The Language of Sand

Informing the sheriff was the right thing to do. However, Abigail had absolutely no desire to get involved in the Wertzes’ private life. She’d started one fistfight already.

“Maybe I should have somebody else take the rounds tonight,” Merle suggested.

“Why? Because I’m a woman? You think I can’t handle it?”

Merle chewed his bottom lip, proving that was exactly what he was thinking.

Infuriated, Abigail said, “I’ll do the rounds. End of discussion. Here.” She handed him her list.

“This is a receipt for groceries. You do realize this is a hardware store.”

“The other side.”

“Oh, right. I got most of this stuff. I’ll have to order you the mirror, though. Take three or four weeks.”

“No problem. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“You sure about this, Abby? Sometimes change isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”

Abigail folded her arms, sticking to her guns.

“Okay. Okay.” Merle pretended to zip his lips shut and directed her to a shelf with a small assortment of knobs, then hobbled off to retrieve the items from her list that he had in stock.

Given the limited selection, Abigail picked a simply styled round drawer pull with a pewter finish and counted out the number she needed. While Merle packed her purchases into bags, Abigail spotted him putting a new screwdriver in with the rest.

“I don’t need that, Merle. I found a screwdriver in the shed.”

“That thing’s half broken,” he told her, making it a present, his form of an apology.

“Would you like me to pay my tab?”

“What for? You’ll be back tomorrow with another list.”

“True.”

“Be careful tonight, will ya, Abby? I’m not being sexist. I’d say it to anyone. In fact, I’d say it to myself.”

Be careful. It was the same advice Sheriff Larner had given her. None of Abigail’s recent decisions had been made with much care, an atypical departure from her typically logical self. She wasn’t being careful when she painted the house or when she agreed to do Merle’s rounds or even when she decided to come to Chapel Isle. She had thrown caution to the wind and gotten carried away like a kite in a gale. Abigail was still waiting to see where she’d land.

Weller’s Market was Abigail’s next destination. She was not looking forward to it. Head low, she quickly pushed a cart through the store, grabbing an extra loaf of bread among other things because she’d gone through the first so fast. Abigail thought she might escape without running into Janine. That was until she rounded the produce aisle and nearly wheeled straight into her.

Janine’s face hardened the instant she saw Abigail.

“Sorry,” Abigail mumbled.

Janine went on unloading heads of lettuce from a crate as if she hadn’t heard her.

No one was manning the registers when Abigail was ready to pay, but she wasn’t about to ask Janine.

“Coming,” a female voice called from somewhere in the store.

A woman with her hair in a ponytail jogged to the register. Abigail immediately recognized her as the one in the truck with Clint Wertz. The recognition was mutual. The woman hastily rang up Abigail’s groceries, jamming them into bags.

“That’ll be twenty-one forty-five.”

When Abigail gave her the money, the woman’s face was awash with shame. She held out the change, her hand quivering. Rage pooled in Abigail’s chest. This woman knew that what she was doing was wrong. She knew she was hurting her friend. Abigail’s anger deflated into empathy as she realized that she saw a similar pallor of guilt in her own face every morning. Surviving the fire was a constant burden, a shadow she couldn’t outrun or leave behind. Abigail wouldn’t wish it on anybody. Not even this woman, who deserved to feel guilty for what she’d done.

Afternoon sunlight was flooding into the caretaker’s house. Since the property was so secluded, there was no need for what little privacy the ashen drapes had provided. That left Abigail in limbo between liberation and loneliness.

“You have new doorknobs. That’s something.”

Insignificant as they were, the knobs were the high point of her day. Before installing them and reassembling the kitchen, she went through the hordes of crockery on the dining table and sifted out what was worth saving. Among the rejects were blackened pans, more ladles than anyone could ever need, and a cracked mug with a cartoon of a fish wearing a sailor’s cap.

“Seems a waste to throw these in the trash. Maybe I could give them away. Though I’m not sure who’d want them.”

All the less-than-desirable dishware went into grocery bags, then Abigail put everything else back in the cabinets. Anxious to install the drawer pulls, she was glad to have the screwdriver Merle gave her. She pitched the other one into the garbage. With the cupboards repainted, the knobs replaced, Abigail reviewed the completed kitchen and said, “Better Homes and Gardens, here we come.”