Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

Merle took a map from his back pocket. Lottie’s properties were circled in red. Abigail reluctantly accepted it from him.

“Deal.”

The morning fog had cleared, revealing a bald blue sky. Somehow the total absence of clouds kept Abigail from feeling as though she had just agreed to a ludicrously bad idea.

“Nothing could be that awful on a day this beautiful.”

That’s what you think , bemoaned the voice in her head.

A cardboard box was waiting for Abigail on the front steps when she returned to the lighthouse. Enjoy , read the attached note, with Lottie’s signature in script at the bottom.

The box held dozens of paperback romance novels. Every cover was emblazoned with buxom women, cleavage heaving from their corsets, as muscled men with chiseled features embraced them lustily. Some were soldiers, some princes, some cowboys, some cops. No matter their stripe, each wore an outfit strategically torn to reveal rippling muscles.

“Can’t wait to dive into these.”

Abigail added the carton to the others in the study—the next room to be painted. Piled as it was with books, it took more time to empty the tiny space than it did to tape around the crown moldings and baseboards. Before popping open a new can of yellow paint, she plugged in the radio. Dr. Walter was on the air.

Today’s topic was a proposed two percent tax hike to fund programs for schools. A man phoned in criticizing the increase. “I pay a king’s ransom in taxes as is. School was fine for me. Should be fine for kids today. We don’t need no changes.”

Dr. Walter didn’t hold back. “Given your less-than-exemplary grammar, sir, you’ve made a concrete case for upping the school tax a full two hundred percent. Next caller.”

Abigail applauded. “Bravo, Doc.”

What she appreciated most about the show was that Dr. Walter said what was on his mind. He shot from the hip and didn’t sugarcoat his opinions. That took gumption, an attribute Abigail considered herself sorely lacking.

Paul had the same type of spirit. He spoke from his heart and was practically incapable of telling a lie. To him, lying was like bad math. It would be wrong in the end regardless. Honest to a fault, Paul lectured the telemarketers who would call during mealtimes, calmly taking them to task on how they could consider themselves upstanding citizens if they purposefully phoned at inappropriate hours. It amused Abigail to hear him harangue them, presenting his argument to the dumbfounded salespeople, who could either listen patiently or disconnect. She wanted to believe that some measure of Paul’s zeal had rubbed off on her during their years of marriage. She often doubted it had.

“Give me a break,” Dr. Walter was bellowing. “Call back when you grow a brain.”

The sound of him cutting the connection was followed by a dial tone that whined across the airwaves.

“You did stick it to Nat Rhone,” Abigail told herself. “Even if it was Dr. Walter’s line, you have to start somewhere.”

The study had been the watch room for a reason. It had the best view in the house, which Abigail realized while touching up the window trim. The position provided a broad vantage of the Atlantic, a panorama that spread for miles. A large part of the lighthouse keeper’s days would have been spent in this room, gazing through these very panes of glass. Abigail imagined him watching passing ships, the changing weather, the coming and going of the tides. She stood at the window, thinking she was seeing the very same sprawl of ocean Mr. Jasper must have looked at every single day.

When she was done painting, Abigail moved the final piece of furniture—the shelf—in from the hall, then started on her books.

“You’re really going to put them away. No reading. No dawdling.”

Each book had its own personal story—where she’d bought it, how many times she’d read it, why it held a place in her soul—but seeing her books stacked on a thrift-store shelf in the small study wasn’t where she’d envisioned them. It was like putting a sentimental family photo in a cheap plastic frame. With the bookcase filled, there was no space left to spare for Lottie’s paperbacks, except on the top ledge.

“What, have you become a book snob? Romance novels aren’t of regal-enough caliber to sit next to literature and history? They can’t be that dreadful.”

Abigail crouched on the floor, cracked one of the bodice rippers, and read the first paragraph. The writing was decent, albeit melodramatic, and she was soon turning page after page. A period romance, the tale traced the love affair between a ravishing heiress and a pirate captain. The lovers were separated by twists of fate and a conspiracy to keep them apart, orchestrated by the girl’s suitor, a villainous count. A chapter in, Abigail was hooked, so much so that she forgot she was squatting until her thighs started to burn. She was about to move onto the cot to continue reading when a rumble reverberated from below, making her flinch. Her backside hit the floor with enough force that the impact shook her shoulders.

“Fabulous. Another bruise.”

Abigail kneaded her tailbone as she got to her feet. The noise hadn’t come from the living room or the kitchen. This sound seemed deeper.

“I bet it’s your favorite. The basement.”

She stalked across the study, summoning her valor.

“You’re going to go see what it is. There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is all in your head.”

Before she could lose her nerve, Abigail flew downstairs and threw open the basement door. Common sense intervened.

“The flashlight might help.”

Because the one Merle had given her was new, as were the batteries, it should have come as no surprise that the flashlight worked. Nonetheless, Abigail was disappointed.

“No backing out now.”

The stairs squeaked as she tried to tiptoe into the basement.

“At least nobody can sneak up on me here.”

Though the overhead light didn’t make much of a dent in the darkness, especially in the far corners, the flashlight did. Crates were stacked high around the basement’s perimeter. Among them were the silhouettes of what she guessed were chairs covered in sheets.

In a burst of bravery, Abigail yanked them off. As she suspected, underneath was a set of dining chairs, an inlaid side table, and a formal, wood-trimmed settee. Beneath another sheet awaited a dining table with scrolled legs and a handsome writing desk. The pieces were antiques, high quality at that.

“This furniture puts the hodgepodge upstairs to shame.”

Another rumble suddenly radiated through the basement. Abigail gripped the flashlight tightly.

“Who’s there?”

She was trembling, causing the beam from the flashlight to tremble too.

“If there’s somebody here, come out. Come out or else….”

Except she didn’t have an or else .

Edging toward the cistern, Abigail caught a whiff of the same scent she’d smelled before, mildew with a trace of pipe smoke. That frightened her as much as the noises.

“I said show yourself.”

Abigail shined the flashlight into the cistern’s mouth. The cavern was empty. However, a puddle of water had bubbled in from a drain, bobbling the metal grate so the sound was amplified by the cistern’s stone walls.

“It’s only the water in the drain,” she sighed. Then she turned to head upstairs and crashed into a pile of crates.

Were they there before?

She couldn’t recall.

If they were, wouldn’t you have tripped on them?