The Language of Sand Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Ellen Block
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
we?”
“Fine. Let’s do that.” Abigail was fuming.
Lottie motioned her over to the far side of the house and through a doorway. “Here we have a precious little kitchen.”
A stunted alcove passed for that by virtue of having a sink and some appliances. The massive stove and one-door refrigerator were relics. As the house settled, the cupboards had shifted away from one another, giving them the look of gapped teeth. Warped wainscoting covered the lower part of the walls, while outdated floral wallpaper in white and cornflower blue wilted from the top.
“Needs a woman’s touch to highlight the period details and—”
“Lottie.”
“Don’t worry, Abby. Everything works. The electricity is on. The phone’s connected. Water’s running. What more do you need?” She turned the faucet, and brown bilge splattered from the spigot before it ran clean.
Abigail glued her hands to her hips in a show of protest.
Lottie quickly skirted around her. “Let’s move on to the second floor.”
Trudging up the tight staircase behind Lottie, Abigail was eye to eye with her substantial rump. Each step squealed underfoot, and the handrail shuddered unsteadily. The staircase dead-ended onto a landing.
“To the left we have the master suite.”
She showed Abigail into an ample room painted a chalky, medicinal green. Raising the blinds exposed a lumpy bed with a frayed quilt, which was backed by a pine headboard. A brass lamp sat on a dusty nightstand beside a modest dresser. A rocking chair cowered in the corner. The bedroom was as spartan as a monk’s cell.
“I bet you could make this real cozy. Some throw pillows would do the trick.”
“I think it’s going to take more than throw pillows.”
“Have a gander at the other bedroom,” Lottie suggested, scooting away before Abigail could say more.
The next space wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closet, and because the ceiling was low due to the pitch of the roof, Abigail had to duck as she went through the door. A diminutive writing desk, a stumpy bookshelf, and a twin-sized cot on a metal frame were what passed for furnishings.
“This was the watch room, where the lighthouse keeper would sit lookout for ships during storms. It was always a stag light, but I put a bed in here so the house would sleep more people.”
“A stag light?”
“Means a lighthouse with no family living in it.”
Although Lottie could not have known, her comment made Abigail’s heart ache. The implication was wrenching.
“It’d make a perfect study for you, Abby. Or a guest room. You can count on having a million visitors soon as your family and friends hear you live in a lighthouse.”
“I doubt it,” Abigail said faintly. There would be no visitors, no need for a guest room.
“Then a study for sure. See, there’s a desk. Ready and waiting.”
The writing desk was elementary-school-sized. Abigail wasn’t convinced she could get her knees in it. “It’s sort of…small.”
“That’s because folks were much shorter in the olden days. We’re giants compared to past generations.”
It was an ironic comment, considering the size of the source. Abigail might have expressed as much if she wasn’t on the verge of strangling the petite woman before her.
“It’s true,” Lottie exclaimed. “I saw a story about it on the news. They predicted that at the current growth rate we’ll be gargantuan in fifty years. Tall as basketball players.” Lottie was wide-eyed in amazement, and again she had managed to divert Abigail’s ire.
“Last but not least, we can’t forget the pièce de résistance ,” Lottie said, her lolling drawl flattening the French. “Wait ’til you get a load of this.”
Displaying her best game show hostess wrist flick, Lottie presented the bathroom. By comparison, the study was spacious. The antiquated toilet was missing its lid, the fixtures on the porcelain basin were encased in rust, and paint was sloughing off the underbelly of the claw-foot
“Fine. Let’s do that.” Abigail was fuming.
Lottie motioned her over to the far side of the house and through a doorway. “Here we have a precious little kitchen.”
A stunted alcove passed for that by virtue of having a sink and some appliances. The massive stove and one-door refrigerator were relics. As the house settled, the cupboards had shifted away from one another, giving them the look of gapped teeth. Warped wainscoting covered the lower part of the walls, while outdated floral wallpaper in white and cornflower blue wilted from the top.
“Needs a woman’s touch to highlight the period details and—”
“Lottie.”
“Don’t worry, Abby. Everything works. The electricity is on. The phone’s connected. Water’s running. What more do you need?” She turned the faucet, and brown bilge splattered from the spigot before it ran clean.
Abigail glued her hands to her hips in a show of protest.
Lottie quickly skirted around her. “Let’s move on to the second floor.”
Trudging up the tight staircase behind Lottie, Abigail was eye to eye with her substantial rump. Each step squealed underfoot, and the handrail shuddered unsteadily. The staircase dead-ended onto a landing.
“To the left we have the master suite.”
She showed Abigail into an ample room painted a chalky, medicinal green. Raising the blinds exposed a lumpy bed with a frayed quilt, which was backed by a pine headboard. A brass lamp sat on a dusty nightstand beside a modest dresser. A rocking chair cowered in the corner. The bedroom was as spartan as a monk’s cell.
“I bet you could make this real cozy. Some throw pillows would do the trick.”
“I think it’s going to take more than throw pillows.”
“Have a gander at the other bedroom,” Lottie suggested, scooting away before Abigail could say more.
The next space wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closet, and because the ceiling was low due to the pitch of the roof, Abigail had to duck as she went through the door. A diminutive writing desk, a stumpy bookshelf, and a twin-sized cot on a metal frame were what passed for furnishings.
“This was the watch room, where the lighthouse keeper would sit lookout for ships during storms. It was always a stag light, but I put a bed in here so the house would sleep more people.”
“A stag light?”
“Means a lighthouse with no family living in it.”
Although Lottie could not have known, her comment made Abigail’s heart ache. The implication was wrenching.
“It’d make a perfect study for you, Abby. Or a guest room. You can count on having a million visitors soon as your family and friends hear you live in a lighthouse.”
“I doubt it,” Abigail said faintly. There would be no visitors, no need for a guest room.
“Then a study for sure. See, there’s a desk. Ready and waiting.”
The writing desk was elementary-school-sized. Abigail wasn’t convinced she could get her knees in it. “It’s sort of…small.”
“That’s because folks were much shorter in the olden days. We’re giants compared to past generations.”
It was an ironic comment, considering the size of the source. Abigail might have expressed as much if she wasn’t on the verge of strangling the petite woman before her.
“It’s true,” Lottie exclaimed. “I saw a story about it on the news. They predicted that at the current growth rate we’ll be gargantuan in fifty years. Tall as basketball players.” Lottie was wide-eyed in amazement, and again she had managed to divert Abigail’s ire.
“Last but not least, we can’t forget the pièce de résistance ,” Lottie said, her lolling drawl flattening the French. “Wait ’til you get a load of this.”
Displaying her best game show hostess wrist flick, Lottie presented the bathroom. By comparison, the study was spacious. The antiquated toilet was missing its lid, the fixtures on the porcelain basin were encased in rust, and paint was sloughing off the underbelly of the claw-foot