer and went to the other end of the house.

Jerk.

They completed that side equally quick.

“Do you want to do the front before we break to eat or after?”

“Before. I’m not really hungry yet, if that’s what you’re asking,” Abigail replied.

“That wasn’t what I was asking, but fine.”

Jerk.

Each started at the far end of the front of the house, maintaining their distance. Finishing turned into a race between them, the goal being to get to the door. Abigail kept tabs on Nat out of the corner of her eye. She could tell he was doing the same. He had the advantage of stronger arms, while she had speed. Soon they were mere feet from the front door. Abigail got there first.

“Finished?” she inquired smugly.

“I am now,” he huffed. “Let’s eat.”

Abigail got her giant paper sack from Nat’s truck. He slid behind the wheel and opened a cooler.

“Are you going to eat in there?”

“Why not?” he answered.

“It might be more pleasant to eat outside.”

“I’ve been outside since sunrise.”

“Well, I’m going to eat out here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jerk.

She took a seat on the steps of Duncan’s house and dumped the contents of the sack. Despite its size, the skimpy sandwich had gotten crushed somehow, and she’d forgotten to wash the apple. Abigail had also forgotten to bring a drink, and she was incredibly thirsty.

“Not much food for such a big bag,” Nat called through the passenger side window. “Didn’t you bring a drink?”

“Normally when I go to paint people’s houses, I remember to pack a thermos. It must have slipped my mind.”

Rudeness was a rarity for Abigail. Nat Rhone brought out the worst in her.

“I got an extra soda.”

Abigail went to the truck and took the can from him. “Thanks,” she said curtly, then returned to Duncan’s front stoop.

They ate without another word to each other. Nat gazed at the water. She stared at the ground. Her sandwich, though squashed, was delicious. Intense hunger transformed the plain turkey and bread into a feast.

“This is how you can tell you’re famished,” she mused.

“How’s that?”

“When even a mangled sandwich tastes amazing.”

“How could you
not
realize you were hungry?”

He was angling for a quarrel. Abigail could feel it.

“You can sense something without being completely cognizant of it,” she countered.

“Doubtful.”

“Haven’t you ever been exhausted and soldiered on because you loved what you were doing too much to stop?”

“Not the same,” he replied between bites.

Nat was baiting her. Abigail refused to fall for it, choosing to change the subject to something he might be less inclined to haggle over.

“Duncan must have made quite a lot of repairs if you have to pay him back by painting his house.”

Nat took a gulp of his soda. “Had to get Hank’s rig fixed after the accident.”

“Accident? At the dock? I thought he was drunk.”

“It was an accident,” he corrected her sharply.

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You heard wrong.”

“It’s not your boat, it’s Hank’s. So why—”

“Why is none of your business. You just got to Chapel Isle. You think you have it figured out? You haven’t got a clue about this place or these people. And you don’t have a clue about me.”

“Hmm, let me hazard a guess. This tough-guy act is a cover for the sensitive, heartbroken kid who lurks beneath the surface of the notorious Nat Rhone. Please, spare me. Because you don’t know a thing about me either, and all I know about you is that you’re a real asshole.” Abigail threw aside the rest of her sandwich. “Where’s the paint? I want to get this over with.”

She snatched a can of taupe exterior paint from the flatbed and marched to one side of the house to start painting. The truck door opened. She heard Nat moving his ladder to the opposite side of the house. Her hands were shaking so badly it made opening the paint can impossible. Abigail almost started to cry.

You only have to make it through to the end of the day.
A few more hours.

Then she remembered the other half of their bargain. Nat was going to move the furniture with her. It would be worth it to leave the antiques in the basement if it meant not having to spend an extra second with him.

They met at the front of the house, each toting their respective ladders, briefly making eye contact before getting to work. This time it wasn’t a race between them as much as a race to finish.

Later, Nat put on the final stroke of paint, saying, “I’ll clean the brushes at home. You can load your gear in the truck and we can go.”

“I can clean them.”

“I said I’d take care of it.”

“You’re the boss.”

Duncan came outside as Nat was capping the last can. “Is this a present for me?” He motioned wit the toe of his boot to the apple Abigail had left on the steps. Beside it was her half-eaten sandwich, lying on the paper bag. She scrambled to clean the mess.

“No worries. You can leave me food anytime,” he proclaimed, patting his belly.

“Excellent job,” Duncan said, walking from end to end of the house. “Only now the missus will be on me to straighten up the yard. Say, you guys make a good team. Maybe you should go into business together.”

Abigail and Nat exchanged glances. He pulled his hat lower on his head, hiding under it instead of answering.

“I’ve really got to be getting back to the lighthouse.”

“’Course. Glad to have met you, Abby.” Duncan offered his hand. She shook it, though her fingers burned from gripping a paintbrush for hours on end.