The Language of Sand

get me and I’ll take you home. Door-to-door service,” he said with a grin.

“Are you going with him, Bert?”

“Not much else to do. Laundry’s closed on account of the hurricane. Why?”

“No, no, I was just asking.”

Bert appeared to appreciate her interest. “Okay, then. See you later.” He gave her a nod and toddled off.

A dangerous hurricane was barreling toward Chapel Isle, yet to Denny and Bert, it was another ordinary day. Either they were resigned to the storm or they were putting on a convincing show. Feigning bravery was fine for stoic island men. Abigail had lived through the extraordinary and couldn’t pretend to be anything except anxious.

Most of the shelves at the market had been stripped bare. It wouldn’t be a choice of what Abigail wanted but rather what was left. She loaded her cart with the remaining bottled water, fruit, milk and cereal. The last loaf of bread was pumpernickel, which she didn’t care for much. She took it anyway.

Across the aisle, a mother with two little girls was tossing packs of juice boxes into her cart. One of her daughters pleaded for candy.

“We have candy at home.” The mother was firm. “We’re not here for candy. Not today.”

Not today. That says it all.

Abigail was grabbing rolls of toilet paper when she heard a familiar voice in the next aisle.

“Lordy me, this hurricane. What a pain in my posterior. So much to do. Franklin hates to evacuate. Such a hardship for him. And me, I haven’t left this island since…well, since Jesus was a boy.”

Franklin, Abigail thought. Wasn’t that Lottie’s husband’s name?

She pushed her cart around the corner and discovered her landlord gabbing with another woman.

“Haven’t been off the island since Jesus was a boy?” Abigail demanded. “What about your cousin’s ‘girdle incident’? Were you lying this whole time, Lottie?”

The other woman made a hasty exit, leaving Lottie to fend for herself against an irate Abigail.

“Abby, dear. What a surprise to bump into you. My, you’re looking well. Slender as a rail. How do you keep your figure? You have to tell me your secret.”

Abigail wanted to smack herself for not putting two and two together sooner. Lottie couldn’t have left her wheelchair-bound husband alone for that long. The trip-to-the-mainland story was a ruse, an avoidance tactic. Sheriff Larner’s comment, that Lottie was “making herself scarce,” sprang to mind. Abigail felt like a fool. Everybody around town was wise to what Lottie was doing except her.

“Lottie, stop. Be honest for a change. Why would you lie about something so…ridiculous?”

The short woman appeared to grow shorter as she rallied an answer.

“I’m sorry, Abby. Sincerely, I am. From the minute you called me when you were in Boston, I knew you were desperate for the lighthouse to be what you pictured, what you dreamed. And I knew it wouldn’t be. I just didn’t want you to be sad.”

The truth siphoned all of the bubbliness from Lottie. She wrung her hands, waiting for Abigail to pass judgment.

Though Lottie had tricked her and lied to her and dodged her, Abigail was grateful for the intention. Abigail didn’t want to be sad either.

“It’s all right, Lottie.”

Her face instantly brightened. She belted out one of her signature laughs, relieved. “Gracious, I thought you were about to smack me. I heard what happened at the Kettle. Really, Abby, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side o’ you. Ever again, I mean,” she said, amending the statement.

Abigail affected a tough stance. “Is that a promise?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Cross my heart. Not my fingers.”

As Lottie scurried off, Abigail had to admit the debacle at the Kozy Kettle was starting to work in her favor. There was a hidden benefit to being “the Boston Bruiser.” She could intimidate her landlord.

“Maybe you are a badass,” Abigail told herself. But it was a stretch to feel strong with a hurricane looming.

The lines at the registers were lengthy and comprised mainly of women. Janine was at one register. The woman Abigail had seen with Janine’s husband was working the other. Abigail opted for the mistress rather than the wife. The ladies in line were reminiscing about hurricanes past.

“I lost my front windows in ’96,” one recounted. “Boy, was my husband pissed about having to replace ’em.”

“I lost every window that year. Least I got brand new shutters out of that hurricane,” remarked another.

“I had to put on a new roof after the storm in ’92,” one woman complained, caressing her daughter’s hair. “Hope I won’t have to do that again.”

The consensus appeared to be that, though inconvenient, the hurricane would come and go. All that could be done was to hope for the best. Abigail hadn’t had much hope lately. When she did, it was usually to exclusion: She hoped she wouldn’t have nightmares, that she wouldn’t start crying, that her memories wouldn’t unravel her. Abigail wished she could absorb some of their hope for her own.