Free The Language of Sand by Ellen Block Page A

should pay a visit to. Don’t get me wrong, I love her like a sister. Well, more like a sister-in-law of sorts, seeing as she’s married to my second cousin. Fact is, Lottie’s not one to fess up to a fib. And she’s not one to lose a tenant if she can prevent it.”
    Merle was being earnest. Nonetheless, Abigail’s feet were moving faster than her brain. She stormed out the door on a collision course for Lottie’s realty agency.
    “Oh, and don’t move the oil pail in the lamp room,” he called. “Mr. Jasper prefers it just so.”
    But Abigail was already gone.

 
      fan tod (fan´tod), n. 1. Usually, fantods. a state of extreme nervousness or restlessness; the willies; the fidgets (usually prec. by the): We all developed the fantods when the plane was late arriving. 2. Sometimes, fantods. a sudden outpouring of anger, outrage, or a similar intense emotion. [1835–40; appar. fant(igue) (earlier fantique , perh. b. FANTASY and FRANTIC ; – igue prob. by assoc. with FATIGUE ) + – od(s) , of obscure orig.; see –s 3 ]

    A strong breeze was coursing in off the bay, sending a discarded soda can skittering across the square and fluttering the flag mounted outside the Chapel Isle post office. Abigail was too infuriated to feel it.
    The cavalcade of pinwheels and whirligigs was yammering away on the lawn in front of the realty agency. Inside, the lights were off. Outside, the door was locked. Abigail pounded and yelled, “Lottie. It’s Abigail Harker. We need to talk.”
    A note was taped to the window. Closed was underlined repeatedly in pink ink.
    “Isn’t that convenient?”
    Abigail stomped down the steps and stood amid the spinning lawn ornaments. The patience she’d afforded Lottie the day before had evaporated into pure outrage.
    “Hold on,” she told herself. “Some stranger tells you a campfire story and you’re ready to run for the hills? He’s probably the local nutcase. You’re about to take runner-up for standing here on the sidewalk yakking to yourself.”
    She sidestepped the garden gnomes positioned like sentriesalong the path and returned to her car. The pile of laundry was waiting for her in the backseat of the station wagon.
    “I forgot about you guys,” she said to the bedlinens and towels.
    Abigail swung by the Kozy Kettle to ask where she could find a working washer and dryer. The John Deere twins were still at their booth, sitting guard. Ruth glanced up from a newspaper she was perusing.
    “Back so soon, hon? Food here ain’t that good.”
    “Please tell me there’s a laundromat on Chapel Isle, or I’ll be washing my sheets in the bay.”
    “We may be a backwater town, but this isn’t Mayberry. We got a proper laundromat. Go up the street about a block. You can’t miss it.”
    Since it was a short distance, Abigail bundled the laundry and decided to hoof it. After repeatedly traipsing past the same set of gift shops, her arms were getting tired and her aggravation was piqued.
    “For pity’s sake, where is this place?”
    Abigail was ready to wave the white flag—or rather the white pillowcase—when she spotted an alley between two stores. Hanging over the gap in the storefronts was a plank of wood with the word Laundromat routed out in script.
    “Of course. Can’t miss it. How silly of me.”
    At the end of the alley sat a repurposed garage lined with coin-operated washers and dryers, hidden like a speakeasy for cleaning clothes. Abigail was starting to feel as if Chapel Isle was some sort of private club and she hadn’t been taught the secret knock. She dumped her laundry onto a sorting table and was sifting through the pile, separating the bedclothes from the towels, when she heard somebody behind her announce their presence with a cough.
    “Here to do your laundry?”
    Standing at the threshold to the laundromat was a man wearing wide-wale corduroy pants pulled high around his stout waist. He had the prominent under-bite of a bulldog and was a whole head shorter