She was passing the meadow, the marker that indicated she was halfway to the lighthouse, when a flicker of color caught her eye, a strand of blue-gray in the sea of vibrant green reeds. A heron was wading through the grass. The sheer beauty of the bird’s slender body made Abigail slow the car. The heron stepped elegantly through the meadow hay, until it strode into a thicket and out of view.
Abigail decided to take the sighting as a sign. Paul had loved Chapel Isle. She was going to love it too.
“You’re staying,” she insisted. “This is exactly what you need.”
Telling herself was one thing. Believing it was another.
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She unloaded the car, dumping the heavy grocery bags onto the floor and setting the clean laundry on an edge of the table she dusted with her sleeve. The conversation with Merle came racing back to her. Abigail paused, examining the living room for any sort of change.
Everything was as she’d left it.
“What did you expect? A ghost in a white sheet?”
She wasn’t sure what to expect. That was what bugged her.
Though the refrigerator needed cleaning, Abigail had to get the food in before it spoiled. The dry goods could wait, because the cupboard shelves had to be wiped down first. She assembled her brigade of cleaning products on the counter, saying, “This will be a change for the best.”
Change was part of life and part of language. Abigail’s predecessors in the field of lexicography had dropped superfluous letters from the American dictionary, like the
Dealing with the cupboard drawers and shelves would be relatively easy, but the generations-old appliances would be backbreaking. Abigail was especially anxious about the oven. She hadn’t thought to bring a microwave, which she regretted. That would have solved myriad problems. The sole piece of electronic equipment she’d packed was a small combination radio and CD player, a dated model taken from her parents’ garage.
“Some music might make this more palatable,” she said, retrieving the radio from amid the pile of boxes in the living room.
No matter what direction Abigail twisted the antenna, static was all she got, so she grabbed a classical CD from her suitcase and popped it in. As the house filled with the warm melody of a violin concerto, she put on her new rubber dish gloves and advanced toward the cupboards, as if preparing to pull a tooth.
“Don’t worry. This won’t hurt a bit.”
The music did make the work go faster. It didn’t make it any less grimy. Abigail estimated the kitchen hadn’t been given a thorough scrubbing since the last caretaker was there.
“Twenty years. It’s past due.”
She emptied the shelves, raining a cascade of grit onto the counter, and took stock of the contents: cracked plates, warped plastic cups, and crippled cookware.
“Suffice it to say, you’re not quite ready to host a dinner party.”
As she spoke, the CD skipped. Abigail was about to check the player when Merle’s story about Wesley Jasper resurfaced in her mind.
The concerto recommenced, and she finished scouring the cupboards inside and out. Next came the refrigerator, where mold in a rainbow of hues had taken up residence, and the freezer, which had an inch-thick layer of ice glazing the interior. Abigail chipped at it with a serving knife while dousing the frost with tap water. Finally, she had to face the oven. Compared to the rest, it got a cursory cleaning. Even handling the range’s knobs made Abigail nervous. She decided to focus on the countertop and backsplash instead.
“This entire kitchen could stand a new coat of paint,” she mused. “And this wallpaper has got to go.”
The CD skipped again, violins halting mid-beat. Abigail swallowed hard and waited. Seconds later, the music restarted.
Emboldened, she gently picked at the wallpaper, which peeled away obligingly.
“See, the paper is damaged. The glue’s shot. Removing it and putting on fresh paint would be a world of improvement.”
This was part statement, part proposal. She readied herself for the CD to skip. It didn’t.
