The Language of Sand (43 page)

Nat scribbled his signature. “That’s it? Can I go?”

“You can go.”

“Mind if I get a ride with you?” Abigail asked. “My car got stuck.”

Nat eyed the other two men.

“I’d ask them, but they’re swamped, what with the power being down on the island.”

Too tired to argue, Nat motioned her along with him. He strode brazenly into the rain while Abigail battled the whipping wind to keep pace.

“Truck’s by the pier.”

Hank’s truck was the lone vehicle in the parking lot. Nat took a deep breath and got inside. Key in the ignition, he hesitated before starting the engine.

“Larner tell you what happened?”

“Yes. I’m sorry about Hank. I know you were close.”

“What’d he say?”

“That Hank went over with the net. Intentionally.”

Hearing it stung Nat. “If Larner believed that, I wouldn’t have been in lockup.”

“You’re free now.”

“Does everyone know?”

She shook her head. “They had the hurricane on their minds.”

Rain was pelting the hood of the truck, and each gale sent tremors through the cab. The vacant parking lot was a dangerous place for them to be. They were sitting targets. Nat couldn’t bring himself to start to the motor.

“Hank tried once before,” he confessed. “He took pills. I found him. He’d thrown them up. Jeez, was Hank pissed about that. He was going on about how his body wouldn’t let him die.” Nat’s jaw clenched, as if he was fighting the words he spoke. “It was his idea to go fishing that morning. Claimed the storm would kick up a stellar take. I told him to forget it, but he wouldn’t drop it. I saw him letting out the nets. He was staring at the water. I turned away for a second. One single second. Happened so fast. I thought he was getting better.” His voice wavered. “I thought he was getting over it.”

There were things people had the right not to get over, but that they had the duty to get past. Not everyone could do it. Abigail had to try.

She put her hand on Nat’s shoulder. She could have told him she understood, that she was in the unfortunate position of knowing exactly how he felt. She didn’t. It wouldn’t have helped. Neither Nat nor her.

“I think you would rather have people believe this was your fault than that Hank did it to himself.”

He blinked, an affirmation.

“Except I don’t think that’s what Hank would have wanted. Do you?”

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
Bishop’s Mistress
?”

“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
Abby
, but she liked her so far. She was willing to take a chance and get to know her better.

 
zetetic
“proceeding by inquiry,” 1645, from Mod.L.
zeteticus
, from Gk.
zetetikos
“searching, inquiring,” from
zetetos
, verbal adj. of
zetein
“seek for, inquire into.”

Abigail rarely remembered her dreams. However, when Ruth roused
her the following morning, she was certain what she’d dreamed about had been pleasant.

“Better put on your clothes,” Ruth warned. “You have a guest.”

Nat Rhone was sitting in the living room, looking nervous. He stood when Abigail entered. He even took off his hat.

“Last night you said your car was stuck. Thought you’d need some help.”

“Um, yeah. I’d appreciate that.”

“I’ve got some of Jerome’s old tools and such if you need any of ’em.” Ruth led them to the garage, where Nat selected a shovel and some scraps of wood.

“These’ll do.” He headed out of the garage toward his truck, saying to Abigail, “You coming?”

She deferred to Ruth, who shrugged.

“Thanks a lot,” Abigail muttered.

Ruth was grinning. “No problem, hon.”

“So where’s your car?” Nat asked as she buckled in.

“That’s an excellent question. I don’t have an answer. I was lost when I got stuck in a ditch.”

“You were lost? On this speck of an island?”

“It’s not that small.”

“Stay here long enough and you’ll see how small it is.”

A tangible silence filled the truck, pushing each of them further apart while they cruised from lane to lane in search of Abigail’s abandoned Volvo. Nat was leaning into the driver’s side door. She was huddled at the far corner of the cab.

“You like your job?” he asked, seemingly trying to make conversation.

Abigail began to worry he’d inferred the part she played in his release. “You mean as caretaker at the lighthouse?”

“No, your real job. The lexicography.”

“Yes, yes, I do. Or I did.”

“Did it pay good?”

“The salary was decent.”

“Long hours?”

“Manageable. Why? Are you changing careers?”

“Just wondering why you stopped. And why you came here. Chapel Isle isn’t the lexicography capital of the world.”

“Change of pace. Change of scenery.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not on the lam, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Abigail regretted her choice of phrasing.

“In my experience, people usually move to get away.”

“Some move to get closer,” she contended.

Nat had been ready to take the rap for Hank’s death in order to honor him. Abigail had fallen victim to a similar pretense. Following flawed logic, she’d moved to Chapel Isle, convinced she could honor the memory of her husband and son by loving the place Paul had loved, terrified that no matter how hard she tried, she wouldn’t be able to do their lives justice. Nat Rhone proved the opposite was true.

In the distance, Abigail saw her station wagon. Leaves were
plastered to the windows, and the rear tires were sunk deep in a ditch, tilting the car on a steep slope.

“There it is.”

“When you said stuck, you really meant stuck.”

Nat got out to inspect the car, mud sucking at his boots. He shoveled aside some debris, then wedged pieces of wood under each tire.

“Start the engine and press the gas real slow.”

Abigail hopped into the Volvo. When she depressed the accelerator, the wheels whirred. In the rearview mirror, she could see Nat leaning into the bumper, pushing with every ounce of his might.

“More gas. Gentle. Gentle.”

She applied steady pressure to the pedal, and the car began to creep forward.

“A little more,” he told her as he strained.

Suddenly the station wagon bucked free, spraying a stew of mud and sand all over Nat’s clothes. Abigail pulled onto firm ground and hurried to him.

“I’m so sorry.”

The expression on his mud-spattered face was priceless. She clamped her hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh.

“You think this is funny?”

He wiped the muck from his cheek. Abigail forced a straight face that crumbled as she cracked up. Nat relented, his grimace loosening into a guarded smile.

“It is sort of funny.”

They stood in the middle of the muddy road together, laughing like people who could be friends, if not at that very moment, then someday.