The Language of Sand

“Teddy? Probably his night off. Why? You got an emergency?”

Those who weren’t already staring began to pay attention when he said that.

“Um, no. A question. I have a question for him.”

“You can wait here if you want.”

“No. Thanks, I mean. This is a great place. Don’t get me wrong. It’s fantastic. Really, um, fun. I, uh, have to get going, though.”

The bartender waited patiently until Abigail was able to shut herself up, then asked, “You managing okay at the lighthouse on your own?”

She suddenly felt exposed. He’d told a roomful of men where she lived and that she lived there alone. But if the bartender knew, everybody else did too.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“If Caleb comes by, I’ll mention you were looking for him.”

“Thanks. Oh, I’m Abigail. Or Abby. So you can tell him who was asking.”

The bartender nodded. “I know.”

Apparently, infamy had its privileges. Abigail walked to her car, realizing that she didn’t even need to introduce herself to people anymore. Nickname or not, she was known.

The caretaker’s cottage was freezing when she returned. She was too exhausted to vie with the fireplace. She was getting accustomed to being cold. Perhaps it a was sign that she was acclimating to her new surroundings. Then again, it might just be her body catching up with her heart.

 

  operose (op?? ros?), adj. 1. industrious, as a person. 2. done with or involving much labor. [1660–70; < L operosus busy, active, equiv. to oper– (s. of opus) work + –osus –OSE¹ —op?erose?ly, adv. —op?erose?ness, n.

Daybreak brought a haze to the windowpanes. Instead of an early October frost, a humid film of condensation clung to the glass. Abigail opened a window, and the air was unusually balmy. It would be an ideal day to finish the grass. However, there was another project that required her immediate attention. The bathroom.

Ridges of hardened grout jabbed through her socks. On tiptoe, Abigail brushed her teeth and got one contact in. Then she heard pounding.

“It’s too early in the morning for this.”

Except the noise hadn’t emanated from the lamp room or the basement. Someone was knocking at her front door. When she ran downstairs to open it, Nat Rhone was standing on the stoop with a toolbox in hand.

“Merle sent me to check your wiring,” he said gruffly.

Thanks a lot, Merle.

“Uh, come in.” Abigail crossed her arms to cover her layers of pajamas.

“Basement?”

She put on the light for him. “Do you need a flashlight? I have one if—”

“I got a flashlight,” he told her, descending the steps.

While Nat was in the basement, Abigail tore up to her bedroom, wriggled into yesterday’s clothes, and put in her other contact. Dressed, she went back down to the living room and waited at the basement door.

“I’d offer you some coffee,” she hollered to him, “but I don’t have any. I don’t have a coffeepot. I have some milk. And water.”

“No thanks,” Nat answered, his inflection flat.

“If there’s anything I can—”

A thud reverberated from below. Nat cursed loudly. Abigail rushed into the basement and found him dusting himself off. He’d slammed his shin into the crates she’d been digging through.

“Are you all right?”

Nat limped a step. “I’m fine.”

“Sorry, I should have warned you. I’ve done that myself. Have the bruises to prove it.”

She was babbling, and Nat could not have been less interested.

“Where’s your breaker box?”

“I think it’s over here. Watch the furniture,” she warned, as they moved toward the row of antiques along the far wall. Chair arms and table legs protruded here and there, ready to impale or trip any hapless passersby. She noticed Nat do a double take at the desk.