Free The Language of Sand by Ellen Block Page B

than Abigail.
    “Um, yes. Yes, I am.”
    “Nothing beats clean clothes.”
    “Agreed.”
    “You’re going to need soap. You have any?”
    “No, now that you mention it, I don’t.”
    The man cocked his head ruefully. “Can’t do laundry without soap.”
    “You’ve got me there.”
    “I could lend you some,” he said, emphasis on the word lend .
    “Really? I can pay you for it.” Abigail reached for her purse.
    “Don’t want the money.” The intimation was that he wanted more soap in return. The man tottered over to a closet and retrieved a hulking container of detergent, which he heaved onto the sorting table.
    “Think you have enough?” she quipped.
    His brows pinched as he poured the detergent into paper cups for her. Deadpan, he answered, “You can’t have enough soap. Bring some next time you come. That’s all.”
    “Will do.”
    She went to put the first load of towels into the closest washer, and the man clucked his tongue in disapproval. She tried the next. He did the same. Once Abigail took a step toward the third, he nodded his consent. As she started to put the second load into another washer, the man clucked at her until she picked the correct machine.
    “You got quarters?”
    Abigail dug through her wallet. She didn’t have enough for both loads. “Isn’t there a change machine?”
    “I’ll make change for you.”
    He took her singles and fished through his pocket, producing a fistful of quarters.
    This was too weird. Abigail couldn’t resist asking, “Are you the owner?”
    “Who me?” he replied, flattered. “Nah.”
    “You just like laundry?”
    “You could say that. If you want, you can go. I’ll mind your wash.”
    “Thanks. I think.”
    “Twenty-five minutes for the cycle. You’ll need to be here to switch the loads into the dryers.”
    This was more an order than a suggestion. Giving a final glance to the peculiar man with the under-bite, her defenseless laundry already churning in the machines, she grabbed her purse and left.

    Twenty-five minutes wasn’t much time to properly explore, but Abigail could at least take in a bit of the town. Anything would be preferable to staying at the laudromat. The calls of seagulls beckoned her toward the pier. Many of the boats she’d seen the previous day were gone, though some remained. There were no yachts or pleasure cruisers, merely a handful of skiffs and sloops that showed their age, each bobbing serenely. How enviable to be so blithe, Abigail thought, so imperturbable.
    She strolled along the pier. The tide was coming in, and the barnacles that clung to the pilings below would soon disappear. The mottled white masses stood out starkly against the dark timbers. Abigail rolled the word barnacle around in her mouth, like a wine connoisseur would to sample the flavor. A bumpy noun, it crowded inside the cheeks, rattling against the teeth. That was the beauty of language. Sound made words, which made meaning. Love wasn’t love without those precise consonants and vowels. The same was true of fear. Abigail was well versed in both. She knew how each made her breath quicken, her skin tingle, and her head swim. Love and fear required just four letters; however, there was a world of difference between them.
    Years before Abigail ever set foot on Chapel Isle, she knew how it felt to go rafting in the ocean there, to pick shells from the waterline, to have the pristine sand sifting between her toes. She even knew the color of the sunset as it stained the sky. Paul had told her everything about the island where he’d spent summers during hischildhood—this island. His boyhood reminiscences had filled Abigail’s mind as though they were her own. She could almost hear the ocean lapping at the shore. Imagination could take her only so far. They’d planned to spend their honeymoon on Chapel Isle, but Abigail’s parents treated them to a trip to Maui as a wedding present instead. Afterward, Paul promised to take her there on