Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“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 stau ra tion(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] — in stau ra tor(in′ stô rā′ tər), n.

Luck was a word Abigail knew a lot about . The term was derived from the Middle English lucke , and from the Middle Dutch luc , short for gheluc . It meant an event, good or ill, affecting a person’s interests or happiness, which was deemed casual, occurring arbitrarily. Depending on how she chose to view it, Abigail had been short on luck of late, having lost her family, or long on it, because she survived. So she was loath to leave anything but luck to chance.

Not taking Merle up on his offer had been a mistake. Her sore arms felt as though they were going to break off at the elbows. Abigail was packing the supplies into the station wagon, ready to head back to the lighthouse, when she recalled the other errand she had to do in town.

“Lottie.”

A new note was taped to the door of the real estate agency. Gone to the mainland , was written in cursive. The i in mainland had a heart for a dot. Abigail ripped the note from the door and tore it to pieces as the gaggle of gnomes clustered along the front path smiled at her gleefully.

“Wipe those grins off your faces or I’ll kick you in your little gnome teeth.”

“Not very nice to threaten somebody one-tenth your size,” a male voice cautioned.

A man in an official-looking uniform was studying her from the sidewalk. He wore gold-rimmed sunglasses, and what was left of his hair had been buzzed into a brush cut.