Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

She shook her head and ventured into the Wailin’ Whale.

Honky-tonk music played while pool balls cracked. The blue glow from the jukebox gave the bar the aura of an aquarium. Abigail definitely felt as if she was on display. The patrons, most of them men, turned to look when she entered. Some went back to their conversations or their drinks. A large part of the crowd continued to stare.

Hold it together , she told herself.

“Is Sheriff Larner here?” she inquired at the bar. “He’s not at the station.”

“Doubt it,” the bartender replied. He was heavyset and sporting suspenders. Abigail thought he looked familiar.

“Are you the one who was calling the bingo game?”

“That’s me,” he answered, refilling a shot glass for the guy three seats over.

“You work here too?”

“A fella has to wear many hats in this town to get by.”

“Understood.” Abigail had been wearing a lot of hats since she’d arrived. None of them seemed to fit or be flattering.

“Caleb might’ve gone home for a bite to eat.”

“What about the deputy?”

“Teddy? Probably his night off. Why? You got an emergency?”

Those who weren’t already staring began to pay attention when he said that.

“Um, no. A question. I have a question for him.”

“You can wait here if you want.”

“No. Thanks, I mean. This is a great place. Don’t get me wrong. It’s fantastic. Really, um, fun. I, uh, have to get going, though.”

The bartender waited patiently until Abigail was able to shut herself up, then asked, “You managing okay at the lighthouse on your own?”

She suddenly felt exposed. He’d told a roomful of men where she lived and that she lived there alone. But if the bartender knew, everybody else did too.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“If Caleb comes by, I’ll mention you were looking for him.”

“Thanks. Oh, I’m Abigail. Or Abby. So you can tell him who was asking.”

The bartender nodded. “I know.”

Apparently, infamy had its privileges. Abigail walked to her car, realizing that she didn’t even need to introduce herself to people anymore. Nickname or not, she was known.

The caretaker’s cottage was freezing when she returned. She was too exhausted to vie with the fireplace. She was getting accustomed to being cold. Perhaps it a was sign that she was acclimating to her new surroundings. Then again, it might just be her body catching up with her heart.

op er ose(op′ə rōs′), adj. 1.industrious, as a person. 2.done with or involving much labor. [1660–70; < L operōsus busy, active, equiv. to oper– (s. of opus ) work + –ōsus –OSE 1 —op′er ose′ly, adv. —op′er ose′ ness, n.

Daybreak brought a haze to the windowpanes. Instead of an early October frost, a humid film of condensation clung to the glass. Abigail opened a window, and the air was unusually balmy. It would be an ideal day to finish the grass. However, there was another project that required her immediate attention. The bathroom.

Ridges of hardened grout jabbed through her socks. On tiptoe, Abigail brushed her teeth and got one contact in. Then she heard pounding.

“It’s too early in the morning for this.”

Except the noise hadn’t emanated from the lamp room or the basement. Someone was knocking at her front door. When she ran downstairs to open it, Nat Rhone was standing on the stoop with a toolbox in hand.

“Merle sent me to check your wiring,” he said gruffly.

Thanks a lot, Merle.

“Uh, come in.” Abigail crossed her arms to cover her layers of pajamas.

“Basement?”

She put on the light for him. “Do you need a flashlight? I have one if—”

“I got a flashlight,” he told her, descending the steps.

While Nat was in the basement, Abigail tore up to her bedroom, wriggled into yesterday’s clothes, and put in her other contact. Dressed, she went back down to the living room and waited at the basement door.

“I’d offer you some coffee,” she hollered to him, “but I don’t have any. I don’t have a coffeepot. I have some milk. And water.”

“No thanks,” Nat answered, his inflection flat.

“If there’s anything I can—”

A thud reverberated from below. Nat cursed loudly. Abigail rushed into the basement and found him dusting himself off. He’d slammed his shin into the crates she’d been digging through.

“Are you all right?”

Nat limped a step. “I’m fine.”

“Sorry, I should have warned you. I’ve done that myself. Have the bruises to prove it.”

She was babbling, and Nat could not have been less interested.

“Where’s your breaker box?”

“I think it’s over here. Watch the furniture,” she warned, as they moved toward the row of antiques along the far wall. Chair arms and table legs protruded here and there, ready to impale or trip any hapless passersby. She noticed Nat do a double take at the desk.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Nice isn’t the right word. Too general. Unique, maybe. Or striking. Or…”

Abigail couldn’t believe she’d admitted to not using a precise enough adjective. That was how nervous having Nat in the house made her.

“I’m planning to bring the desk into the study and the other pieces into the living room. Problem is, they’re too heavy for me. It would be such an improvement compared to what’s there. Did you get a load of that stuff? How dismal.”

Nat looked at her. “The breaker box?”

“Right. Over here.” She pointed it out, sensing that Nat was waiting for her to leave. “I’ll be, um, upstairs if you need me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Abigail retreated to the kitchen, muttering to herself, “Who does he think he is? This is my house. Or it’s sort of my house. What was Merle thinking, sending him here? Him of all people.”

“I owed him for some supplies from his store.” Nat was standing at the kitchen door. “I couldn’t pay him, so he told me he’d clear my debt if I’d take a look at your wiring.”

Embarrassed at being overheard, Abigail took a second to respond. “I had no idea you were an electrician.”

“I’m not. Anymore, that is. I was. Before.”

Nat shifted on his heels. Discussing any aspect of his personal life made him as uncomfortable as it made Abigail.

“Merle mentioned something about the bathroom light, that you were having trouble with it.”

“You could say that.”

She led him to the bathroom. “You’ll have to ignore the grout situation.”

“Forgot to wipe it, huh?”

“Yup.”

“It’s not hard to fix. What you do is get it damp again, remove the excess, reapply the grout, and wipe it fast. Like this.”

Nat wet a bath towel and started scrubbing the rigid swirls that were caked on the tiles. Then he began to respread the grout around the tub. He was deft with the trowel.