Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“So how’s it going at the lighthouse?”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Abigail could tell Ruth was trying to see if she’d heard about the ghost.

“Uh-huh,” she answered, unconvinced. “Remember, if you need anything, Merle can swing over—”

“I doubt Merle will be ‘swinging’ anywhere for a while. I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will, hon. I know you will.” Ruth meant it in every possible way.

“Can I go with you to see him tomorrow?”

“’Course you can. Meet me at his house at eight-thirty.” She jotted Merle’s address on her order pad. “Morning rush’ll be done. Should be quiet enough for me to sneak away.”

“Remind me again: When exactly is this morning rush?”

“About five a.m. The men have to be on the water by five-thirty.”

“What a hard life.” The hours, the conditions, the labor—Abigail thought it had to be a demanding way to earn a wage.

“Maybe,” Ruth said. “But what I’ve learned living on this island is that life is only as hard as you make it.”

Abigail had chosen to pick up and move to Chapel Isle, chosen to leave her family and friends behind, and chosen to live at the lighthouse alone. Was she making her life harder than it had to be?

lum pen(lum′ pən), adj. 1.of or pertaining to disfranchised and uprooted individuals or groups, esp. those who have lost status: the lumpen bourgeoise. —n . 2.a lumpen individual or group. [1945–50; extracted LUMPENPROLETARIAT]

The early-morning air was brisk. Standing outside Merle’s house waiting for Ruth, Abigail wished she’d worn a sweater. She felt so terrible about what had happened at the Kozy Kettle that she was impatient to make amends.

Merle lived on the north end of the island. His property sloped into the bay. A lone motorboat was tethered to his private dock. Floral drapes hung in the windows of his gray-shingled cottage, and there were tulips embossed on the welcome mat, roses stenciled on the mailbox, and a plastic daisy wreath gracing the entry.

“Flowers would have been thoughtful,” Abigail told herself as she paced the sidewalk, feeling guilty for arriving empty-handed. “If Merle’s front door is any indication, he does seem to like them.”

As she was eyeing the neighbor’s bed of marigolds, contemplating stealing some to improvise a bouquet, Ruth arrived.

“Why didn’t you head in, hon?”

“Merle wasn’t expecting me, and I wasn’t sure if he was, well, miffed about yesterday.”

“When Merle Braithwaite is miffed, trust me, you’ll know.”

Ruth let herself in the front door, hollering, “I brought you a visitor.”

The home’s interior was furnished in feminine antiques and reams of mauve chintz. Abigail tried to imagine a man as large as Merle getting comfortable on the small tufted sofa or setting a beer on the diminutive maple coffee table. The swirled legs of the armchairs seemed as if they would splinter if he looked at them too intently.

“You-know-who’s a bit of a bull in a china shop here,” Ruth whispered. “His ex-wife loved this girly stuff, so he won’t change a lick of it.”

“Ex-wife?”

“He married a gal who visited the island one summer. This was back, oh, years and years ago. After a few months, she couldn’t stand it here. The isolation drove her nuts. Couldn’t hack it, so she divorced Merle. Only she didn’t tell him she was pregnant. He found out through an in-law and volunteered to leave Chapel Isle, to move to California to be with her and the baby boy. She told him not to. She’d already shacked up with another fella.”

“My God, that’s horrible—” Abigail began. Then she heard Merle clomping toward the living room.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Oh, hey there, Abby,” he said, pleased to see her. Merle was using an umbrella as a cane and wearing a special vest with pockets for lures. The vest was wet.

Ruth folded her arms. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, were you fishing?”

“Maybe.” Merle hung his head.

“You could’ve killed yourself in that little boat of yours with a sprained ankle. I have half a mind to put you under house arrest until you’ve healed. Get off your feet this instant.” She badgered him toward the kitchen table and started making coffee.

Abigail joined him. “How are you feeling?”

“My leg hurts some.”

“Not enough to prevent you from fishing.”

“I’d have to be in a full-body cast not to fish. Even then I’d float myself on the water and put a line in my mouth.”

“That would be a sight.”

“You won’t have to wait if he doesn’t stay off that ankle,” Ruth threatened, setting out two cups for them.

“Aren’t you having any?” Abigail asked.

“Since our patient is obviously doing fine, I’ve got to get back to the Kettle. Give a jingle if you need me, Merle.” She scooped up her purse and went for the door as the coffee continued to perk. “Toodles.”

“How are the renovations coming?” Merle inquired once Ruth was gone.

“You say that like I’m putting a new wing on the house.”

“Are you?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I’ve witnessed you in action. I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m making progress. I’d planned on stopping by your store today to buy some new drawer pulls for the kitchen. Scratch that.”

“You can go and get what you want. Back’s always open.”

“You don’t lock your doors? What about the robberies?”

“If those burglars want to steal a dozen boxes of threepenny nails and some WD-40, they can have at it.”

“This from the mouth of the man in charge of Lottie’s security.”

“Speaking of which, I have a favor to ask.”

“Whatever I can do, consider me at your service. Groceries, cooking, cleaning, you name it.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I can’t drive because of my ankle. If I can’t drive, I can’t check on the rental properties for Franklin.”

“You’re saying you want me to take over your night watchman post? Merle, no offense, but you’re humongous. I have trouble opening jars when the lids are too tight. There’s no comparison.”

“Abby, my brain may be a quart short o’ full, but my vision’s top notch. I realize you’re a…delicate flower. This isn’t a job where sizes matters.”

“What about Bert?”

“He doesn’t drive.”

“Doesn’t drive? How does he get around?”

“Walks. Chapel Isle isn’t what you’d call a sprawling metropolis.”

“Then how about Denny?”

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sweet kid. Not the sharpest tool in the kit.”

“What if something happens? What if I see the robbers?”

“Go straight to the sheriff’s station. All you have to do is make sure the cottages haven’t already been broken into and that the doors and windows are locked. Easy-peasy.”

“You mean I have to get out of the car?”

“Unless you’ve got a real long reach.”

As much as she would have liked to, Abigail couldn’t turn Merle down. She owed him.

“I can’t pay you, so you can have whatever supplies you want from the store.”

“Some offer. You were prepared to let the burglars take you for everything you own.”

“Okay, how about this? Make my rounds for a week while I heal up and I’ll get an electrician to recheck the wiring for you at the lighthouse. Deal?”