The Language of Sand (19 page)

Abigail opened her eyes the next morning to find herself facedown
between her pillows, with the bedding knotted around her arms and legs as though she were in a straitjacket. She wriggled free, her limbs tingling with the renewed rush of blood.

“What on earth were you dreaming about?”

No matter how hard she tried, Abigail was unable to summon the dream into daylight. What sprung to mind instead was the test she’d orchestrated with the oil pail in the lighthouse.

“One of your more inventive ideas,” she said wryly.

As with the dreams that plagued her, perhaps she was better off not knowing the outcome. She sat in bed, debating.

“The lighthouse isn’t going anywhere. And there’s a ton of painting to do. Oh, who are you kidding? You’re a coward and can’t face it.”

That may have been true in the moment, but not in the broader sense. Abigail had had three different roommates while recuperating at the hospital’s intensive-care unit, each released sooner than she was, evidence of how severe her condition had been—and that referred only to her physical wounds. She had courage; however,
her reserves were low. Too low for a trip to the lighthouse turret today.

After a bowl of cereal for breakfast, it was time to paint the kitchen. A thorough sanding of the walls would eradicate the last of the wallpaper adhesive. Only that was a taller order than Abigail had predicted. Within twenty minutes, her hands were cramped into claws, she was breathing heavily, and her shirt was a lighter shade from the dust.

The prep work, though painful, proved to be worthwhile. Smooth from the sandpaper, the walls took the yellow paint evenly. Since the spots behind the refrigerator and oven were hard to reach, she wasn’t going to bother.

“Nobody can see back there anyway,” Abigail insisted, with an indifferent sweep of the roller. After which she thought she heard a soft bump.

“Or I could get a brush and touch that up.”

Compared to the walls, the wainscoting needed serious sanding. Her insubstantial sheets of sandpaper were no match for the fossilized dribbles of paint, so she whittled away the most egregious blobs with another butter knife and applied a fresh coat of white. The cabinetry was next. Using a screwdriver salvaged from the shed to remove the hardware, Abigail went from cupboard to cupboard and drawer to drawer with her roller and brush. The bright white paint was an immediate improvement. She considered springing for new doorknobs too.

“That is, if Merle hasn’t put a moratorium on selling me remodeling supplies.”

Abigail left the empty cabinetry open to dry. Once she’d eaten what had become her customary lunch—a cold sandwich devoured at speed—she carted her painting supplies upstairs. Given a choice between the study, the bathroom, or the bedroom, the bathroom was her least favorite, for reasons she didn’t want to revisit. The study was running neck and neck.

“The bedroom it is.”

She pushed the heavy headboard and dresser away from the
walls, then moved the rocker and nightstand into the middle of the room, as she had done downstairs. In a cleared corner lay the newspaper article.

“Hey, there you are.” Abigail picked up the clipping and began to read the article aloud. “
Last night the freight vessel
, the Bishop’s Mistress,
was
—”

A shrill ringing interrupted her, nearly shaking her out of her skin. It took a second ring for Abigail to realize that it was the telephone. She shoved the article in her pocket and hurried down-stairs.

“Hello?”

“Abby? Abby, you there?”

“Lottie? Is that you?”

“Yes, dear, it’s me.” A burst of static sizzled the line, drowning her voice.

“Lottie, where have you been? I’ve—”

“What’s that, dear? I can’t hear you. This darned cell phone my husband gave me isn’t worth the plastic it’s made with.”

“Where. Have. You. Been?” Abigail voiced each word loudly.

“I’m in Hatteras at the ER. My cousin broke her hip. Slipped and fell getting into her girdle. Been here since yesterday morning taking care of her.”

Knowing that Lottie wasn’t intentionally avoiding her assuaged a fraction of Abigail’s irritation. But just a fraction.

“I wanted to check in with you, dear. How’s it going?”

“I’m—”

A wave of static scorched the line.

“What was that?” Lottie shouted. “I couldn’t understand you.”

“I’m—”

“Say again.”

This is your chance.
Leave.
Tell Lottie you’ve already done the cleaning she should have paid for.
Tell her she might have mentioned the minor detail about a supposed ghost.
Tell her you
want out of this rental contract.

Abigail took a deep breath. “I’m fine, Lottie. Everything here is fine.”

“Terrific. Well, gotta run. I think the battery on this cell phone is about to—”

The line went dead. Abigail hung up and looked around. The furniture was jumbled in the center of the living room, dishware was scattered across the floor, and half her groceries were waiting to be put away, yet the house was indubitably different.

“Maybe everything is fine.”

Painting the bedroom didn’t seem like labor to Abigail, what with the radio playing and the ocean air gusting through the windows. She slid the cream polyester drapes off their rods, then repurposed them as drop cloths. Soon the new pale-blue paint, mimicking the sky, blotted out the stale green.

The call-in show Abigail had listened to the day before was on again. Dr. Walter was discussing modern romance and the new rules of courtship. At issue was first-date etiquette.

A guy on the phone was ranting, “I understand what women want. It’s none of this sweet, sensitive crap. They need a man who knows what’s what and knows how to take care of business. Holding doors and talking about your feelings ain’t going to get you nowhere ’cept home alone on a Saturday night.”

“Listen, Casanova,” Dr. Walter quipped. “I have a sneaking suspicion you couldn’t get a date with a woman unless she was drunk, stupid, or paid for, so why don’t you try standing up straight, because I can hear your knuckles knocking on the ground as we speak, you dumb Cro-Magnon.”

The tough-talking doctor disconnected before the guy could reply.

“You tell ’em, Dr. Walter,” Abigail cheered.

“Do you have a dating horror story? Are you an incurable romantic? Is chivalry dead? The phone lines are open.”

Caller upon caller recounted tales of blind-date catastrophes as well as perfect matches that resulted in marriage. Meanwhile, Abigail turned her attention from the walls, where the paint was
drying, to the bedroom furniture. She propped the rocker on a drapery panel and took a brush to it, slathering on a coat of white. Next came the nightstand, which was stubby and bland. The paint certainly enlivened it. The same went for the dull dresser, which took the white well after some sanding. Pausing between drawers, Abigail stole a glance at the ceiling in the direction of the lamp room, to make sure what she was doing was okay. The only noise was from Dr. Walter. So she kept painting.

“This jerk stood me up,” a female caller sniffled. “Don’t you think that’s cruel to do to someone when they’ve put on their prettiest dress and done their nails? To me, it’s mean.”

The usually salty doctor turned sensitive. “Don’t cry, my lovely. I’m certain you looked beautiful that night. I’m also certain there’s a special level in hell reserved for men who stand women up. Common courtesy,” he sighed, “where has it gone? Show your fellow humans some respect and the world will show you some back.”

Was she being thoughtless, Abigail wondered, painting a place that wasn’t hers and furniture that didn’t belong to her? In a certain respect, she was. In another, she saw herself as bettering the long-neglected home. Whatever the case, the point was moot because the painting was finished. If it was an insult rather than assistance, she felt as certain as Dr. Walter that she would find out shortly.

There was one last thing Abigail wanted to try. The old drapes she’d put under each piece of furniture to protect the floor also made the items easy to move. Abigail pushed the bed into the corner at an angle, switched the placement of the nightstand and the rocker, then resituated the dresser between the windows. The new layout was cozier, taking advantage of the space. The bedroom went from looking like a cheap beach motel to cottage chic.

“Some blinds. A new lamp shade. Could be cute in here after all.”

Admiring the arrangement, Abigail had a flash of moving into her old house with Paul the year before Justin was born, each room an open expanse of potential. Paul had been making more money with his firm, and their new house was three times the size of their former home. They didn’t have even remotely enough furniture to
fill it, but Paul’s attitude was: “If we don’t have it, we can buy it.” He’d given Abigail carte blanche on the dcor. The style of the home was colonial, a favorite of hers. High ceilings, inlaid floors, marquetry cabinets, and intricate crown molding in every room, it was traditional to a T. Although she’d delighted in the process of selecting historically correct paint colors and ordering custom furniture, she prized that moment when the house was still empty and replete with possibilities. Tears welled in her eyes.

“No,” Abigail said. “I don’t want to do this. I am
not
going to do this.”

She refused to allow what she’d accomplished that afternoon to be overshadowed, to be lost so fast. Abigail rushed down the stairs, barreled through the front door, and doubled over in the high grass, unsure if she would faint.

“Breathe,” she told herself. “Breathe.”

Abigail unsteadily made her way to the station wagon. She was conjugating Latin verbs as she sped away from the lighthouse, desperate to be anywhere but there.

Rows of boats were bunched along the pier, masts listing against the darkening sky. Pickup trucks lined the town square. This was the most crowded Abigail had seen it since she’d arrived. By chance, her usual parking space outside the Kozy Kettle was vacant. That was as provident a reason as any for her to stop.

“You’re hungry. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

Haggard and covered in paint, Abigail pushed the door to the café open and immediately had to resist the urge to pull it closed again. The place was packed. Each stool at the counter was taken, and there wasn’t a booth to be had. All eyes—including Janine Wertz’s—shifted toward her as she entered. Janine was having coffee and a cigarette with one of the women Abigail had seen her with at bingo.

From the boiling pot to the frying pan.

“Fancy seeing you here, Abby,” someone called out.

It was Denny. She should have known. He was at her side in a second flat.

“Ruth didn’t save you a seat this time. Want to sit with us? We got room.”

“Sure,” Abigail replied, passing Janine, who exhaled a belligerent stream of smoke right at her. “Thanks for the invitation.”

Denny led her to the table he was sharing with his father and proffered a seat with a gentlemanly flourish of his hand. Janine and her cohort were two tables away. Across the aisle Abigail recognized Nat Rhone from the night before. He was with three other men, each wearing a flannel shirt, canvas jacket, cap, and heavy boots—the unofficial fisherman’s uniform. Most of the patrons had coffee cups but no plates. Either Abigail had missed the meal rush or no one was eating. The Kozy Kettle seemed to be an island hangout rather than a dinner destination. Without food to occupy them, everyone in the café abandoned their conversations to take in the scene that was about to unfold.