The Language of Sand (3 page)

Chapel Isle was close, less than a half mile away. However, the ocean was making it difficult to reach.

“Should I take this personally?”

Another wave sent the ferry lunging.

“I’ll interpret that as a
yes
.”

Cold and nauseous, she did the one thing that would calm her. She recited Latin, conjugating verbs from rote and enumerating each tense in a monotone chant.

“Sum, esse, fui, futurus.

“Habeo, habere, habui, habitus.”

The verbs were transformed into a soothing hum, a distraction. She had picked up the practice as a young girl, from her father. A prominent surgeon specializing in patients with lung cancer, he’d helmed early research into the link between smoking and lung disease. “Gray is rarely a good thing,” he would say in reference to the color of a patient’s lungs, a philosophy he applied to most matters. He was a pragmatic man, unflaggingly precise, and he categorized life in terms of what was a
good thing
or a
bad thing
. For her father, there was rarely any room in between.

When the world did dim to a shade of gray for some reason or other, her father would retreat to his study and retrieve his beloved Latin textbook from his school days. In spite of its age, the book remained in pristine condition. The binding was slightly broken, the spine no longer stiff, but there were no torn pages, no dog-ears, no pencil marks in the margins. As a child, Abigail would peek in the doorway while he pored over the pages of the tome as if it were a photo album. She longed to see what he saw.

Once she was old enough to read, Abigail’s father invited her into his study, sat her on his lap, and allowed her to open the book.

“I want you to listen to the words before I teach you what they mean,” he had said. “That will make them easier to learn, my sweet. Trust me.”

So began her Latin lessons, her father reading root upon root upon root. The rhythmic flick of the turning pages mingled with the
Latin to form a melody that became the background music of her youth. As if hearing a fairy tale in a foreign language, Abigail intuited meaning beneath the words, and her love of language took hold there in her father’s study. It was a love that carried on through the books that filled the boxes cramming her station wagon. The chassis rode low because of the weight. She found reassurance in how heavy a book could be. Even paperbacks had heft in the palm. The fact that letters printed on paper could amass such gravity was a marvel. It made words even mightier to Abigail.

The books in the boxes were from her parents’ house, the stored surplus and castoffs of a once-substantial collection spanning a gamut of subjects from fiction to history, classics to the esoteric, first editions and signed copies, a private library she had spent years assembling. These books were the lone survivors of her collection. They were all Abigail had left.

 
blan
dish
(blan´dish),
v.t.
1.
to coax or influence by gentle flattery; cajole:
They blandished the guard into letting them through the gate.
—v.i.
2.
to use flattery or cajolery. [1350–1400; ME
blandisshen
< AF, MF
blandiss–
, long s. of
blandir
< L
blandīrī
to soothe, flatter. See
BLAND
, –
ISH
²
] –
blan´dish
er
,
n.
–
bland´
dish
ing
ly
, adv.

As the ferry neared Chapel Isle, the picturesque vista of the island was
marred by a troubling sight. One of the dock’s pilings had buckled, and a broken plank dangled precariously over the water. The dock appeared on the verge of collapse.

“That doesn’t look good,” Abigail declared.

Studying language for so long had taught her that initial impressions weren’t necessarily dependable. The spelling of a word and its pronunciation could be astonishingly irreconcilable. That was why every entry in the dictionary had a phonetic guide. Abigail willed herself to believe the same rationale would hold true for Chapel Isle.

“This is it. End of the road,” Denny announced, ambling toward her car. The ferry’s engine whirred to a stop while he wound the lead lines around an intact piling, then slid a ramp out to bridge the gap to the dock.

“Denny, what happened?”

“To what?”

“To this dock.”

“Oh, yeah. Hank Scokes ran into it.”

“Ran into it?”

“With his fishing boat.”

“On purpose?”

“Naw, old guy was drunk as a skunk.”

“Is the structure secure enough to drive on?”

“Plenty o’ people have.”

“How reassuring,” Abigail mumbled. “When did this little ‘accident’ occur?”

Denny had to give it some thought. “’Bout a month ago.”

“And nobody’s fixed it?”

“That’s a seriously messed-up dock. It’s going to take a lot of fixing to get it right again. Don’t you fret, though. I’ll keep an eye on ya. Where are you staying?” he inquired with a suggestive tilt of his head.

“The lighthouse. I’m actually the new caretaker,” Abigail replied, braced for some type of advance.

Instead, Denny’s expression faltered. He pursed his lips to prevent himself from saying what he wanted to say.

“It can’t be that bad,” she joked halfheartedly. “The place isn’t operational anymore, so I can’t get in too much trouble.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s…um, never mind.”

After the lengthy trip, Abigail didn’t have the energy to prod Denny into opening up. Whatever he was holding back would have to wait.

“I’m supposed to go and see the realtor first,” she told him. “Can you give me directions to her office?”

“Lottie Gilquist’s who you need. Ain’t hard to find her. All you gotta do is listen.”

Forgoing any further explanation, Denny went to unhook the chain that barred the front of the ferry.

Confused, Abigail pulled the station wagon alongside him. “Let’s say my hearing’s not very keen; how exactly would I find her?”

“You go straight.”

“Okay, straight. What’s next?”

“Just straight.”

“If I just go straight, I’m going to drive into the ocean on the other side of the island.”

“You’ll spot Lottie’s place before that’d happen.”

A whistle rang out from behind Abigail’s car. Denny’s father was hovering in the doorway to the wheelhouse. He folded his arms in silent command.

“Take the main road,” Denny instructed. “You can’t miss it.” He started to trot away, then stopped himself. “Oops. Promised I’d see you get onto the island safe and sound.”

Abigail was glad he remembered, because she hadn’t forgotten. “Thanks,” she said, easing her foot from the brake.

“Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“I think you will.”

Denny broke into a wide grin, which made Abigail smile too. However, her smile dissolved the instant she let the Volvo inch forward onto the dock. The wood whinnied and groaned under the wagon.

“It’s fine,” he said encouragingly. “Go ahead. Really. It’s solid as a rock.”

Despite the squawking planks, Abigail drove onward while Denny waved goodbye. She would have waved back but couldn’t pry her fingers from the wheel.