by Ellen Block
“Yeah. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“If Caleb comes by, I’ll mention you were looking for him.”
“Thanks. Oh, I’m Abigail. Or Abby. So you can tell him who was asking.”
The bartender nodded. “I know.”
Apparently, infamy had its privileges. Abigail walked to her car, realizing that she didn’t even need to introduce herself to people anymore. Nickname or not, she was known.
The caretaker’s cottage was freezing when she returned. She was too exhausted to vie with the fireplace. She was getting accustomed to being cold. Perhaps it a was sign that she was acclimating to her new surroundings. Then again, it might just be her body catching up with her heart.
operose (op′ə rōs′), adj. 1. industrious, as a person. 2. done with or involving much labor. [1660–70; < L operōsus busy, active, equiv. to oper– (s. of opus) work + –ōsus –OSE1 —op′erose′ly, adv. —op′erose′ness, n.
Daybreak brought a haze to the windowpanes. Instead of an early October frost, a humid film of condensation clung to the glass. Abigail opened a window, and the air was unusually balmy. It would be an ideal day to finish the grass. However, there was another project that required her immediate attention. The bathroom.
Ridges of hardened grout jabbed through her socks. On tiptoe, Abigail brushed her teeth and got one contact in. Then she heard pounding.
“It’s too early in the morning for this.”
Except the noise hadn’t emanated from the lamp room or the basement. Someone was knocking at her front door. When she ran downstairs to open it, Nat Rhone was standing on the stoop with a toolbox in hand.
“Merle sent me to check your wiring,” he said gruffly.
Thanks a lot, Merle.
“Uh, come in.” Abigail crossed her arms to cover her layers of pajamas.
“Basement?”
She put on the light for him. “Do you need a flashlight? I have one if—”
“I got a flashlight,” he told her, descending the steps.
While Nat was in the basement, Abigail tore up to her bedroom, wriggled into yesterday’s clothes, and put in her other contact. Dressed, she went back down to the living room and waited at the basement door.
“I’d offer you some coffee,” she hollered to him, “but I don’t have any. I don’t have a coffeepot. I have some milk. And water.”
“No thanks,” Nat answered, his inflection flat.
“If there’s anything I can—”
A thud reverberated from below. Nat cursed loudly. Abigail rushed into the basement and found him dusting himself off. He’d slammed his shin into the crates she’d been digging through.
“Are you all right?”
Nat limped a step. “I’m fine.”
“Sorry, I should have warned you. I’ve done that myself. Have the bruises to prove it.”
She was babbling, and Nat could not have been less interested.
“Where’s your breaker box?”
“I think it’s over here. Watch the furniture,” she warned, as they moved toward the row of antiques along the far wall. Chair arms and table legs protruded here and there, ready to impale or trip any hapless passersby. She noticed Nat do a double take at the desk.
“It’s nice, isn’t it? Nice isn’t the right word. Too general. Unique, maybe. Or striking. Or…”
Abigail couldn’t believe she’d admitted to not using a precise enough adjective. That was how nervous having Nat in the house made her.
“I’m planning to bring the desk into the study and the other pieces into the living room. Problem is, they’re too heavy for me. It would be such an improvement compared to what’s there. Did you get a load of that stuff? How dismal.”
Nat looked at her. “The breaker box?”
“Right. Over here.” She pointed it out, sensing that Nat was waiting for her to leave. “I’ll be, um, upstairs if you need me.”
“Uh-huh.”
Abigail retreated to the kitchen, muttering to herself, “Who does he think he is? This is my house. Or it’s sort of my house. What was Merle thinking, sending him here? Him of all people.”
“I owed him for some supplies from his store.” Nat was standing at the kitchen door. “I couldn’t pay him, so he told me he’d clear my debt if I’d take a look at your wiring.”
Embarrassed at being overheard, Abigail took a second to respond. “I had no idea you were an electrician.”
“I’m not. Anymore, that is. I was. Before.”
Nat shifted on his heels. Discussing any aspect of his personal life made him as uncomfortable as it made Abigail.
“Merle mentioned something about the bathroom light, that you were having trouble with it.”
“You could say that.”
She led him to the bathroom. “You’ll have to ignore the grout situation.”
“Forgot to wipe it, huh?”
“Yup.”
“It’s not hard to fix. What you do is get it damp again, remove the excess, reapply the grout, and wipe it fast. Like this.”
Nat wet a bath towel and started scrubbing the rigid swirls that were caked on the tiles. Then he began to respread the grout around the tub. He was deft with the trowel.
“I take it you’ve done this before.”
“I’ve done a lot of things before.”
Abigail understood how it felt to have a before and how distant it could seem compared to the present.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the Kozy Kettle. I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.”
Nat glanced at her as if to say, That’s the understatement of the year, lady.
“And I didn’t mean to stare last night when you were with Hank—”
He cut her short. “Don’t worry about it.”
Yet that was what Abigail thought she ought to do. Worry. Hank Scokes was evidently in pain and drinking to numb it. He had lost his spouse like she had. However, Abigail had her own worries.
“You mind?”
Because the bathroom was barely big enough for one person, Nat had to back out in order to finish. Abigail was blocking his path.
“Sorry.” She’d been peering over his shoulder, so she stepped into the hall, giving him a wider berth. “Listen, I really want to move that furniture up from the basement and I can’t do it alone. Maybe I could pay you to help me.”
He shook his head firmly. “Couldn’t take money for that.”
“Why not?’
“Just can’t.”
“Then we could trade, like you and Merle did.”
“What are you going to swap me for?” Nat said, incredulous.
Cooking was out. Cleaning too. He wouldn’t believe she was decent at either, based on the current state of the house. Abigail was stumped.
“You still thinking?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, what did you do before you came here?”
For a moment, Abigail genuinely couldn’t remember.
“I was a lexicographer. That’s a—”
“I know what it is.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t see how writing dictionaries is going to do me any good.”
Abigail had been forced to burrow into her memory to retrieve her old life, only to be told it had no value. Nat’s remark smarted.
In the past, when she’d met someone new and they asked what she did for a living, she would have to explain the parameters and politely defend hers as a real job. Most people didn’t even realize lexicography was a profession. There was no dedicated training program, no section in the classifieds for open positions. One time, after clarifying the details of her occupation to another mother in Justin’s playground, the woman deemed Abigail “a word cop.” It wasn’t Abigail’s optimal description, but it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. At her last consulting job, she’d assessed existing foreign-language-dictionary entries and searched for evidence to consider possible new entries. Like police work, the task involved logic, i
nformation gathering, and sound judgment. Now, however, Abigail didn’t feel like an off-duty cop or an unemployed lexicographer. She just felt unemployed.
“You seem pretty handy with a paintbrush.” Nat motioned at the roller and paint cans at the end of the hall. “I owe Duncan Thadlow for some mechanical repairs he did on the boat. Have to paint his house. I’ve done most of the prep. Could use a hand to finish.”
“The outside of the house? I haven’t done that before.”
“Ain’t much of a difference. You want in or not?”
“In exchange for moving the furniture? Yes, definitely.”
“We’ll start tomorrow.” Nat stood and stretched his legs. The grout was complete, the job immaculate. “Let it dry for an hour. It’ll be like new.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to—”
Nat was already partway down the stairs. “I’ll pick you up in the afternoon once I get back.”
“Back?”
“From work. Fishing? Tomorrow’s Wednesday. I was off today only because Hank’s boat is still being repaired.”
The days had bled together for Abigail. She hadn’t seen a calendar since she left Boston.
“Right. Of course,” she sputtered as Nat headed toward the front door. “Hey. What about the electricity and the light switch in the bathroom? Was there a short in the wiring?”
“Nothing wrong with them.” He set his toolbox in the flatbed of his truck, saying, “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow,” she replied, lost in thought.
Abigail had convinced herself the light was broken and that confirmation of the defective wiring would make her feel better. Except the wiring wasn’t broken. Though the bathroom bulb hadn’t come on mysteriously in days, the chance that it might happen again was an unpleasant preoccupation that had built into dread.
Dread was only one syllable. However, when spoken, the sound stretched, elongating like the feeling it defined. Dread wasn’t about if. It was about when. And when was always somewhere on the horizon, impending and preordained. When was merely a matter of time.
Abigail liked surprises about as much as migraine headaches. Nat Rhone’s early-morning visit was just such a surprise. A warning would have been nice. She was knocking on Merle’s front door to give him a refresher course on common courtesy, but he didn’t appear to be home.
“Maybe it’s the same as his store. You have to go around back to get service.”
Merle’s deck overlooked the bay. A grill filled with months’ worth of charcoal cinders stood next to a wooden table where many a fish had met its end. The wood glimmered with scales embedded in the grain.
“Thought I heard someone sneaking around out here,” Merle said through the screen door. “Glad you’re not a prowler. Guess it’s too early in the morning for prowlers, huh?”
“A little. I’ve been pounding on your front door for five minutes.”
“Figured it was somebody selling something.”
“You get a lot of Avon ladies here on Chapel Isle?”
“No, but those Girl Scouts are relentless.”
Abigail put her hands on her hips.
“All right, all right, if you’ve come to read me the riot act about Nat Rhone, let’s get it over with.” He leaned into the screen that was separating them and put his chin out, miming that he was ready to take the verbal blow. “Go on. Gimme your best shot.”
“You could have at least told me you were sending him.”
“Then would you have let me?”
“Point taken.”
“Want a cup of coffee?”
“Can’t. I’m on my way to see Sheriff Larner.”
“Caleb? Why?” Merle opened the screen door and joined her on the deck, hobbling with his umbrella cane.
“I saw someone during the rounds last night. A man. He was on Timber Lane.”
“Did you recognize the guy?”
“It was dark. All I could say for sure was that it was a ‘him.’”
“This was last night?”
“I drove straight to the sheriff’s station afterward. Larner wasn’t there. He had this sign in the window—”
“Back in five minutes. That’s always there. Even when Caleb’s in the office.”
“What is it with you people and not answering your doors?”
“If it’s that important, it can wait.”
“Ah, more Chapel Isle logic.”
“Only kinda logic I got. Anyhow, I was meaning to give you a ring. You don’t have to do my route anymore. Tonight can be your last night. I’m feeling better. I can do it myself.”
“Are you sure? You’re still walking with your umbrella.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m peachy. And I’m well prepared if it rains.”
“Okay, but what about the man I saw? Do you think I should tell the sheriff?”
“Your call,” Merle answered, indifferent.
“Don’t you care that somebody’s coming to the island, your island, and breaking into people’s homes?”
“Yes, I care. Except those houses that are being robbed, they’re for the tourists. They’re not for us. I worry for Lottie’s sake. If she’s hit, she’ll get the insurance money, then she’ll have to pay to fix whatever damage the burglar did and her rates will skyrocket. That’s a raw deal. Fact is, she sends me around only so she can keep track of which units have been broken into and which haven’t. It’s not prevention. It’s treading water.”
“What if it was your house? What then?”
“It won’t be.”
“How do you know?”
He wouldn’t answer.
“Merle,” Abigail pressed.
“Whoever’s doing these burglaries, they never target islanders’ homes. Don’t even step foot on our side of town. Because as soon as they came to one of our houses, there’d be real hell to pay.”
“Then who is it? Someone from the mainland who visits during the summer?”
Merle looked at his feet, as though his expression might give him away.
“You think it’s somebody from Chapel Isle.”
He frowned yet didn’t disagree.
“Why would someone who lives here do that?”
Merle lowered himself onto a folding chair. What he was about to say appeared to pain him more than his injury.
“Wasn’t the best summer this year. People were praying for better. Heck, they were counting on it. Fishing industry’s gone soft. There are more boats in these waters than fish. People’ve gotten to depend on the summer money. Weak as this season was, it’s not a shock someone’s gotten desperate. Not a shock at all.”
“Do you think the sheriff knows what’s going on?”
“Dunno.”
“What if he does?”
“Then he does.”
That was how it was on Chapel Isle. A secret could be widely known but still be a secret. A crime could occur with an island full of witnesses and not be a crime.
The road from Merle’s house brought Abigail to an intersection. She could either turn right toward town or left to the lighthouse. She had a choice to make: whether to tell the sheriff what she’d seen or let it lie.
As her engine idled, a school bus pulled up on the opposite side of the road. Children were running from their houses to catch it and waiting in line to board. It was such a normal sight that it made Abigail feel normal simply watching it.
The school bus rode onward, passing her station wagon. She flipped her turn signal. She went left.
Abigail spent the rest of the day pushing and pulling the manual lawn mower across the backyard. The constant whirring of the blades drowned out thought. The steady motion anesthetized her mind. When she finished, the lighthouse appeared taller and the brick caretaker’s house seemed less dilapidated.
Satisfied, she went inside, then drew herself a hot bath. Abigail had gone three days without bathing, a lapse that would have been unconscionable in the past.
“Your hygiene certainly has suffered s
ince moving here. Welcome to the new Abby.”
For a change, she was excited about being in the bathroom. The white grout made the tiles gleam. The pale yellow paint gave the cramped room an airier feel. While the bathwater ran, Abigail went to the study to grab something to read in the tub. She perused the shelves. None of the books struck her fancy. That was until her eyes fell on the romance novel she’d started the other day. She remembered that Janine had been reading a similar paperback the first time she’d locked horns with her at Weller’s Market.
“The one thing we have in common is our choice in reading. How ironic.”
After a few minutes in the steamy bathwater, Abigail’s sore muscles ceased to ache as badly. The knot in her neck loosened. When she rejoined the winsome heiress and her rogue pirate captain, their romance had put both in jeopardy from her sinister suitor, who was setting the captain up to be captured and killed. Despite the ridiculousness of the story, Abigail didn’t put the paperback down until she was a hundred pages further into the tale, and then it was only because her stomach was rumbling.
“Hold that thought, heiress. I’m starving.”
Believing she might finally conquer her fear of the oven after the fiasco with the pilot light, Abigail had purchased a frozen dinner at the market.
“Showdown time,” she said, toweling off. “In this corner we have one wet, tired woman. In the other we have the challenger: turkey tetrazzini.”
Abigail switched on the lights as she moved through the house. Having the place lit made it feel warmer. Shivering, her hair damp, she skimmed the cooking instructions on the frozen-dinner package.
“Preheat oven to three-fifty. I can do that. I can preheat.”
She sidled over to the stove and turned the knob. The gas snapped on loudly. Abigail flinched.
“Relax, champ. It’s only warming up.”
Normally, preheating would take ten minutes. Considering the stove’s age, it could take double that to reach the correct temperature.
“Are you going to stand here staring at the darn thing the whole time?”
The answer was yes. Abigail couldn’t bring herself to leave the oven unattended. She was waiting for any sign of danger. After five minutes, she was slouching against the wainscoting. Bored, she opened the refrigerator. In spite of her recent trip to the grocery store, the fridge was disgracefully empty. A lone container of milk and a packet of sliced turkey sat on one tier. An untouched carton of eggs perched on another. The apples she’d set on the bottom shelf had rolled over to a loaf of bread, as though huddling next to it for warmth.