The Language of Sand

The brochure didn’t mention that, nor had Lottie when they spoke on the phone earlier that week. Abigail wasn’t sure what to think.

“Let me get your paperwork, dear.”

Lottie propped a pair of purple-rimmed half-glasses on her nose and motioned for Abigail to take a seat. The chair cushion was covered with iron-on decals of starfish.

“I just need your signature, Mrs. Harker, then I can take you to see the property. Betcha can’t wait.”

“You can call me Abigail,” she said, hurrying to correct her.

Lottie’s stare leapt to Abigail’s left hand, as Denny’s had, too fast for Abigail to hide her bare ring finger.

“Okeydokey, Abby. Sign here.”

Abigail recoiled slightly. She didn’t go by Abby. She didn’t dislike it. Yet the nickname didn’t feel right on her. The informality didn’t fit. As far as she was concerned, Abby was a different name altogether. Peppy, familiar, and easygoing, it was totally incongruous with her.

Once Abigail had thoroughly read through the rental agreement, Lottie offered her a pen. “Isn’t this the cutest?”

Attached to the end was a fuzzy head with googly eyes that jiggled as Abigail wrote her signature. Using it to sign a legal and binding document left her leery.

“Remind me who referred you again, Abby.”

“It was…” A lump formed in her throat. “A friend.”

“Good enough,” Lottie chirped. “I’ll get the keys and meet you out front. You can follow me in your car.”

If Lottie noticed Abigail’s hesitation, she didn’t show it. Abigail only wished she hadn’t shown it.

Distance was a measurable quantity, be it in millimeters, feet, or miles. What Abigail sought was something measurable to put between her and the fire. Time was also a measurable quantity, one she had no control over. She couldn’t make the minutes go by faster, let alone the months. What Abigail could do was move away from the place she wanted to push from her mind. That was precisely what she’d done.

“Almost there,” Abigail told herself, stretching her sore limbs. She was painfully stiff from the long drive. Muscle had memory, too, and by now, her muscles wanted to forget as much as she did.

Lottie pulled up beside Abigail’s station wagon in a mammoth Suburban and tooted her horn merrily. “I can’t wait for you to see the lighthouse,” she called from her window. “Isn’t this great?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Abigail sputtered. “It’s…great.”

Great was definitely not the first adjective that came to mind. While it aptly described the scale and magnitude of the decision she’d made, as well as the potential repercussions, any positive connotations had yet to be seen.

Along with her remaining possessions, Abigail had unwittingly packed a series of assumptions, foremost being that the inhabitants of Chapel Isle would be a staid breed, solemn by nature. She pictured stern, weathered fishermen and soft-spoken women with soulful faces. What she got instead was Lottie, who was undoubtedly the perkiest person Abigail had ever met. Her surplus of cheer seemed to portend that nothing terrible could happen on Chapel Isle. It was another assumption, one that Abigail hoped would prove correct.

Lottie led her into a web of gravel roads that fanned out from the center of town and split into narrower lanes. The style of homes varied in character from plain clapboard Cape Cods to Victorians with wraparound porches and fanciful gingerbread molding. Each lane was more enticing than the next. Some were even fronted by tangled archways of wild grapevines that draped from the trees, creating lacy sets of gates. Abigail bobbed her head from side to side, trying to absorb every ounce of the island as it streamed past. In spite of herself, she surrendered to the excitement.

Ahead, Lottie’s Suburban was jouncing over sandy ruts as they delved deeper into the southern end of Chapel Isle. Fifteen minutes had passed. Abigail was going to be much farther from town than she’d anticipated.

“Any minute now. Any minute and you’ll be there.”

At last, the scrub pine broke, revealing a meadow. Beyond stood the lighthouse, singular and stoic, slicing a wedge through the sky. Abigail felt her heart lift.

Built on a scallop of shoreline with a jagged jetty of blue-black boulders separating it from the sea, the whitewashed lighthouse exuded a humble majesty, as though the surroundings had been ground down by the weight of the world and it alone endured, holding its head high.

However, alarm began to set in as Abigail drew closer. The whitewash that looked crisp from afar was actually cracked and peeling. The outermost layer of paint hung on like a sheet of skin about to molt. Attached to the lighthouse was the caretaker’s cottage, which was even more dilapidated. The basic two-story brick box slouched up against the lighthouse, holding on for dear life. Its roof sagged and some of the shutters had come unhinged. None of it matched the photograph Lottie had faxed her. Abigail chewed her bottom lip, trying to tamp down her rising anger.

“Lottie will be able to explain this. She has to.”

The Suburban stopped at the front door to the caretaker’s house, then Lottie slid from the driver’s seat to the running board into the overgrown yard. The vehicle dwarfed her and the high grass cut her off at the knees. Abigail might have seen the humor if she wasn’t growing more furious by the second. She jumped out of her car, prepared to lay into Lottie for lying about the condition of the property. But Lottie got in the first word.

“I realize the place isn’t how I described it, dear.”

“No, not even remotely,” Abigail agreed, barely concealing her irritation.

“I swear it’s exactly what you’re looking for, though,” she trilled. “Quiet. Peaceful. You’ll have the world to