The Language of Sand

water. Canned food.”

She continued until she smelled something. The aroma of food. The scent drew her into the kitchen. Through the oven window, she could see the entre bubbling. Hungry as she was, the aluminum tray of food looked scrumptious. Abigail set herself a place at the dining-room table, spooned the contents of her frozen dinner onto a plate, and poured herself a glass of milk. The meal was miles from gourmet, but with it and the new paint and furnishings, she was as near content as she could be.

After dinner, Abigail’s plate was clean, her glass empty, and her stomach full—too full, truth be told. Her stomach ached, not because of the quality of the meal but because of the speed at which she ate it. Bushed, she could have fallen asleep where she sat. She had to force herself to wash the dishes and wipe the crumbs from the table, which reminded her that she wanted to buy wood soap. Abigail had dusted each piece of furniture after she and Nat hauled it up from the basement, but she intended to give the antiques a thorough cleaning.

“Wood soap. Another thing to put on the list.”

As she spoke, a rattling whap reverberated from the side of the house. Her heart began to pound. The noise wasn’t coming from the basement or the lighthouse. It was outdoors. Abigail glanced at the phone.

What are you going to do? Call the sheriff and tell him you think the ghost is mad at you for moving his furniture?

Beside the phone were her keys. She readied herself to make a break for the car. The rattling sounded again, reminiscent of a door bashing into a frame.

The shed.

“Either you go see if you left the door open or it’ll bang away all night long and you won’t get a minute’s peace.”

The flashlight cut a wide arc into the night. Abigail wished it were wider. The vista she’d been admiring hours earlier was obliterated by darkness. She quickened her pace as she rounded the lighthouse, as if running off a diving board instead of walking. There in the glare of the flashlight was the shed. The door hung open, wavering in the wind. The shadowy figure she’d seen on Timber Lane traipsed into her mind. If there was someone inside the shed, her best chance was to lock him in there.

With one big breath, Abigail sprinted across the lawn, slammed the shed door, and snapped the padlock.

“I’m calling the police. Do you hear me? I’m calling the police.”

There was no reply. There was no one inside. Relief hit her as the first raindrop landed on her arm. Then came a deluge. Abigail dashed into the house, laying the flashlight and keys beside the telephone.

Who could you have called if there had been someone in the shed?

Abigail would have been too embarrassed to call Nat or Denny or Bert, even if she did have their numbers. She couldn’t count on Lottie and wouldn’t have wanted to bother Ruth. The only person left was Merle. He’d give her a hard time about it, but she was confident he would come. Having one person she could rely on was better than none. That was enough to see Abigail through the night.

 

  sedulous (sej?? l?s), adj. 1. diligent in application or attention; persevering; assiduous. 2. persistently or carefully maintained: sedulous flattery. [1530–40; < L sedulus, adj. deriv. of the phrase se dolo diligently, lit., without guile; r. sedulious (see SEDULITY, –OUS)] —sed?ulously, adv.

— sedulousness, n.

—Syn. 1. constant, untiring, tireless.

The list Abigail began the day before had grown. The scrap of card- board was overrun with additions squeezed in wherever there was room, items ranging from crucial necessities to nonessential indulgences. Be it candles or hand lotion, canned food or wood soap, Abigail needed far more than she originally thought and wanted more than she’d been willing to give herself.

She took a different road into town, assuming it would lead to the square. Instead, the lane let out into a cul- de-sac dominated by Chapel Isle’s grade school, a boxy brick structure flanked by a playground. Abigail had been on the island for more than a week and still hadn’t gotten the lay of the land.

“You’re not a tourist. You live here now. Start acting like it.”

While she circled the cul-de-sac, the name on the building across from the school grabbed her attention. It read: Chapel Isle Library. A slate roof and stained-glass accents in the windows spiffed up the otherwise plain faade.

“You did say you wanted to act like you lived here.”

Warm, quiet, and well lit, libraries were a favorite of Abigail’s. She always felt at home in a place where books outnumbered people. A library was like a country club for reading enthusiasts, only everybody was welcome.

“You must be here about the loggerheads,” a librarian said, greeting Abigail excitedly when she entered. The woman’s gray hair was cropped short, as if having it any longer would have been a hassle.

“Loggerheads?”

“We have a microfiche machine,” she said proudly. “It’s in the back.”

The small library was empty except for an elderly man in a wool jacket, reading the newspaper at a table. The