The Language of Sand

smell was growing stronger. She couldn’t place it. Soon she came upon the water cistern Lottie had spoken of. A vast cavern built into the earth, it was large enough to house a compact car. This was the source of the foul odor.

While stepping away from the cistern to catch her breath, Abigail backed into something cold and solid—a deep porcelain sink. That was what had been glowing. Next to it stood an old-timey washtub with a hand crank to wring out clothes.

“I should have known. This must be what Lottie meant by a washer and dryer.”

The bulb overhead flickered.

“And that’s enough of the basement for today.”

In a dash for the stairs, Abigail collided with another mound of crates, slamming her other shin, then ran upstairs into the living room, which was mercifully bright and free of obstacles for her to sideswipe.

“What a bonus. Matching bruises,” she griped, massaging her lower legs.

Her discarded apple was lying on the floor, reminding Abigail that she needed a cup of coffee, some food, and, most important, she had to pay Lottie a visit. Maybe the cafe she’d spotted in town would be open for breakfast and someone there could tell her where to find a laundromat.

The dusty linens she’d shucked off the bed the previous night were draped on the rocker in the master bedroom. Abigail gathered them and the towels into a ball. Given the amount of clothing she had to wear in addition to her pajamas to stay warm, laundry threatened to become a real issue.

“So help me, there had better be a laundromat on this island. That ancient washer in the basement isn’t going to cut it.”

Abigail got dressed in reverse, removing the clothes she’d slept in before she put on a pair of khakis and a knit top from her duffel. Even though she wasn’t overly concerned with her appearance, she did notice that the house didn’t have a full-length mirror. The puny one in the bathroom was the only mirror in the entire place. Abigail had to wonder if, after a while, she would forget how she looked from the neck down.

 

  elide (i lid?), v.t., elided, eliding. 1. to omit (a vowel, consonant, or syllable) in pronunciation. 2. to suppress; omit; ignore; pass over. 3. Law. to annul or quash. [1585–95; < L elidere to strike out, equiv. to e–E–+ –lidere, comb. form of laedere to wound]

Morning’s low tide exposed a forbidding cluster of boulders at the coastline, a natural seawall that protected the lighthouse. Strewn along the shore like the fallen walls of a fortress, not even the pounding surf had been able to wear the massive rocks away. The seawall was a testament to perseverance. Abigail took heart in its presence as she stood on the front stoop of the caretaker’s cottage, attempting to find the right key to lock the door.

“Three down. A dozen to go.”

The sandy, uneven roads made for slow passage into town. She tried to memorize landmarks as she went. The meadow, a listing telephone pole, a barren tree. The names of the streets and small lanes were confoundingly similar. Bayside Drive, Beachcomber Road, Breezeway Avenue. They were easy to mix up.

“According to your lease, you have twelve months to learn them.”

Her family had tried to dissuade her from moving. North Carolina was so far from Boston, a year was so long. Between her savings and the pending insurance settlement, there was no pressing need to get a job, nothing tying her down. If Abigail hated Chapel Isle, she could always move home. In spite of the sorry state of the property and Lottie’s misrepresentations, she didn’t want to hate the house or the island.

The dewy seaside air left a wet sheen on the cobblestones of the town square, which was deserted except for a trio of men loading coolers into a pickup truck and a woman with a cane inching across the sidewalk.

“Wow. Four people. It’s practically a mob scene.”

Compared to Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and the more-popular islands in the Outer Banks, Chapel Isle was a relatively unknown destination. It showed no hallmarks of overcommercialization or overcrowding. Chain restaurants and pricey luxury boutiques would be out of step here. The allure of the island was its lack of pretension. Store windows were spruced up with handmade posters, and the awnings were wind-frayed. The door to a cafe called the Kozy Kettle had a crack in the glass. Above the crack was an Open sign, which was sufficient invitation for Abigail.

A bell chimed when she entered. The cafe had the feel of a roadside diner. Red-checked oilcloths were stapled to the undersides of the tables, and the wood paneling was burnished by decades of wear. This was one place where the town’s ad nauseam nautical theme wasn’t in evidence. Perhaps the locals had had enough of it.

Two elderly men, both in John Deere caps, were seated at a booth in the corner. Another man, in a canvas jacket, was nursing a cup of coffee at the counter. A waitress was standing by the register, refilling sugar dispensers.

“Have a seat wherever, hon,” she said. “Be with you in a minute.”

The men in the booth followed Abigail with their eyes as she took a spot at the counter. She offered them a friendly smile but got frowns in return.

“Tough crowd,” she whispered.

“What was that, hon?”

“Nothing.”