The Language of Sand (9 page)

Morning’s low tide exposed a forbidding cluster of boulders at the
coastline, a natural seawall that protected the lighthouse. Strewn along the shore like the fallen walls of a fortress, not even the pounding surf had been able to wear the massive rocks away. The seawall was a testament to perseverance. Abigail took heart in its presence as she stood on the front stoop of the caretaker’s cottage, attempting to find the right key to lock the door.

“Three down. A dozen to go.”

The sandy, uneven roads made for slow passage into town. She tried to memorize landmarks as she went. The meadow, a listing telephone pole, a barren tree. The names of the streets and small lanes were confoundingly similar.
Bayside Drive, Beachcomber Road, Breezeway Avenue.
They were easy to mix up.

“According to your lease, you have twelve months to learn them.”

Her family had tried to dissuade her from moving. North Carolina was so far from Boston, a year was so long. Between her savings and the pending insurance settlement, there was no pressing need to get a job, nothing tying her down. If Abigail hated Chapel
Isle, she could always move home. In spite of the sorry state of the property and Lottie’s misrepresentations, she didn’t want to hate the house or the island.

The dewy seaside air left a wet sheen on the cobblestones of the town square, which was deserted except for a trio of men loading coolers into a pickup truck and a woman with a cane inching across the sidewalk.

“Wow. Four people. It’s practically a mob scene.”

Compared to Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and the more-popular islands in the Outer Banks, Chapel Isle was a relatively unknown destination. It showed no hallmarks of overcommercialization or overcrowding. Chain restaurants and pricey luxury boutiques would be out of step here. The allure of the island was its lack of pretension. Store windows were spruced up with handmade posters, and the awnings were wind-frayed. The door to a café called the Kozy Kettle had a crack in the glass. Above the crack was an
Open
sign, which was sufficient invitation for Abigail.

A bell chimed when she entered. The café had the feel of a roadside diner. Red-checked oilcloths were stapled to the undersides of the tables, and the wood paneling was burnished by decades of wear. This was one place where the town’s ad nauseam nautical theme wasn’t in evidence. Perhaps the locals had had enough of it.

Two elderly men, both in John Deere caps, were seated at a booth in the corner. Another man, in a canvas jacket, was nursing a cup of coffee at the counter. A waitress was standing by the register, refilling sugar dispensers.

“Have a seat wherever, hon,” she said. “Be with you in a minute.”

The men in the booth followed Abigail with their eyes as she took a spot at the counter. She offered them a friendly smile but got frowns in return.

“Tough crowd,” she whispered.

“What was that, hon?”

“Nothing.”

Because the fire had temporarily robbed her of a voice, Abigail would often talk to herself. Doing it when other people could hear
her, however, was probably not a smart approach, especially for a newcomer. She’d have to curb that.

“Coffee?”

“That would be terrific.”

A pair of bifocals dangled from a chain around the waitress’s neck, and her polyester apron was festooned with buttons and brooches. She appeared to be in her sixties, yet Abigail could tell the woman had been a true beauty in her youth.

“Here you go. It’s a fresh pot.”

She gave Abigail a menu, simultaneously pouring her a brimming cup of coffee. As soon as Abigail took a sip, she almost spit it out. The coffee was scalding hot.

“Burned yourself, huh?” the waitress asked.

In more ways than one
, Abigail was thinking.

“I’ll get you some ice water.”

The waitress delivered her drink. The water came in a jelly jar. It was another country touch that reminded Abigail she wasn’t in the big city anymore.

“Decided what you want?”

“Scrambled eggs and wheat toast,” she lisped.

“You got it, hon.”

Whisking away the menu, the waitress disappeared into the kitchen. Abigail chugged water to cool her taste buds, as the men in the corner continued to watch her closely. Uncomfortable under such deliberate gaze, she turned to face in the opposite direction, toward the register. A smattering of photos was taped to its side. Most of the snapshots featured a local baseball league, the guys dressed in matching uniforms and sporting matching toothy grins. Abigail was glad to see this side to Chapel Isle, a side where people actually did smile.

“That’s our team,” the man in the canvas jacket told her proudly. “Took the pennant last year in the playoffs.”

“Good for them,” Abigail replied, thrilled that at least someone was willing to converse with her.

The man removed a picture from his wallet and slid closer to
show her. “These are my sons. They played right and left field. This was years ago, mind you. They’re grown. Now their kids are playing Little League ball like they did.”

The old photo was a family group shot from a backyard barbecue. The man had his arm around his wife, who was wearing a floral shift, and the two teen boys on either side of the couple were in bell-bottoms.

“Handsome kids,” Abigail said.

He stared at the picture for a moment. The gratitude on his face told Abigail he hadn’t received a compliment in a while.

“That’s because they favor their mom,” the man answered, with a self-deprecating shrug. “We had some fun times, we did.”

That’s when Abigail smelled the alcohol on his breath and noticed how he’d missed a button on his flannel shirt, causing it to hang crookedly from the collar to the tails. She had a guess who he might be.

“Breakfast is served.”

The waitress set down a plate of food, intentionally intruding. The man tucked the photo into his wallet, tossed two dollars on the counter, and retreated to the door, with a parting nod to Abigail as well as to the waitress.

“Take it easy, Hank,” she said. The bell on the door tolled his exit. “Thought you might want to eat in peace.”

“Was that Hank Scokes?”

“You heard of him?”

“Sort of. Wasn’t he the person who ran into the ferry dock with his boat?”

“Indeed he was.”

If there was more to the story, the waitress wasn’t willing to say.

“Boy, your cook works fast,” Abigail remarked, ham-handedly changing the subject.

“Food’s done quick if you come at the right time. You would’ve had to wait if you’d been here earlier.”

“Earlier?” Abigail thought she was early.

“Lord, yes. Before the men head to sea for the day, they eat standin’ if they have to. Ain’t an empty seat in the house.”

It hadn’t occurred to Abigail that the island was so quiet was because most of its citizens were on fishing boats, making their livings. This revelation was a load off her mind. Chapel Isle wasn’t as desolate as it initially appeared.

“First visit, I take it.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“We don’t see too many new faces after Labor Day.”

The bell above the door rang again as a woman rushed in, hair wet from a morning shower, her oversize sweatshirt faded from too many spins in the washer. “Can I have a coffee to go, Ruth? I got the kids in the car and I’m running late as it is.”

“Sure thing, Janine.”

Abigail poked at her scrambled eggs. They tasted fine, but it hurt to eat. If the soft eggs were problematic, she wasn’t sure she should take a crack at the toast. When she took another sip of water, she found Janine visibly sizing her up. The woman’s eyes dove to Abigail’s left hand, making her the third person in less than twenty-four hours to check for a wedding ring.

“Here you go.” Ruth was putting a lid on the paper cup. “Tell Clint and the kids hey for me.”

“Will do.” Janine shot Abigail a withering glare on her way out.

“Excuse me. Ruth, is it? Did I offend that woman somehow?”

“Who? Janine? Hon, you could’ve been sitting there in a nun’s habit and she would’ve looked at you funny for not having a wedding ring on.”

Abigail was impressed. She’d caught everyone else looking at her hand. She hadn’t caught Ruth.

“Am I missing something?”

“Chapel Isle’s got two kinds of men: married men and old men. A single woman arrives in town, might as well be a wolf waltzing through a henhouse. Feathers tend to get ruffled.”

“That would make me the wolf?”

“Yup. See, island folk are the same as diesel engines. Takes ’em
a spell to warm up, especially to out-of-towners. Once they do, they’re as reliable as rubber on a tire. That Janine Wertz, though, I wouldn’t count on her warming up, period.”

With that, Ruth went to top off the John Deere twins’ coffee cups, while Abigail managed a couple more bites of her eggs, abandoning her toast and coffee altogether. In under an hour, Abigail had endeared herself to the town drunk and unwittingly provoked a woman she had yet to formally meet.

“Must be a land speed record.”

“You say something, hon?” Ruth asked, tallying Abigail’s bill.

“No. I mean, yes. Can you tell me where I could find Merle Braithwaite?”

“At his store, Island Hardware. If the door’s locked, knock real hard or go ’round back. Shop doesn’t open until ten, but he’s usually in there, puttering about.”

“Thanks. Again, that is.” Abigail noted the total on the bill, paid, and dropped the tip on the counter, double what was due.

“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” Ruth said with a wink. “A new face is never new for long.”

Long
was a relative term. At this rate, Abigail wasn’t certain how much longer she would last on the island: the twelve months of her lease, twelve more days, or twelve more hours.

Her footfalls resounded coldly against the cobblestones in the empty town square. Even the shops that were open looked empty. Denny
had
warned her about this on the ferry.

“Cue the tumbleweeds.”

The door to Merle’s store was locked, as Ruth had mentioned it might be. Like Lottie’s realty agency, Island Hardware had once been a private residence. Where the squat bungalow’s original living room window had been, a large pane of plate glass now stood, the business name foiled onto it in gold and green. Beyond the glass, the interior was dark. Abigail knocked on the door and waited. Then
knocked harder. There was no response, so she went around to the rear, following Ruth’s suggestion, and discovered the back door ajar.

Nudging it open, she said, “Hello? Is anybody here?”

The door led into a kitchen littered with tackle boxes, fishing supplies, and Styrofoam coolers. Abigail could see straight through the bungalow to the front door she’d been knocking on.

“Hello?” she called.

Suddenly a giant man in a navy shirt-coat appeared from around a corner. Abigail jumped, letting out a yelp.

“Cardiac arrest, here we come,” the equally startled man said, fanning off the fright. He had an immense build and was practically eye to eye with the crown molding, dwarfing everything in the room. “You trying to kill me, lady?” he asked, running a massive palm over his wispy gray hair to collect himself.

“I scared
you
?”

“Pardon me for not expecting some woman to be sneaking around the kitchen at too-damn-early o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I knocked on the front door. There was no answer, and this door was open, so…”

“You figured you’d give an elderly man a heart attack.”

“You don’t look elderly to me.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

“Is it working?”

“A little,” he admitted. “Store’s not open yet, but you’re welcome to come on in if you can hack a path through this junk.”

The kitchen was a shrine to fishing. Rods were propped in every corner, and cans of dried bait were stacked on the floor beneath dozens of colorful lures that hung from specially crafted shelves. Photos of prized catches were affixed to the wall wherever there was space.

“Listen, I apologize for barging in. I’m Abigail Harker. The new caretaker at the lighthouse.”

“Should’ve guessed it,” he said, warming to her. “I’m Merle
Braithwaite. Proprietor of Island Hardware, fishing aficionado, and Chapel Isle’s ‘Tallest Man Contest’ winner for over fifty years running, at your service.”