The Language of Sand (15 page)
Finding a parking spot in the town square was about as difficult as finding hay in a haystack. There were more parking spaces than people. Abigail chose the same spot from the prior day, for no reason other than that it was familiar.
It was after ten, and the front door to Island Hardware was locked tight. She went around to the rear. Merle was sitting at a picnic table, gutting a large fish.
“Morning. It’s, um, Abigail Harker. From yesterday.”
“Morning, Abby.”
That name again.
She gritted her teeth into a smile. “Yes, it’s me.”
Merle was carving out the fish’s innards with a curved knife and flicking them into the grass. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” he said, cracking his catch open like a magazine. “Eight-and-a-quarter-pound Southern flounder. Got some hogchokers and whiffs too. This was the pick of the litter.”
“Not to be rude, but is there something wrong with your fish?”
Amazingly, its eyes were on the same side of its head, so when Merle flipped it, one side was blank except for gills and a crescent of mouth.
Her remark gave Merle a chuckle. “Flounder are in the flatfish
family,” he explained. “They have real lean, compressed bodies and they swim on their sides, so their eyes are on the side that faces upward. That side’s usually dark and the underside’s white. Some are left-eyed, meaning their left side faces up. Others are right-eyed.”
“Any particular reason for that evolutionary quirk?”
“Dunno. Maybe it’s the same as some people being right-handed and some being lefties. That’s how nature created them.”
This was the sort of statement Paul might have made, boiling down the vast peculiarity of the universe to a plain, blunt fact, incontrovertible simply because that was the way it was.
“Well, I’m here because I’d like to buy some things from your store. Primer, sandpaper, brushes.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re—”
“Painting? That’s precisely what I’m going to do.”
“Can’t say I’d recommend it.”
“Merle, the house is a disaster. Everything’s falling apart. It looks terrible. How am I supposed to live like that?”
“Disaster? Don’t you think that’s a smidge harsh?”
“The place hasn’t seen a scrub brush
or
a paintbrush since the hippie split.”
“I’ll admit the interior needs improvement. That said, allow me to propose two reasons why it might not be wise for you to paint. First, you’re not allowed to. Says so in your lease. Second, what if Mr. Jasper doesn’t take kindly to you messing with his lighthouse?”
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense, Merle. I don’t want to hear about Mr. Jasper or any ghosts or any…anything that isn’t normal.”
“If you came to Chapel Isle for normal, Abby, you came to the wrong place.”
He flopped the fish closed, so both of its eyes were facing skyward, and walked inside.
Under her breath, she said, “You may be right about that.”
Abigail followed him into the store to the paint aisle.
“Any specific colors you fancy?”
She hadn’t planned that far ahead and quickly skimmed the selection. “I’ll take the light blue, the butter yellow, and the white.”
“Is that it? How ’bout a new refrigerator? Big-screen TV?”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Batteries. I need some for the flashlight I found in the shed.”
“Don’t bother. That flashlight’s busted.”
“You were holding on to it because…?”
“Never got around to throwing it in the garbage.”
“All righty. Here’s another question I’m sure I’ll regret asking. Why is the firewood in the shed? Shouldn’t it be stored outdoors to keep it at ‘outdoors’ temperature or something?”
“Not much of an authority on wood, are you?’
“Does it show?”
“I put the logs in there so nobody’d steal them.”
“Who’d steal firewood?”
Merle brought her cans of paint to the register, saying, “You’d be shocked what people’ll steal. ’Specially here. Most of the houses on the island are rentals, occupied three or four months out of the year tops. And they’re chock full of televisions, radios, small appliances. Ripe for the taking. Lottie’s husband, Franklin, has me doing security at night on his properties so he won’t get robbed blind.”
“Security?”
“I drive around. Check each of his rental properties. See if anybody’s broken in.”
“Has that happened?”
“Three nights ago. East end of the island. Summer cottage got its window busted. They took the microwave, the toaster, and one of those video game machines.”
“Maybe I should get in on this. I could use a microwave and a toaster.”
“Not a joking matter if it’s your stuff being stolen.”
Abigail felt bad about the remark. Of all people, she was thoroughly acquainted with the anguish of losing possessions. “Should I start locking my door at night?”
“You? Naw, nobody’d come near that lighthouse.”
“Why? A ratty couch and chipped soup bowls aren’t good burglar bait?”
“No, because they’d be afraid to.”
The insinuation irritated her. “Merle, if this is personal or territorial or you don’t like me, so be it. However, you should know that if you’re trying to get me to leave the lighthouse, to scare me away, it won’t work.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like you, Abby. Contrary to your landlord, I’m trying to give it to you straight.”
In her heart, Abigail believed that Merle meant well and that he was looking out for her best interests, which was what worried her.
“Then give me my paint so you can finish your filleting.”
Merle rung her up and tossed in a plastic flashlight for free. She got out her wallet.
“You don’t have to pay me now.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “That’s how it is here.”
“What is it with this town? Yesterday I traded detergent to cover the cost of doing my laundry, and now you won’t take a cent for more than a hundred dollars in merchandise.”
“Met the Professor, eh?”
“If that’s what you call him.”
“It’s not what I call him. That’s what his students at MIT called him.”
“Pardon me?” Abigail was stunned.
“Name’s Bertram Van Dorst. He taught astrophysics at MIT for twenty years. He was born on the island, and when he retired, he moved home.”
“You’re telling me that man is a rocket scientist?”
“He is a wee bit eccentric, I’ll grant you.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Bert’s the smartest guy to ever live here. Won awards. Worked with NASA. If a guy as brilliant as him wants to come back to Chapel Isle, must mean Chapel Isle’s worth coming back to.”
Merle’s pride reminded her of Denny and how he’d encouraged her to stay. Abigail suddenly saw Chapel Isle as a pretty girl who wanted to be appreciated for more than her looks. To most, the island was a summer destination, an escape. To the people who lived here, Chapel Isle was their world.
“So you’ll run a tab for me?” Abigail asked.
“Depends on if you’ll be sticking around.”
“You know where to find me when you need me to pay. I’ll be there.”
“With this much painting to do, you definitely will be.” He opened the store’s front door, holding it for her as she hauled out the paint cans and supplies. “You want a hand getting to your car?”
“No, I’ve got it.” Although straining, she was determined to do this on her own. “Oh, wait. I need more matches.”
Merle slid a box into one of the bags Abigail was juggling, another gift.
“Good luck,” he said.
“I might need more than luck.”
“That you might.”
in
stauration
(in′ stô rā′ shən),
n.
1.
renewal; restoration; renovation; repair.
2.
Obs.
an act of instituting something; establishment. [1595–1605; < L
instaurātiōn
–(s. of
instaurātiō
) a renewing, repeating. See
IN
−2
,
STORE
, –
ATION
] —
instaurator
(in′ stô rā′ tər),
n.
