Ellen Block: The Language of Sand

Abigail hung her soaking sweater and pants over the shower rod and stood shivering in her underwear in the bathroom until Ruth opened the door a crack and offered her a flannel nightgown.

“Ain’t pretty, but it’ll do.”

She slipped into the extra-large gown, then returned to the living room, where Ruth appraised the outfit.

“Better you look frumpy than continue dripping on my carpet. Take a load off. You look beat.”

Abigail dropped onto the couch. “I feel beat.”

“Saw that was Nat Rhone who dropped you here. He figure out you’re the one who freed him from the slammer?”

“Nope.”

“And that’s how you want it to stay?”

“Yup.”

“Consider my lips sealed,” Ruth said, sipping her soda.

“Thanks for talking to the sheriff.”

“Funny—this morning Caleb didn’t care a lick about what I had to say regarding Hank. He must have had a change of heart.”

“That’s what it must have been.”

If Ruth sensed what Abigail had done, she wasn’t letting on. For that, Abigail respected her even more.

“So, you think you’ll stay here, Abby, after everything Chapel Isle’s put you through? A fight at the Kettle, a suicide, a hurricane, bingo?”

“If you were me, what would you do? Would you stay?”

“Depends.” Ruth put aside her soda and folded her hands in her lap. “Have you heard of the Bishop’s Mistress ?”

“Have I? It was the ship that sank when Wesley Jasper was the caretaker.”

Abigail realized belatedly that it was a loaded question. As usual, Ruth already knew the answer.

“That ship was named after a real bishop. He’d been a sailor, an old salt through and through. Gave up sailing to preach the gospel. According to legend, after years of being a priest, he missed the ocean so much that he was going to leave the clergy. Only he couldn’t do it. The Lord was his first love. The sea would have to be his second. Whether you stay here on Chapel Isle or take the next ferry home, it won’t make a bit of difference. It’s like trying to serve two masters. You’ve got the grief and you’ve got your life. The one you choose to serve is up to you.”

Having a choice hadn’t occurred to Abigail. She still had an opportunity to decide.

Ruth coughed and reached for her drink. “Sheesh. This serious talk done dried my throat. Now listen, hon, I’ve got a spare bed. Why don’t you go lie down and leave a gal to her puzzles.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay up with you?”

“Positive.”

“Night, Ruth.”

“Night, Abby.”

That had become her name, and Abigail was okay with that. She had only begun to get acquainted with Abby , but she liked her so far. She was willing to take a chance and get to know her better.

zetetic“proceeding by inquiry,” 1645, from Mod.L. zeteticus , from Gk. zetetikos “searching, inquiring,” from zetetos , verbal adj. of zetein “seek for, inquire into.”

Abigail rarely remembered her dreams. However, when Ruth roused her the following morning, she was certain what she’d dreamed about had been pleasant.

“Better put on your clothes,” Ruth warned. “You have a guest.”

Nat Rhone was sitting in the living room, looking nervous. He stood when Abigail entered. He even took off his hat.

“Last night you said your car was stuck. Thought you’d need some help.”

“Um, yeah. I’d appreciate that.”

“I’ve got some of Jerome’s old tools and such if you need any of ’em.” Ruth led them to the garage, where Nat selected a shovel and some scraps of wood.

“These’ll do.” He headed out of the garage toward his truck, saying to Abigail, “You coming?”

She deferred to Ruth, who shrugged.

“Thanks a lot,” Abigail muttered.

Ruth was grinning. “No problem, hon.”

“So where’s your car?” Nat asked as she buckled in.

“That’s an excellent question. I don’t have an answer. I was lost when I got stuck in a ditch.”

“You were lost? On this speck of an island?”

“It’s not that small.”

“Stay here long enough and you’ll see how small it is.”

A tangible silence filled the truck, pushing each of them further apart while they cruised from lane to lane in search of Abigail’s abandoned Volvo. Nat was leaning into the driver’s side door. She was huddled at the far corner of the cab.

“You like your job?” he asked, seemingly trying to make conversation.

Abigail began to worry he’d inferred the part she played in his release. “You mean as caretaker at the lighthouse?”

“No, your real job. The lexicography.”

“Yes, yes, I do. Or I did.”

“Did it pay good?”

“The salary was decent.”

“Long hours?”

“Manageable. Why? Are you changing careers?”

“Just wondering why you stopped. And why you came here. Chapel Isle isn’t the lexicography capital of the world.”

“Change of pace. Change of scenery.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not on the lam, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Abigail regretted her choice of phrasing.

“In my experience, people usually move to get away.”

“Some move to get closer,” she contended.

Nat had been ready to take the rap for Hank’s death in order to honor him. Abigail had fallen victim to a similar pretense. Following flawed logic, she’d moved to Chapel Isle, convinced she could honor the memory of her husband and son by loving the place Paul had loved, terrified that no matter how hard she tried, she wouldn’t be able to do their lives justice. Nat Rhone proved the opposite was true.

In the distance, Abigail saw her station wagon. Leaves were plastered to the windows, and the rear tires were sunk deep in a ditch, tilting the car on a steep slope.

“There it is.”

“When you said stuck, you really meant stuck.”

Nat got out to inspect the car, mud sucking at his boots. He shoveled aside some debris, then wedged pieces of wood under each tire.

“Start the engine and press the gas real slow.”

Abigail hopped into the Volvo. When she depressed the accelerator, the wheels whirred. In the rearview mirror, she could see Nat leaning into the bumper, pushing with every ounce of his might.

“More gas. Gentle. Gentle.”

She applied steady pressure to the pedal, and the car began to creep forward.

“A little more,” he told her as he strained.

Suddenly the station wagon bucked free, spraying a stew of mud and sand all over Nat’s clothes. Abigail pulled onto firm ground and hurried to him.

“I’m so sorry.”

The expression on his mud-spattered face was priceless. She clamped her hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh.

“You think this is funny?”

He wiped the muck from his cheek. Abigail forced a straight face that crumbled as she cracked up. Nat relented, his grimace loosening into a guarded smile.

“It is sort of funny.”

They stood in the middle of the muddy road together, laughing like people who could be friends, if not at that very moment, then someday.

Merle’s truck was parked in front of the lighthouse when Abigail returned. He was on a ladder removing the plywood boards from the second-floor windows.

“I must be more popular than I thought. People keep surprising me today.”

“Last couple o’ days have been full of surprises, I’ll say that much.” Merle climbed down from the ladder. “I heard about Nat Rhone. Strange how Caleb Larner changed his mind,” he said knowingly.