The Language of Sand

“Meaning?”

“I found a newspaper clipping about the Bishop’s Mistress under the mattress in the caretaker’s house. The article said there was a storm, that the ship sank because there was no light to guide it in.”

“That might be the headline. It’s not the whole story.”

“There’s an unabridged version?”

Merle rested against the counter, taking weight off his healing ankle. “Everyone said Mr. Jasper was diligent, faithful. The lighthouse was his life. This was back at the turn of the century, when Chapel Isle was a one-horse town, an outpost for sailors, fishermen, and their families. Supposedly, one day Mr. Jasper went to the lamp room to put the oil in for the night. On the way down, he slipped, hit his head, and fell; rolled clear to the bottom. Should have killed him. He must have lain there for hours, nobody to help him. By nightfall, the storm had swept in. When people realized there was no beacon for the sailors, somebody went to the lighthouse and found him. It was too late for the Mistress. But not for Mr. Jasper. He was alive. Barely.”

“You’re saying he was hurt and couldn’t have operated the beacon. Then what happened to the Bishop’s Mistress wasn’t his fault.”

“I don’t think that’s how Mr. Jasper saw it.”

On occasions too numerous to recall, Abigail had wished she’d died along with her husband and son. She was ashamed for being able to breathe and speak and smile when they couldn’t. She wore that shame like tight-fitting clothes she couldn’t remove. The ever-present pinch of grief was taut across the shoulders; bereavement laced around the chest, sorrow cinched at the waist, while her anguish was snug at the neck, despair restricting each movement, regret cramping each memory. There was no unbuttoning her heartache. While the fire wasn’t her fault, that didn’t make her loss any easier to wear.

“What happened to Mr. Jasper afterward?”

“Story goes that he healed up, kept tending the lighthouse. Stayed there until he died almost twenty years later.”

“There were a lot of ledgers, so it makes sense.”

“Ledgers?”

“Mr. Jasper wrote a daily record of the goings-on at the lighthouse, like a diary. The ledgers were in the basement.”

Merle did not look pleased.

“What? You figured because Lottie doesn’t go down there, I wouldn’t either? I was in the basement moving furniture for hours yesterday.”

“Abby, who else knows you moved that furniture?”

“Nat. But he won’t tell Lottie, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Lottie’s not who I’m concerned about.”

Before she could ask what was upsetting Merle, Bert Van Dorst came pounding on the back door of the hardware store, panting as if he’d run a hundred-yard dash.

“Good Lord, Bert.” Merle let him inside. “Come in before you faint.”

“I ran here,” he said, gulping air.

“You ran?” Merle asked skeptically.

“Do you want some water?” Abigail offered.

He shook his head no, still catching his breath.

“Bert, it is a concrete fact that a man of your age and proportions should not be running anywhere,” Merle told him. “Have a seat. Tell us what the fuss is about.”

“Can’t. No time,” he blurted between breaths. “Hank Scokes is dead. The sheriff’s got Nat Rhone in the lockup for killing him.”

If there was a storm coming, Abigail couldn’t have predicted it. The sky was cloudless, the sun radiant, as she, Merle, and Bert stood outside the sheriff’s station, rapping repeatedly on the door.

“Come on, Caleb,” Merle called. “We’re not paparazzi.”

The door opened a hair and Sheriff Larner let the three of them slip inside. The front office was outfitted with metal desks and linoleum tile. At the far end was an opening, beyond which Abigail spied a set of cells. The thirteen-inch television sitting on a filing cabinet showed a newsman pointing to a colossal swirl of clouds on a weather map. Meanwhile, a radio was relaying news of the storm simultaneously, the reporters’ voices overlapping like those of an arguing couple.

“You’re the first ones here, and you’ll be the only ones if I can keep a lid on this until the hurricane’s blown over,” Sheriff Larner confided in a hushed tone. “How’d you find out?”

Merle and Abigail looked to Bert, who turned bashful. “I saw you taking Nat in, then I listened at that open window.”

“Now you see why I’m being so careful.” He shut the window.

“What happened?” Merle asked.

“Best I can tell, Rhone pushed Hank over the side of his rig.”

“There’s no way he would hurt Hank.” Abigail was adamant. Whatever her feelings about Nat, she knew he