The Language of Sand (31 page)

“Are you all right?”

“Uh-huh. Hunky-dory.”

Abigail thought otherwise. “I’ve troubled you enough this evening,” she said, standing.

“Not in the least. You want me to pack you what’s left of the casserole?”

Stuffed, she rubbed her stomach. “I may not eat another bite for a week.”

“Don’t go getting narcoleptic on me.”

“Thanks, Merle. Really,” she added on a serious note. “I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. Really.”

Once Abigail was home, she remembered what she had intended to ask Merle. It wasn’t about Nat Rhone. It was about the ledger entry regarding the
Bishop’s Mistress
.

“One sad story per night is my limit.”

While brushing her teeth in the bathroom, she admired the grout work Nat had done for her, though she was too irritated to give him credit.

“Just because he’s handy doesn’t make him any less of a jerk.”

She shut off the light switch. If Nat was the top electrician on the island and he claimed there weren’t any issues with the wiring, she should believe him. But could she?

Downstairs, the phone rang, startling Abigail. It was past nine. She worried it might be her parents and rushed to answer.

“Abby, is that you?” The reception was spitting static.

“Lottie?”

“Yes, dear. It’s
moi
. Wanted to make sure you got my gift.”

“The romance novels. Yes, I found them. Thanks. They’re…” Abigail scrolled through a range of descriptive phrases, selecting the least disparaging. “A quick read. Say, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you about the house.”

No time like the present to come clean about the changes she’d made.

“Wish I could chew the fat, dear, but my cousin is still recuperating from her girdle thing, and I have to wait on her hand and foot. Such a princess.”

“Then maybe I could come by the office to talk. When will you be back?”

“Say again, Abby?” Lottie’s cell phone hissed. “I can’t hear you over this noise. Sounds like frying bacon. Mercy, I need to put that on my grocery list. Wouldn’t a BLT be delish about now? Gotta go, Abby. You have my mouth watering with all this gabbing about food.”

“Hold on. Lottie?”

The line dissolved into a dial tone.

“From books to bacon. A quantum leap. She must have thought
you were going to yell at her about the caretaker’s cottage. Can’t say you didn’t try to tell her.”

Upstairs, the ledger was lying on the unmade bed. Abigail moved it to the nightstand, then reconsidered. She had slept soundly the night before, which she hadn’t done in months.

It worked yesterday.
It might work again.

Slipping under the quilt, Abigail placed the ledger at her side and waited patiently for sleep to find her.

 
ruc
tion
(ruk′shən),
n.
a disturbance, quarrel, or row. [1815–25; orig. uncert.]

Pain rather than sunlight roused Abigail. The ledger was digging into
her shoulder blade. Her watch read a quarter past seven, the same time she’d risen the day before.

She moved the ledger onto the nightstand. “You’re as trusty as an alarm clock.”

If only her body were as dependable. Painting Duncan’s house yesterday had thrust Abigail past her physical limit. Stiff, she slowly rooted through the dresser for something to wear. She was running out of clean clothes. The garbage bag she was using as a hamper was full. A trip to the laundromat would be in order shortly, as would a stop at the market for some aspirin.

Abigail wanted to assess the situation in the basement before Nat arrived. Sheets off, she counted fourteen pieces of furniture. The dining chairs were light, and Abigail could manage them herself. However, navigating the narrow, rickety stairway was going to be a challenge.

As she crested the stairs, lugging a chair, there came a knock at the front door. Nat was on the other side.

“We doing this?” he asked.

“Yes,” Abigail sighed. “We are.” She waved him in.

“Do you need to change?”

“My clothes? Why?”

“They look too fancy to be moving furniture in.”

Abigail couldn’t see how a sweater and a pair of trousers could be construed as overdressed. “It’s not like I’m wearing a ball gown and pearls.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t have anything else that was clean,” she admitted.

“Okay.”

“I have to go to the laundromat. I’m going tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself.”

“Okay.”

“Now you’re placating me.”

“I’m trying.”

“Stop.”

Nat motioned at the dining chair she’d brought up. “You started without me?”

“It was a trial run. The basement stairwell is fairly tight, and the one to the second floor is even tighter.”

“We can manage.”

His optimism surprised her. The normally surly Nat was undaunted, while she was ready to throw in the towel. Abigail hoped he wasn’t underestimating the project the way she’d underestimated him.

They descended into the basement, where he appraised the stairs from the bottom. “Small, but somebody got the pieces down here. Which means we can get them back up. They’re actually in decent shape,” he remarked, studying the writing desk.

“You’re familiar with antiques?” Abigail asked, careful not to act shocked. She didn’t want to let what she’d learned about Nat slip, yet she wasn’t inclined to be excessively kind to him either.

“A bit.”

“I can’t understand why somebody left them here, in a musty, dank basement.”

“People hide things for a whole bunch of reasons.”

“Who said the furniture was hidden?”

“Hiding it, storing it, whatever.” Nat got on the other side of the desk. “We should do the heavy pieces first. You ready?”

Abigail was stuck on the notion that the furniture had been hidden intentionally.

“You’ve heard about the, um…How should I put this?”

“Ghost? Yeah. And? You didn’t fall for that story, did you? That’s just the local yokels trying to pull one over on ya.”

“Right. Of course.”

His dismissal made Abigail feel less apprehensive about what they were going to do, although only marginally.

“Ready?” Nat repeated. “Push that wingback chair over and we’ll angle the desk toward the stairs.”

While he removed the drawers, Abigail shimmied the wingback out of their path. Together they moved the desk to the foot of the steps.

“Turn it the opposite way,” he instructed.

“Which direction?”

“In line with the stairs, not perpendicular to them.”

Hearing Nat say
perpendicular
struck her. Abigail could tell that level of language suited him more than his regular style of speaking. What she respected about language was that it was like a puzzle—crossword rather than jigsaw. It provided a frame and lots of clues for understanding people. There was a distinct possibility Nat was dumbing himself down in order to fit in with the Chapel Isle men he socialized and worked with.

“What?”

Abigail was staring at him, waiting to hear him speak again and confirm her theory.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, covering.

“Let’s switch places. You go high. I’ll go low. You’ll have to walk backward, but I’ll take most of the weight. This desk isn’t light, so tell me if you need to rest.”

For a change, Nat wasn’t insulting her. He was being honest.

She got into position and they lifted the writing desk in unison. Nat grabbed the legs to steady the load, while Abigail gripped the lip of the desktop. They had three stairs to go when Abigail’s fingers started to slip.

“I’m losing it.”

“We can make it.” He inched the desk higher against his chest, rebalancing.

“It’s going to fall.”

“No, it won’t.”

In a final push, Nat forced the desk over the threshold, safely onto the floor.

“See,” he said, breathing hard. “You didn’t drop it.”

“
Almost
didn’t drop it.”

“Where’s this going?”

“The study.”

“After you.” He gestured for her to lead the way.

Upstairs, Nat got out his measuring tape. “Some of this furniture will have go in order for the desk to fit.”

“I won’t need the smaller desk or the chair. And I certainly don’t need that cot.”

“You say that like you don’t plan on having any visitors.”

Abigail felt Nat searching her face. The scrutiny was too intense for her, so she sidestepped him, saying, “This chair is light. I’ll take it down to the living room.”

He followed behind, hauling the wafer-thin mattress from the cot under his arm. “If you aren’t going to use it…”

“It’s all yours.”

“I’ll consider it a loan. Even though the cot isn’t really yours to lend. You are renting this place. You forget?”

She had. “Then loan it is.”

“Might need a hand to get the frame onto my truck.”

They made their second trip to the study and began to disassemble the bed. The legs folded in, making it easy to maneuver through the stairwell. Nat went first, Abigail trailing. Since he had his back to her, she could finally blot the sweat from her forehead.

“At least this isn’t heavy,” she remarked, pretending she wasn’t short of breath. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Sleep on it.”

“What about your bed?”

“You’re carrying it.”

Abigail was astounded. The man literally had no place to sleep. Had he been bunking on somebody’s couch or, worse, the floor? They slid the frame into the rear of his truck and he shut the tailgate.

“Need any other furniture? Seriously. What else am I supposed to do with it?”

“Dunno about that.” Her generosity made him antsy.

Nat was retreating into the house when Abigail said: “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He turned and hunted for intention in her eyes. This time, Abigail held her ground.

“You’re on.”