The Language of Sand (37 page)

The caretaker’s house looked like a condemned building. With the
plywood covering the windows and the chipping paint, a casual observer would have guessed it was uninhabited. Abigail had to remind herself she lived there.

“That’s that,” Denny declared, hammering in the final nail. “You’re as ready as you can be.”

“Only I won’t be able to see the storm coming.”

“You won’t have to see it,” Bert told her. “You’ll be able to hear it.”

“That’s the worst,” Denny agreed. “Sounds like the whole world’s crashing down on you.”

“Not helping, guys.”

“Sorry.”

“We should get going,” Bert hinted to Denny, who was reluctant to leave.

“You got everything you need?” Denny asked. “Nothing else we can do? Nothing?”

“I think I’m set.”

Then Abigail realized she didn’t actually have
any
of the things
she needed. She’d left Merle’s store without getting supplies for herself. She’d also forgotten to go to the market for food and water.

“Um, maybe not.”

“I’m heading through town.”

Denny opened the passenger door to the truck as if he were her personal valet. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. So the three of them squeezed into the front seat, with Abigail wedged in the middle.

“Where do you want me to drop you, Abby?”

“At Merle’s, please.”

Bert clucked his tongue, the way he did at the laundromat. “Might want to hit Weller’s first. They’ll be running out of essentials shortly. If they haven’t already.”

“I’ll be at the Kettle when you’re through,” Denny told her as they clambered from of the truck. “You can come get me and I’ll take you home. Door-to-door service,” he said with a grin.

“Are you going with him, Bert?”

“Not much else to do. Laundry’s closed on account of the hurricane. Why?”

“No, no, I was just asking.”

Bert appeared to appreciate her interest. “Okay, then. See you later.” He gave her a nod and toddled off.

A dangerous hurricane was barreling toward Chapel Isle, yet to Denny and Bert, it was another ordinary day. Either they were resigned to the storm or they were putting on a convincing show. Feigning bravery was fine for stoic island men. Abigail had lived through the extraordinary and couldn’t pretend to be anything except anxious.

Most of the shelves at the market had been stripped bare. It wouldn’t be a choice of what Abigail wanted but rather what was left. She loaded her cart with the remaining bottled water, fruit, milk and cereal. The last loaf of bread was pumpernickel, which she didn’t care for much. She took it anyway.

Across the aisle, a mother with two little girls was tossing packs of juice boxes into her cart. One of her daughters pleaded for candy.

“We have candy at home.” The mother was firm. “We’re not here for candy. Not today.”

Not today.
That says it all.

Abigail was grabbing rolls of toilet paper when she heard a familiar voice in the next aisle.

“Lordy me, this hurricane. What a pain in my posterior. So much to do. Franklin hates to evacuate. Such a hardship for him. And me, I haven’t left this island since…well, since Jesus was a boy.”

Franklin
, Abigail thought. Wasn’t that Lottie’s husband’s name?

She pushed her cart around the corner and discovered her landlord gabbing with another woman.

“Haven’t been off the island since Jesus was a boy?” Abigail demanded. “What about your cousin’s ‘girdle incident’? Were you lying this whole time, Lottie?”

The other woman made a hasty exit, leaving Lottie to fend for herself against an irate Abigail.

“Abby, dear. What a surprise to bump into you. My, you’re looking well. Slender as a rail. How do you keep your figure? You have to tell me your secret.”

Abigail wanted to smack herself for not putting two and two together sooner. Lottie couldn’t have left her wheelchair-bound husband alone for that long. The trip-to-the-mainland story was a ruse, an avoidance tactic. Sheriff Larner’s comment, that Lottie was “making herself scarce,” sprang to mind. Abigail felt like a fool. Everybody around town was wise to what Lottie was doing except her.

“Lottie, stop. Be honest for a change. Why would you lie about something so…ridiculous?”

The short woman appeared to grow shorter as she rallied an answer.

“I’m sorry, Abby. Sincerely, I am. From the minute you called me when you were in Boston, I knew you were desperate for the
lighthouse to be what you pictured, what you dreamed. And I knew it wouldn’t be. I just didn’t want you to be sad.”

The truth siphoned all of the bubbliness from Lottie. She wrung her hands, waiting for Abigail to pass judgment.

Though Lottie had tricked her and lied to her and dodged her, Abigail was grateful for the intention. Abigail didn’t want to be sad either.

“It’s all right, Lottie.”

Her face instantly brightened. She belted out one of her signature laughs, relieved. “Gracious, I thought you were about to smack me. I heard what happened at the Kettle. Really, Abby, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side o’ you. Ever again, I mean,” she said, amending the statement.

Abigail affected a tough stance. “Is that a promise?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Cross my heart. Not my fingers.”

As Lottie scurried off, Abigail had to admit the debacle at the Kozy Kettle was starting to work in her favor. There was a hidden benefit to being “the Boston Bruiser.” She could intimidate her landlord.

“Maybe you are a badass,” Abigail told herself. But it was a stretch to feel strong with a hurricane looming.

The lines at the registers were lengthy and comprised mainly of women. Janine was at one register. The woman Abigail had seen with Janine’s husband was working the other. Abigail opted for the mistress rather than the wife. The ladies in line were reminiscing about hurricanes past.

“I lost my front windows in ’96,” one recounted. “Boy, was my husband pissed about having to replace ’em.”

“I lost
every
window that year. Least I got brand new shutters out of that hurricane,” remarked another.

“I had to put on a new roof after the storm in ’92,” one woman complained, caressing her daughter’s hair. “Hope I won’t have to do that again.”

The consensus appeared to be that, though inconvenient, the hurricane would come and go. All that could be done was to hope
for the best. Abigail hadn’t had much hope lately. When she did, it was usually to exclusion: She hoped she wouldn’t have nightmares, that she wouldn’t start crying, that her memories wouldn’t unravel her. Abigail wished she could absorb some of their hope for her own.

When she arrived at the register, the woman pretended not to recognize her. Abigail did the same. While she waited, a gray-haired lady with a walker in Janine’s line accidentally dropped a bag of oranges, scattering them across the floor. Abigail went to gather the fallen fruit and came face-to-face with Janine as they both bent down.

“Thanks,” Janine said to Abigail.

Though there was no irritation or irony in her voice, that was the most she was willing to give. Having a hurricane on the way left no time for animosity, justified or not. They were both in danger, which made them equals.

A note was waiting for Abigail on the back door to Merle’s store. It read:
Abby, Had to bring tools to a friend so he could board up his windows. Your stuff is next to the register.

“Merle the mind reader.”

She cut through the kitchen into the shop and ran smack into a heavyset man wearing suspenders.

“Hey there, Abby. Getting ready for Ms. Amelia’s arrival?”

“Um, yes,” she admitted warily. Then she remembered who he was—the bartender at the Wailin’ Whale as well as the caller at the bingo game.

“Some people might start to wonder.”

“About?”

“You get here, then lo and behold, along comes a big ol’ hurricane. Some might say you’re bringing Chapel Isle the wrong kind of luck.”

The man was kidding. Nonetheless, Abigail felt a stitch of
personal responsibility. Had she dragged her misfortune with her from Boston, unable to leave it behind or outrun it?

“Aw, I’m joking. Some luck’s better than no luck, right?”

“We’ll have to wait until after the hurricane to decide.”

“That we will,” he replied, and went on his way.

The bartender wasn’t alone in the store. Two other men were milling around, picking items from the shelves. Before leaving, they wrote what they took on a clipboard Merle had beside the register. Abigail was astonished at the amount of trust he put in people. He chose to believe they wouldn’t steal from him, that they would be honest. As far as Abigail could tell, that was exactly what they did. Like hope, trust required a certain amount of willful ignorance. That was why she found it so difficult.

Her shopping complete, Abigail headed over to the Kozy Kettle to find Denny. The café was empty except for a handful of men, including Bert and Denny, who were sitting at the counter along with Sheriff Larner. A radio played, updating the latest on the hurricane.

“Hey, Abby.” Denny waved her over, excited. “Get this. Last report said Hurricane Amelia’s turning into a Category Five. That’s, like, totally huge. We’re going to have to evacuate.”

“Got the final word from the state police,” Larner added. “Denny, that means you and your dad are going to have to run straight shifts.” He turned to Abby. “I suggest you catch an early one. The shelters fill up fast. Want to make sure you get a bed.”

The enormity of what was happening had Abigail’s head throbbing.

“You seem disappointed,” Bert said.

“I just got here and now I have to leave.”

“Chapel Isle isn’t going anywhere, Abby.”

She knew that was true. It helped to hear it, though.

“Yeah, the shelters aren’t the greatest,” Denny remarked. “At least you can come home to a nice house full of pretty furniture.”

Bert elbowed Denny in the side.

“Oops.”

As fast as rumors flew around town, Lottie would learn about the furniture by morning, which made Abigail rue having to decamp even more.

“My bad,” Denny whispered to her, as Ruth came out of the kitchen holding a paper bag.

“Here you are, Caleb. One cheeseburger and one hamburger with pickles on the side. Hey, Abby. What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a—” Ruth stopped herself.

Everyone was quiet save for the newscaster on the radio, who was citing 180-mile-per-hour winds and twenty-foot swells off the Florida coast.

Sheriff Larner handed Ruth a ten, took his food, and left, saying, “Keep the change.”

Ruth watched him go. “Is it me or is Caleb grouchier than normal?”

“He must have a lot to do to prepare for the hurricane,” Abigail said, while Bert stared at the floor.

“Must be.”

“Guess I’ll be seeing the three of you on the ferry tomorrow morning?” Abigail asked.

“You’ll see me for sure,” Denny chirped.

Neither Bert nor Ruth replied.

“Didn’t the radio report say the evacuation was mandatory?”

“Mandatory schmandatory.”

“Ditto,” Bert added.

Abigail had been on Chapel Isle for only a short time, yet she hated the idea of leaving.