The Language of Sand

Each started at the far end of the front of the house, maintaining their distance. Finishing turned into a race between them, the goal being to get to the door. Abigail kept tabs on Nat out of the corner of her eye. She could tell he was doing the same. He had the advantage of stronger arms, while she had speed. Soon they were mere feet from the front door. Abigail got there first.

“Finished?” she inquired smugly.

“I am now,” he huffed. “Let’s eat.”

Abigail got her giant paper sack from Nat’s truck. He slid behind the wheel and opened a cooler.

“Are you going to eat in there?”

“Why not?” he answered.

“It might be more pleasant to eat outside.”

“I’ve been outside since sunrise.”

“Well, I’m going to eat out here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jerk.

She took a seat on the steps of Duncan’s house and dumped the contents of the sack. Despite its size, the skimpy sandwich had gotten crushed somehow, and she’d forgotten to wash the apple. Abigail had also forgotten to bring a drink, and she was incredibly thirsty.

“Not much food for such a big bag,” Nat called through the passenger side window. “Didn’t you bring a drink?”

“Normally when I go to paint people’s houses, I remember to pack a thermos. It must have slipped my mind.”

Rudeness was a rarity for Abigail. Nat Rhone brought out the worst in her.

“I got an extra soda.”

Abigail went to the truck and took the can from him. “Thanks,” she said curtly, then returned to Duncan’s front stoop.

They ate without another word to each other. Nat gazed at the water. She stared at the ground. Her sandwich, though squashed, was delicious. Intense hunger transformed the plain turkey and bread into a feast.

“This is how you can tell you’re famished,” she mused.

“How’s that?”

“When even a mangled sandwich tastes amazing.”

“How could you not realize you were hungry?”

He was angling for a quarrel. Abigail could feel it.

“You can sense something without being completely cognizant of it,” she countered.

“Doubtful.”

“Haven’t you ever been exhausted and soldiered on because you loved what you were doing too much to stop?”

“Not the same,” he replied between bites.

Nat was baiting her. Abigail refused to fall for it, choosing to change the subject to something he might be less inclined to haggle over.

“Duncan must have made quite a lot of repairs if you have to pay him back by painting his house.”

Nat took a gulp of his soda. “Had to get Hank’s rig fixed after the accident.”

“Accident? At the dock? I thought he was drunk.”

“It was an accident,” he corrected her sharply.

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You heard wrong.”

“It’s not your boat, it’s Hank’s. So why—”

“Why is none of your business. You just got to Chapel Isle. You think you have it figured out? You haven’t got a clue about this place or these people. And you don’t have a clue about me.”

“Hmm, let me hazard a guess. This tough-guy act is a cover for the sensitive, heartbroken kid who lurks beneath the surface of the notorious Nat Rhone. Please, spare me. Because you don’t know a thing about me either, and all I know about you is that you’re a real asshole.” Abigail threw aside the rest of her sandwich. “Where’s the paint? I want to get this over with.”

She snatched a can of taupe exterior paint from the flatbed and marched to one side of the house to start painting. The truck door opened. She heard Nat moving his ladder to the opposite side of the house. Her hands were shaking so badly it made opening the paint can impossible. Abigail almost started to cry.

You only have to make it through to the end of the day. A few more hours.

Then she remembered the other half of their bargain. Nat was going to move the furniture with her. It would be worth it to leave the antiques in the basement if it meant not having to spend an extra second with him.