Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“Are you really in the mood to go snooping around down there in the middle of the night?” Abigail asked herself. She had grass stains on her clothes from mowing the lawn, scratches on her arms from doing Merle’s security route, and a battered ego from becoming “infamous” in town.

“I didn’t think so.”

no va tion(nó vā′ shən), n. 1. Law , the substitution of a new obligation for an old one, usually by the substitution of a new debtor or of a new creditor. 2.the introduction of something new; innovation. [1525–35; < L novātiōn– (s. of novātiō ) a renewing, equiv. to novāi(us) (ptp. of novāre to renew, deriv. of novus NEW ) + –ion– –ION]

Like it or not, Abigail had to go into town that day for food and supplies.

“Make a list this time,” she reminded herself as she sat at the dining-room table eating a bowl of mushy cereal. The dilemma was, she still didn’t have any paper, except for the crinkled article, which she’d covered with a cast-iron skillet to flatten the creases.

“I’d put paper on the list if I had something to write it on.”

She remembered she had the receipt from her first foray to Weller’s Market. On the underside of it, she wrote the items she needed from Merle’s shop as well as those she wanted to ask him to order, including a new medicine cabinet. She hoped he’d have drawer pulls in stock. The house remained in disarray because she hadn’t reattached the originals or put the dishes and dry goods in the cupboards.

“This is definitely a work in progress.”

Part of that progress would be to swap the current living-room furniture for the antiques in the basement, a transition she couldn’t make on her own. She doubted Merle could help her, which left Denny or Bert, neither of whom she wanted to spend hours on end with. No matter who gave her a hand, having the carved desk from the basement in the study upstairs was worth looking forward to. She hadn’t looked forward to much in recent months, so that made the desk, as well as the other furniture, a big deal to Abigail.

The back door to Merle’s store was wide open, and he was standing at the sink washing out a bait bucket, his umbrella-cum-cane hooked on the lip of the counter.

Abigail rapped on the door in an effort not to scare him again. “Up and about, I see.”

“I’m definitely up. It’s the ‘about’ part I gotta practice.” He was favoring his good foot and leaning into the sink for support. “Glad you’re okay,” he said. “I was worried when I heard.”

“Heard what?”

“Another house got broken into.”

“When? Where?”

“Last night. Wasn’t Lottie’s. Privately owned. Six doors away from her cottage on Timber Lane.”

“I was on Timber Lane. I didn’t see anything…. Wait. I did see something. I saw a couple—a man and woman—in a truck.” Abigail decided not to say specifically whom she’d encountered.

“A couple? What were they doing there?”

“What couples do alone together in parked cars.”

“Oh, my. Well, you should tell Caleb Larner that. Might be…noteworthy.”

Informing the sheriff was the right thing to do. However, Abigail had absolutely no desire to get involved in the Wertzes’ private life. She’d started one fistfight already.

“Maybe I should have somebody else take the rounds tonight,” Merle suggested.

“Why? Because I’m a woman? You think I can’t handle it?”

Merle chewed his bottom lip, proving that was exactly what he was thinking.

Infuriated, Abigail said, “I’ll do the rounds. End of discussion. Here.” She handed him her list.

“This is a receipt for groceries. You do realize this is a hardware store.”

“The other side.”

“Oh, right. I got most of this stuff. I’ll have to order you the mirror, though. Take three or four weeks.”

“No problem. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“You sure about this, Abby? Sometimes change isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”

Abigail folded her arms, sticking to her guns.

“Okay. Okay.” Merle pretended to zip his lips shut and directed her to a shelf with a small assortment of knobs, then hobbled off to retrieve the items from her list that he had in stock.

Given the limited selection, Abigail picked a simply styled round drawer pull with a pewter finish and counted out the number she needed. While Merle packed her purchases into bags, Abigail spotted him putting a new screwdriver in with the rest.

“I don’t need that, Merle. I found a screwdriver in the shed.”

“That thing’s half broken,” he told her, making it a present, his form of an apology.

“Would you like me to pay my tab?”

“What for? You’ll be back tomorrow with another list.”

“True.”

“Be careful tonight, will ya, Abby? I’m not being sexist. I’d say it to anyone. In fact, I’d say it to myself.”

Be careful. It was the same advice Sheriff Larner had given her. None of Abigail’s recent decisions had been made with much care, an atypical departure from her typically logical self. She wasn’t being careful when she painted the house or when she agreed to do Merle’s rounds or even when she decided to come to Chapel Isle. She had thrown caution to the wind and gotten carried away like a kite in a gale. Abigail was still waiting to see where she’d land.

Weller’s Market was Abigail’s next destination. She was not looking forward to it. Head low, she quickly pushed a cart through the store, grabbing an extra loaf of bread among other things because she’d gone through the first so fast. Abigail thought she might escape without running into Janine. That was until she rounded the produce aisle and nearly wheeled straight into her.

Janine’s face hardened the instant she saw Abigail.

“Sorry,” Abigail mumbled.

Janine went on unloading heads of lettuce from a crate as if she hadn’t heard her.

No one was manning the registers when Abigail was ready to pay, but she wasn’t about to ask Janine.

“Coming,” a female voice called from somewhere in the store.

A woman with her hair in a ponytail jogged to the register. Abigail immediately recognized her as the one in the truck with Clint Wertz. The recognition was mutual. The woman hastily rang up Abigail’s groceries, jamming them into bags.

“That’ll be twenty-one forty-five.”

When Abigail gave her the money, the woman’s face was awash with shame. She held out the change, her hand quivering. Rage pooled in Abigail’s chest. This woman knew that what she was doing was wrong. She knew she was hurting her friend. Abigail’s anger deflated into empathy as she realized that she saw a similar pallor of guilt in her own face every morning. Surviving the fire was a constant burden, a shadow she couldn’t outrun or leave behind. Abigail wouldn’t wish it on anybody. Not even this woman, who deserved to feel guilty for what she’d done.