The Language of Sand

“It was a trial run. The basement stairwell is fairly tight, and the one to the second floor is even tighter.”

“We can manage.”

His optimism surprised her. The normally surly Nat was undaunted, while she was ready to throw in the towel. Abigail hoped he wasn’t underestimating the project the way she’d underestimated him.

They descended into the basement, where he appraised the stairs from the bottom. “Small, but somebody got the pieces down here. Which means we can get them back up. They’re actually in decent shape,” he remarked, studying the writing desk.

“You’re familiar with antiques?” Abigail asked, careful not to act shocked. She didn’t want to let what she’d learned about Nat slip, yet she wasn’t inclined to be excessively kind to him either.

“A bit.”

“I can’t understand why somebody left them here, in a musty, dank basement.”

“People hide things for a whole bunch of reasons.”

“Who said the furniture was hidden?”

“Hiding it, storing it, whatever.” Nat got on the other side of the desk. “We should do the heavy pieces first. You ready?”

Abigail was stuck on the notion that the furniture had been hidden intentionally.

“You’ve heard about the, um…How should I put this?”

“Ghost? Yeah. And? You didn’t fall for that story, did you? That’s just the local yokels trying to pull one over on ya.”

“Right. Of course.”

His dismissal made Abigail feel less apprehensive about what they were going to do, although only marginally.

“Ready?” Nat repeated. “Push that wingback chair over and we’ll angle the desk toward the stairs.”

While he removed the drawers, Abigail shimmied the wingback out of their path. Together they moved the desk to the foot of the steps.

“Turn it the opposite way,” he instructed.

“Which direction?”

“In line with the stairs, not perpendicular to them.”

Hearing Nat say perpendicular struck her. Abigail could tell that level of language suited him more than his regular style of speaking. What she respected about language was that it was like a puzzle—crossword rather than jigsaw. It provided a frame and lots of clues for understanding people. There was a distinct possibility Nat was dumbing himself down in order to fit in with the Chapel Isle men he socialized and worked with.

“What?”

Abigail was staring at him, waiting to hear him speak again and confirm her theory.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, covering.

“Let’s switch places. You go high. I’ll go low. You’ll have to walk backward, but I’ll take most of the weight. This desk isn’t light, so tell me if you need to rest.”

For a change, Nat wasn’t insulting her. He was being honest.

She got into position and they lifted the writing desk in unison. Nat grabbed the legs to steady the load, while Abigail gripped the lip of the desktop. They had three stairs to go when Abigail’s fingers started to slip.

“I’m losing it.”

“We can make it.” He inched the desk higher against his chest, rebalancing.

“It’s going to fall.”

“No, it won’t.”

In a final push, Nat forced the desk over the threshold, safely onto the floor.

“See,” he said, breathing hard. “You didn’t drop it.”

“Almost didn’t drop it.”

“Where’s this going?”

“The study.”

“After you.” He gestured for her to lead the way.

Upstairs, Nat got out his measuring tape. “Some of this furniture will have go in order for the desk to fit.”

“I won’t need the smaller desk or the chair. And I certainly don’t need that cot.”

“You say that like you don’t plan on having any visitors.”

Abigail felt Nat searching her face. The scrutiny was too intense for her, so she sidestepped him, saying, “This chair is light. I’ll take it down to the living room.”

He followed behind, hauling the wafer-thin mattress from the cot under his arm. “If you aren’t going to use it…”