Ellen Block: The Language of Sand

“Take it easy, Hank,” she said. The bell on the door tolled his exit. “Thought you might want to eat in peace.”

“Was that Hank Scokes?”

“You heard of him?”

“Sort of. Wasn’t he the person who ran into the ferry dock with his boat?”

“Indeed he was.”

If there was more to the story, the waitress wasn’t willing to say.

“Boy, your cook works fast,” Abigail remarked, ham-handedly changing the subject.

“Food’s done quick if you come at the right time. You would’ve had to wait if you’d been here earlier.”

“Earlier?” Abigail thought she was early.

“Lord, yes. Before the men head to sea for the day, they eat standin’ if they have to. Ain’t an empty seat in the house.”

It hadn’t occurred to Abigail that the island was so quiet was because most of its citizens were on fishing boats, making their livings. This revelation was a load off her mind. Chapel Isle wasn’t as desolate as it initially appeared.

“First visit, I take it.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“We don’t see too many new faces after Labor Day.”

The bell above the door rang again as a woman rushed in, hair wet from a morning shower, her oversize sweatshirt faded from too many spins in the washer. “Can I have a coffee to go, Ruth? I got the kids in the car and I’m running late as it is.”

“Sure thing, Janine.”

Abigail poked at her scrambled eggs. They tasted fine, but it hurt to eat. If the soft eggs were problematic, she wasn’t sure she should take a crack at the toast. When she took another sip of water, she found Janine visibly sizing her up. The woman’s eyes dove to Abigail’s left hand, making her the third person in less than twenty-four hours to check for a wedding ring.

“Here you go.” Ruth was putting a lid on the paper cup. “Tell Clint and the kids hey for me.”

“Will do.” Janine shot Abigail a withering glare on her way out.

“Excuse me. Ruth, is it? Did I offend that woman somehow?”

“Who? Janine? Hon, you could’ve been sitting there in a nun’s habit and she would’ve looked at you funny for not having a wedding ring on.”

Abigail was impressed. She’d caught everyone else looking at her hand. She hadn’t caught Ruth.

“Am I missing something?”

“Chapel Isle’s got two kinds of men: married men and old men. A single woman arrives in town, might as well be a wolf waltzing through a henhouse. Feathers tend to get ruffled.”

“That would make me the wolf?”

“Yup. See, island folk are the same as diesel engines. Takes ’em a spell to warm up, especially to out-of-towners. Once they do, they’re as reliable as rubber on a tire. That Janine Wertz, though, I wouldn’t count on her warming up, period.”

With that, Ruth went to top off the John Deere twins’ coffee cups, while Abigail managed a couple more bites of her eggs, abandoning her toast and coffee altogether. In under an hour, Abigail had endeared herself to the town drunk and unwittingly provoked a woman she had yet to formally meet.

“Must be a land speed record.”

“You say something, hon?” Ruth asked, tallying Abigail’s bill.

“No. I mean, yes. Can you tell me where I could find Merle Braithwaite?”

“At his store, Island Hardware. If the door’s locked, knock real hard or go ’round back. Shop doesn’t open until ten, but he’s usually in there, puttering about.”

“Thanks. Again, that is.” Abigail noted the total on the bill, paid, and dropped the tip on the counter, double what was due.

“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” Ruth said with a wink. “A new face is never new for long.”

Long was a relative term. At this rate, Abigail wasn’t certain how much longer she would last on the island: the twelve months of her lease, twelve more days, or twelve more hours.

Her footfalls resounded coldly against the cobblestones in the empty town square. Even the shops that were open looked empty. Denny had warned her about this on the ferry.

“Cue the tumbleweeds.”

The door to Merle’s store was locked, as Ruth had mentioned it might be. Like Lottie’s realty agency, Island Hardware had once been a private residence. Where the squat bungalow’s original living room window had been, a large pane of plate glass now stood, the business name foiled onto it in gold and green. Beyond the glass, the interior was dark. Abigail knocked on the door and waited. Then knocked harder. There was no response, so she went around to the rear, following Ruth’s suggestion, and discovered the back door ajar.

Nudging it open, she said, “Hello? Is anybody here?”

The door led into a kitchen littered with tackle boxes, fishing supplies, and Styrofoam coolers. Abigail could see straight through the bungalow to the front door she’d been knocking on.

“Hello?” she called.

Suddenly a giant man in a navy shirt-coat appeared from around a corner. Abigail jumped, letting out a yelp.

“Cardiac arrest, here we come,” the equally startled man said, fanning off the fright. He had an immense build and was practically eye to eye with the crown molding, dwarfing everything in the room. “You trying to kill me, lady?” he asked, running a massive palm over his wispy gray hair to collect himself.

“I scared you ?”

“Pardon me for not expecting some woman to be sneaking around the kitchen at too-damn-early o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I knocked on the front door. There was no answer, and this door was open, so…”

“You figured you’d give an elderly man a heart attack.”

“You don’t look elderly to me.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”

“Is it working?”

“A little,” he admitted. “Store’s not open yet, but you’re welcome to come on in if you can hack a path through this junk.”

The kitchen was a shrine to fishing. Rods were propped in every corner, and cans of dried bait were stacked on the floor beneath dozens of colorful lures that hung from specially crafted shelves. Photos of prized catches were affixed to the wall wherever there was space.

“Listen, I apologize for barging in. I’m Abigail Harker. The new caretaker at the lighthouse.”

“Should’ve guessed it,” he said, warming to her. “I’m Merle Braithwaite. Proprietor of Island Hardware, fishing aficionado, and Chapel Isle’s ‘Tallest Man Contest’ winner for over fifty years running, at your service.”

She put out her hand and Merle shook it gently, wary of his own strength, as if it was not entirely under his control.

“Lottie told me you might be stopping by. I’d say have a seat…”

Each of the chairs was piled high with issues of fishing magazines, topped with spools of line.

“That’s all right. I can’t stay. Too much to do. I just came by to ask a few questions about the caretaker’s cottage.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, the light in the bathroom keeps switching on and off. I’m concerned there might be a problem with the wiring. If you could recommend an electrician—”

“Wiring’s fine. Checked it myself last week.”

“Maybe you should check it again, because—”

“Wouldn’t do a bit of difference if I rewired the whole house,” Merle said, towering over Abigail. “He always messes with that light.”

“ He who?”

“The caretaker.”

“I thought I was the caretaker.”

“You are. Now.”

“Then who’s he ?”

“Name’s Wesley Jasper.”

“Lottie didn’t mention another caretaker.”

“Naw, I bet she didn’t.”