The Language of Sand

by Ellen Block

  “Finally.”

  The band of darkness in the distance broadened, a lapse amid the breadth of blue. It wasn’t the horizon line. It was Chapel Isle.

  As the ferry drew closer, the contours of trees and the silhouettes of rooftops came into focus. Abigail’s gut cinched. This was no longer seasickness. This was anticipation.

  Without warning, the ferry plunged between two deep swells. Abigail clenched the steering wheel as the boat bucked. She considered how ridiculous she must look, white-knuckling the Volvo’s wheel while it sat, stationary, on the ferry’s deck. Though she was happy there was no one to see her, the relief twisted into a twinge. She was very much on her own.

  Chapel Isle was close, less than a half mile away. However, the ocean was making it difficult to reach.

  “Should I take this personally?”

  Another wave sent the ferry lunging.

  “I’ll interpret that as a yes.”

  Cold and nauseous, she did the one thing that would calm her. She recited Latin, conjugating verbs from rote and enumerating each tense in a monotone chant.

  “Sum, esse, fui, futurus.

  “Habeo, habere, habui, habitus.”

  The verbs were transformed into a soothing hum, a distraction. She had picked up the practice as a young girl, from her father. A prominent surgeon specializing in patients with lung cancer, he’d helmed early research into the link between smoking and lung disease. “Gray is rarely a good thing,” he would say in reference to the color of a patient’s lungs, a philosophy he applied to most matters. He was a pragmatic man, unflaggingly precise, and he categorized life in terms of what was a good thing or a bad thing. For her father, there was rarely any room in between.

  When the world did dim to a shade of gray for some reason or other, her father would retreat to his study and retrieve his beloved Latin textbook from his school days. In spite of its age, the book remained in pristine condition. The binding was slightly broken, the spine no longer stiff, but there were no torn pages, no dog-ears, no pencil marks in the margins. As a child, Abigail would peek in the doorway while he pored over the pages of the tome as if it were a photo album. She longed to see what he saw.

  Once she was old enough to read, Abigail’s father invited her into his study, sat her on his lap, and allowed her to open the book.

  “I want you to listen to the words before I teach you what they mean,” he had said. “That will make them easier to learn, my sweet. Trust me.”

  So began her Latin lessons, her father reading root upon root upon root. The rhythmic flick of the turning pages mingled with the Latin to form a melody that became the background music of her youth. As if hearing a fairy tale in a foreign language, Abigail intuited meaning beneath the words, and her love of language took hold there in her father’s study. It was a love that carried on through the books that filled the boxes cramming her station wagon. The chassis rode low because of the weight. She found reassurance in how heavy a book could be. Even paperbacks had heft in the palm. The fact that letters printed on paper could amass such gravity was a marvel. It made words even mightier to Abigail.

  The books in the boxes were from her parents’ house, the stored surplus and castoffs of a once-substantial collection spanning a gamut of subjects from fiction to history, classics to the esoteric, first editions and signed copies, a private library she had spent years assembling. These books were the lone survivors of her collection. They were all Abigail had left.

  blandish (blan´dish), v.t. 1. to coax or influence by gentle flattery; cajole: They blandished the guard into letting them through the gate. —v.i. 2. to use flattery or cajolery. [1350–1400; ME blandisshen < AF, MF blandiss–, long s. of blandir < L blandīrī to soothe, flatter. See BLAND, –ISH2] –blan´disher, n. –bland´dishingly, adv.

  As the ferry neared Chapel Isle, the picturesque vista of the island was marred by a troubling sight. One of the dock’s pilings had buckled, and a broken plank dangled precariously over the water. The dock appeared on the verge of collapse.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Abigail declared.

  Studying language for so long had taught her that initial impressions weren’t necessarily dependable. The spelling of a word and its pronunciation could be astonishingly irreconcilable. That was why every entry in the dictionary had a phonetic guide. Abigail willed herself to believe the same rationale would hold true for Chapel Isle.

  “This is it. End of the road,” Denny announced, ambling toward her car. The ferry’s engine whirred to a stop while he wound the lead lines around an intact piling, then slid a ramp out to bridge the gap to the dock.

  “Denny, what happened?”

  “To what?”

  “To this dock.”

  “Oh, yeah. Hank Scokes ran into it.”

  “Ran into it?”

  “With his fishing boat.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Naw, old guy was drunk as a skunk.”

  “Is the structure secure enough to drive on?”

  “Plenty o’ people have.”

  “How reassuring,” Abigail mumbled. “When did this little ‘accident’ occur?”

  Denny had to give it some thought. “’Bout a month ago.”

  “And nobody’s fixed it?”

  “That’s a seriously messed-up dock. It’s going to take a lot of fixing to get it right again. Don’t you fret, though. I’ll keep an eye on ya. Where are you staying?” he inquired with a suggestive tilt of his head.

  “The lighthouse. I’m actually the new caretaker,” Abigail replied, braced for some type of advance.

  Instead, Denny’s expression faltered. He pursed his lips to prevent himself from saying what he wanted to say.

  “It can’t be that bad,” she joked halfheartedly. “The place isn’t operational anymore, so I can’t get in too much trouble.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s…um, never mind.”

  After the lengthy trip, Abigail didn’t have the energy to prod Denny into opening up. Whatever he was holding back would have to wait.

  “I’m supposed to go and see the realtor first,” she told him. “Can you give me directions to her office?”

  “Lottie Gilquist’s who you need. Ain’t hard to find her. All you gotta do is listen.”

  Forgoing any further explanation, Denny went to unhook the chain that barred the front of the ferry.

  Confused, Abigail pulled the station wagon alongside him. “Let’s say my hearing’s not very keen; how exactly would I find her?”

  “You go straight.”

  “Okay, straight. What’s next?”

  “Just straight.”

  “If I just go straight, I’m going to drive into the ocean on the other side of the island.”

  “You’ll spot Lottie’s place before that’d happen.”

  A whistle rang out from behind Abigail’s car. Denny’s father was hovering in the doorway to the wheelhouse. He folded his arms in silent command.

  “Take the main road,” Denny instructed. “You can’t miss it.” He started to trot away, then stopped himself. “Oops. Promised I’d see you get onto the island safe and sound.”

  Abigail was glad he remembered, because she hadn’t forgotten. “Thanks,” she said, easing her foot from the brake.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

  “I think you will.”

  Denny broke into a wide grin, which made Abigail smile too. However, her smile dissolved the instant she let the Volvo inch forward onto the dock. The wood whinnied and groaned under the wagon.

  “It’s fine,” he said encouragingly. “Go ahead. Really. It’s solid as a rock.”

  Despite the squawking planks, Abigail drove onward while Denny waved goodbye. She would have waved back but couldn’t pry her fingers from the wheel.

  As soon as the car coasted off the dock onto a gravel lane, Abigail exhaled, grateful for solid ground. A placard at the side of the road read: Welcome to Chapel Isle.

  “Some welcome.�
��

  The island’s dock house was closed tight, and a nearby soda stand had been boarded shut. See You Next Summer was spray-painted on the plywood. The tourist season was decidedly over. Chapel Isle had gone into hibernation. The solitude of seclusion was another reason Abigail had chosen to move here, one she was beginning to reconsider.

  “Careful what you wish for.”

  Her father had been the first to plant the phrase in her mind, a cautionary quip that stuck with her because it proved true more often than she cared to concede. Like when Abigail was eight and begged her parents for a cat. She’d spent weeks pleading and pledging to be responsible, then ultimately wore them down. The day they brought her home a kitten, Abigail broke out in a case of hives that was so severe, her father had to bring her to the hospital.

  “Sometimes what you want is the worst thing for you,” he’d pronounced, as Abigail’s mother slathered her in cortisone cream. “Sounds like the stuff of fortune cookies, except it’s usually true.”

  Lesson learned. At least about having pets. With only a gravel lane to guide her and not a single person in sight, Abigail wondered if she’d ever really taken the moral to heart.

  The road from the dock fed inland. On either side were wide expanses of salt marsh, punctuated by tidal pools. The tall grass swayed in the breeze, underscoring the cloudy sky with swaths of blond that bled into green.

  Abigail caught passing glimpses of the coast where paths to the beach had been trampled through the dunes. The scent of the ocean was heady, tipped with a salty tartness. When she lowered the rest of the windows to let the fragrance fill the car, the sudden rush of air sent her books and boxes flapping frantically.

  “That’s enough wind for today,” she said, as she raised the windows and blew a wayward chunk of hair from her forehead.

  In the distance, a beach shack hunkered at the edge of the asphalt. Abigail slowed for a better look. It was another food stand, the serving window padlocked.

  “The town has got to be somewhere.”

  A mile later, the languorous marshland was overtaken by trees and a strand of shingled cabins. Each one was identical to its neighbor, like a row of paper dolls. There were no cars in the driveways, no lights, motion, or noise.

  “Summer rentals,” she stated, imagining that if she were to open one of the cabin doors, she would hear the ocean the way one does when putting an ear to an empty shell that has washed ashore.

  Ahead was a bend in the road. Rounding it, Abigail found her reward: a postcard-perfect cobblestone town square. The bay and the boats huddled at the pier provided the backdrop. The square was lined with shops, most of which had nautical names and specialized in fishing or gifts. They alternated between bait and tackle or keepsakes and collectibles, the marine theme a constant. What they also had in common was that they were all closed.

  Abigail trolled through the square, noting a bank, a café, and a post office interspersed between the stores. But no real estate agency. The bay was fast approaching.

  “You’re about to run out of island.”

  That’s when something caught her eye. Hemmed in at the end of the strip of shops was a dainty cottage. The patch of grass in front teemed with throngs of plastic pink flamingos, clattering whirligigs, spinning pinwheels, and a gallery of garden ornaments. It was a staggering spectacle, a conflagration of color and movement, the epitome of flamboyance. Smack in the middle of the gaudy mob of lawn decorations stood a freestanding mailbox, which sported its own miniature flag and the stenciled slogan: Controlled Chaos.

  Abigail gawked. “If ever there were a more appropriate oxymoron.”

  The awning over the cottage door read: Gilquist Realty.

  “This should be interesting.”

  She parked her car, then maneuvered along the cottage’s obstacle course of a walkway, clicking through the synonyms for chaos in her mind, another habit for tempering anxiety. The alternatives ranged from the mild, such as disorder or confusion, to the manic, turmoil and anarchy. On a sliding scale, the exterior of Gilquist Realty ranked somewhere around obnoxiously unruly. What Abigail discovered indoors was closer to pandemonium.

  Every inch of available space in the front office was jammed from floor to ceiling with an array of knickknacks—figurines of mermaids, a fleet of ships in bottles, stuffed animals, novelty salt and pepper shakers, ashtrays adorned with clamshells. Objects overflowed from each corner and crevice, dripping from the walls, brimming from the windowsills, and dangling from the light fixtures by the dozens. Abigail blinked, absorbing the bedlam.

  “Not for the faint of heart, huh?” said a plump woman wearing a pastel sweatshirt airbrushed with the image of a dolphin. She was sitting behind a desk. Abigail hadn’t noticed her among the clutter.

  “My husband calls it ‘Tchotchke Heaven.’ Where bric-a-brac goes to die.” The woman let out an unmistakable cackle that clanged like a bell. This was what Denny must have been referring to.

  “Lottie Gilquist?” Abigail asked.

  “That’s me.”

  The floating heart pendant Lottie wore jangled as she laughed. Its soft, distended shape mimicked her frame. She had sloped shoulders, round fleshy cheeks, and a pouf of hair combed high into a bun and dyed the color of corn silk, the same shade as the countless dolls in display stands around the room.

  “And you must be…”

  “Abigail Harker. I’m here about the—”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve been waiting for you. Wondered if you’d catch the ferry or not. Doesn’t run again until tomorrow, so it’s lucky you made it.”

  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.