The Language of Sand (38 page)

“If you guys aren’t evacuating, why should I?”

“You’ve never been through this before,” Ruth told her. “It’s damn terrifying.”

“If it’s so terrifying, why do you stay?”

The answer was the same as Merle’s. Ruth and Bert had lived most of their lives on Chapel Isle. If they were going to die, it was going to be here, in their home.

“Denny, you make certain Abby gets on the ferry with you tomorrow, hear me?” Ruth was insistent.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You ought to get a suitcase together, hon.”

The thought of packing her bags again made Abigail’s heart cramp.

“Can we go, Denny?”

“Sure thing.”

“Don’t forget there’s the bingo tonight,” Ruth mentioned. “The last hurrah, if you’re interested. Get your mind off the hurricane.”

Denny downed the rest of his soda. “Bert, you coming?”

“Nope, I can walk. Bye, Abby,” he said with a wave.

 
ve
rid
i
cal
(və rid′i kəl),
adj.
1.
truthful; veracious.
2.
corresponding to facts; not illusory; real; actual; genuine. Also,
ve
rid′ic.
[1645–55; < L
vēridicus
(vēr(us)
true +
–i–
–I–
+
–dicus
speaking) + –
AL
¹
] —
ve
rid′i
cal′i
ty
,
n.
—
ve
rid′i
cal
ly
,
adv.

Evening seemed to be welling up from between the juniper and wax
myrtle rather than filtering down from the sky. The temperature had plummeted. Denny raised the truck’s windows and cranked the heat.

“It’ll take a minute to get warm.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, you aren’t acting fine.”

Resentment was a stopper in her throat. The fire had stolen everything from her. Now the hurricane was dictating her life. Abigail’s own desires felt insignificant.

“I’m a real good listener if you want to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Denny.”

“I know you’re new in town and we’re kinda strangers—”

“No, I’m the stranger.” Her voice began to climb. “This was an idiotic, impetuous idea. I shouldn’t have come here.”