“Back so soon, hon? Food here ain’t that good.”
“Please tell me there’s a laundromat on Chapel Isle, or I’ll be washing my sheets in the bay.”
“We may be a backwater town, but this isn’t Mayberry. We got a proper laundromat. Go up the street about a block. You can’t miss it.”
Since it was a short distance, Abigail bundled the laundry and decided to hoof it. After repeatedly traipsing past the same set of gift shops, her arms were getting tired and her aggravation was piqued.
“For pity’s sake, where is this place?”
Abigail was ready to wave the white flag—or rather the white pillowcase—when she spotted an alley between two stores. Hanging over the gap in the storefronts was a plank of wood with the word
“Of course. Can’t miss it. How silly of me.”
At the end of the alley sat a repurposed garage lined with coin-operated washers and dryers, hidden like a speakeasy for cleaning clothes. Abigail was starting to feel as if Chapel Isle was some sort of private club and she hadn’t been taught the secret knock. She dumped her laundry onto a sorting table and was sifting through the pile, separating the bedclothes from the towels, when she heard somebody behind her announce their presence with a cough.
“Here to do your laundry?”
Standing at the threshold to the laundromat was a man wearing wide-wale corduroy pants pulled high around his stout waist. He had the prominent under-bite of a bulldog and was a whole head shorter than Abigail.
“Um, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Nothing beats clean clothes.”
“Agreed.”
“You’re going to need soap. You have any?”
“No, now that you mention it, I don’t.”
The man cocked his head ruefully. “Can’t do laundry without soap.”
“You’ve got me there.”
“I could lend you some,” he said, emphasis on the word
“Really? I can pay you for it.” Abigail reached for her purse.
“Don’t want the money.” The intimation was that he wanted more soap in return. The man tottered over to a closet and retrieved a hulking container of detergent, which he heaved onto the sorting table.
“Think you have enough?” she quipped.
His brows pinched as he poured the detergent into paper cups for her. Deadpan, he answered, “You can’t have enough soap. Bring some next time you come. That’s all.”
“Will do.”
She went to put the first load of towels into the closest washer, and the man clucked his tongue in disapproval. She tried the next. He did the same. Once Abigail took a step toward the third, he nodded his consent. As she started to put the second load into another washer, the man clucked at her until she picked the correct machine.
“You got quarters?”
Abigail dug through her wallet. She didn’t have enough for both loads. “Isn’t there a change machine?”
“I’ll make change for you.”
He took her singles and fished through his pocket, producing a fistful of quarters.
This was too weird. Abigail couldn’t resist asking, “Are you the owner?”
“Who me?” he replied, flattered. “Nah.”
“You just like laundry?”
“You could say that. If you want, you can go. I’ll mind your wash.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Twenty-five minutes for the cycle. You’ll need to be here to switch the loads into the dryers.”
This was more an order than a suggestion. Giving a final glance to the peculiar man with the under-bite, her defenseless laundry already churning in the machines, she grabbed her purse and left.
Twenty-five minutes wasn’t much time to properly explore, but Abigail could at least take in a bit of the town. Anything would be preferable to staying at the laudromat. The calls of seagulls beckoned her toward the pier. Many of the boats she’d seen the previous day were gone, though some remained. There were no yachts or pleasure cruisers, merely a handful of skiffs and sloops that showed their age, each bobbing serenely. How enviable to be so blithe, Abigail thought, so imperturbable.
She strolled along the pier. The tide was coming in, and the barnacles that clung to the pilings below would soon disappear. The mottled white masses stood out starkly against the dark timbers. Abigail rolled the word
