The Language of Sand

Luck was a word Abigail knew a lot about. The term was derived from the Middle English lucke, and from the Middle Dutch luc, short for gheluc. It meant an event, good or ill, affecting a person’s interests or happiness, which was deemed casual, occurring arbitrarily. Depending on how she chose to view it, Abigail had been short on luck of late, having lost her family, or long on it, because she survived. So she was loath to leave anything but luck to chance.

Not taking Merle up on his offer had been a mistake. Her sore arms felt as though they were going to break off at the elbows. Abigail was packing the supplies into the station wagon, ready to head back to the lighthouse, when she recalled the other errand she had to do in town.

“Lottie.”

A new note was taped to the door of the real estate agency. Gone to the mainland, was written in cursive. The i in mainland had a heart for a dot. Abigail ripped the note from the door and tore it to pieces as the gaggle of gnomes clustered along the front path smiled at her gleefully.

“Wipe those grins off your faces or I’ll kick you in your little gnome teeth.”

“Not very nice to threaten somebody one-tenth your size,” a male voice cautioned.

A man in an official-looking uniform was studying her from the sidewalk. He wore gold-rimmed sunglasses, and what was left of his hair had been buzzed into a brush cut.

Abigail’s cheeks went red. “That probably sounded a little…”

“Wacko?”

“Inappropriate.”

“In these parts, we take bullying small ceramic men pretty serious.”

The man’s expression was unwavering.

“I’m just pulling your leg,” he said after a moment’s pause.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. I knew that.”

“You here to see Lottie too?”

“Trying. Second day in a row.”

“She’s making herself scarce until the ink on your deal as caretaker at the lighthouse is dry.”

Abigail’s jaw genuinely dropped. “How did you…?”

“It’s not intuition. It’s the old-fashioned grapevine. Denny Meloch told me he met you.”

“No wonder everyone seems to know everything about everybody around here.”

“There’s plenty to wonder about on Chapel Isle, believe me. If you ever stop, means you haven’t been here long enough.”

Exactly what I need, Abigail thought. More illogical platitudes.

“Thanks for the tip.”

“I’m Caleb Larner. I’m the sheriff.”

“Abby Harker.” She shook his hand, astonished that she’d introduced herself as Abby. She wrote it off as a subconscious slip.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “It’s nice to have somebody minding the place. The lighthouse is the closest we’ve got to a monument.”

There was that island dignity again. However, if this was how the locals maintained a landmark, historic preservation obviously wasn’t a priority. So what was? Abigail wanted to ask.

“How are you settling in so far?”

She sensed more than interest in the sheriff’s tone. He was probing. For what, she couldn’t tell.

“Fabulous. Love the place,” she lied.

“Glad to hear it.”

An awkward gap in the conversation followed. They were on to each other.

“What are you here to see Lottie about, Sheriff? Has she committed any crimes—say, swindling her tenants?”

“Hardly. I came to talk to her about the robbery a few nights ago. I have to send the serial numbers on the stolen items to the mainland. I was making sure she had hers on file.”

“The mainland? Why?”

“They check the pawnshops. See if any of the numbers pop up, people trying to sell what they stole.”

“Should I be—”

“Nervous? No. Cautious? Yes. These guys seem relatively harmless. Strictly breaking in to take property. Still, you can never be certain.”

That wasn’t reassuring coming from the town’s sheriff.

“Well,” he sighed, “I’ll be seeing you.”