Summer Rental

by Mary Kay Andrews

  * * *

  Dorie had promised herself she’d go for a swim at exactly 11 A.M. She ran and dove into the waves, letting them take her out and under, again and again. The water was wonderful. She floated on her back and looked up at the clouds, trying to force herself to empty her cluttered mind and think of … absolutely nothing.

  But the worries lapped at her as surely as the warm waves. Damn Willa for backing out on them! Dorie had budgeted this vacation down to the last nickel, counting on splitting expenses four ways. And now? Her budget was blown to hell. She had just barely enough money to pay for her share of the rent, let alone kick in her share for groceries. And then there was Stephen. It was all just too sad, too awful. He would have loved this place. The thought came to her unbidden, as did the unexpected wave, washing over her face. She stood up, sputtering and choking, the saltwater burning her eyes and throat.

  She was running back to her chair when she spotted him—a man, standing on the second-floor deck of the garage right beside their house.

  The other girls were opening beers when she got back. She opted for an icy bottle of water instead, and as she was toweling off, she glanced up and saw the man again. He hadn’t moved.

  “Hey,” she said, running a comb through her tangled hair. “Who’s that guy?”

  “What guy?” Julia said, not bothering to look around. She twisted the cap from her beer and took a long drink. “Probably one of your old boyfriends.”

  “Wrong,” Dorie said. “I’ve never dated anybody from North Carolina. I had a boyfriend who went to Wake Forest, but that doesn’t count because he was from Charleston.”

  “Where is this guy?” Ellis asked, standing up.

  “Right there.” Dorie pointed towards the garage apartment. “He’s totally been staring at us for the past ten minutes.”

  Ellis put on her sunglasses and looked.

  “It’s him!” she exclaimed.

  Now Julia was looking too. “Him who?”

  “That’s the guy,” Ellis exclaimed. “Remember? I told you, he was standing right there, peeing off that porch, yesterday morning when I got here.”

  “Gross,” Dorie said.

  “He doesn’t look gross to me,” Julia said. “He looks kind of, um, yummy to me. He’s all tan and ripped. My God, look at those pecs!”

  “Julia!” Ellis and Dorie exclaimed in unison.

  “Excuse me,” Julia said. “Can I help it if I’ve had my fill of looking at flabby white Englishmen in the past few years? Have you two ever seen European men at the beach? They all wear those nasty little Speedos with their schlongs waving around.”

  “Banana hammocks,” Dorie said, giggling. “Disgusting. Booker doesn’t wear one, does he?”

  “Booker?” Julia said with a derisive snort. “Hah! Booker hates the beach. He always says if he wants to get sun poisoning or skin cancer, he’ll do it someplace with air-conditioning and decent cable reception.”

  “Stephen loves the beach,” Dorie said wistfully. “He’ll drive out to Tybee in the middle of the winter, just so he can walk barefoot in the sand.”

  “It’s just too bad he couldn’t come after all,” Julia said sympathetically. “Have you talked to him since we got here?”

  Dorie’s eyes filled with tears. “No.…”

  Ellis shot Julia a warning look. Julia shrugged.

  “Oh look,” Julia said, turning back towards the dunes. “The guy! He sees us looking at him.” She gave him a coquettish wave. “And he doesn’t even care. Oh my God. He’s waving back. Who the hell is he?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out,” Ellis said.

  8

  Ellis marched herself right up the stairway over the dune, stopping only to slide her feet into a pair of flip-flops she’d left at the edge of the steps.

  “Hey!” she called, standing at the covered deck at the top of the dunes, her hands at her hips. “Hey, you!”

  “Who, me?” Ty called, leaning down over the porch railing. He could just barely see a bit of her nipples from this vantage point.

  “Yes, you,” Ellis retorted. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just taking in the scenery,” Ty said innocently. “How about yourself?”

  “My friends and I were relaxing on the beach,” Ellis said. “Until we became aware that we were being spied on by some pervert.”

  “What makes you think I’m a pervert?”

  “Yesterday I caught you pissing off that same deck. Today you’re up there staring at us. What’s your name, anyway?”

  He was taken off guard by her question, and before he knew it, he was actually telling her. “My name is Ty Bazemore. Why do you ask?”

  She nodded, seeming to memorize it. “Ty Bazemore. Is that it? Not Tyson, or Tyler?”

  “Just Ty,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “None of your business,” she said. “What are you doing up there on that porch?”

  “I happen to live here,” he said indignantly.

  “Does Mr. Culpepper know you’re staying up there?”

  He managed to suppress a smile. “Culpepper knows all about me.”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?” she asked.

  “Come to think of it,” he said, looking down at his watch, “I do.” He started to go back inside, but then he thought of something.

  She was halfway down the beach stairs.

  “Hey,” he called. “Why do you want to know my name?”

  “So I can Google you,” she called back, not bothering to turn around. “And I intend to run the tag on that Bronco too, Ty Bazemore.”

  “The perv’s name is Ty,” Ellis reported when she got back to the girls. “He claims he rents the garage apartment from Mr. Culpepper.”

  “What makes you think he’s a perv?” Julia asked, thumbing through Vogue.

  “He was peeing off that deck!” Ellis said. “Right there in front of God and everybody.”

  “That doesn’t make him a pervert,” Julia said, dog-earing one of the pages. “It just makes him a guy. My brothers used to pee off the second-floor porch at the house at Isle of Hope when they were kids. It was like a contest. Peeing for distance, they called it.”

  “My brother did the same kind of stuff. And sometimes, when Stephen’s in the backyard mowing the grass, he’ll pee behind the garage,” Dorie volunteered. “He doesn’t think I know. I think it’s kinda funny. Didn’t your brother ever do anything like that?”

  “Baylor wouldn’t have dared. My mother would have had a cat-fit,” Ellis said. “I don’t care what you guys say, I’m keeping an eye on Ty Bazemore.”

  “Mmmm,” Julia purred suggestively. “I’ll help.”

  “Me too,” Dorie said. “He’s adorable. He’d make the perfect summer fling for you, Ellis.”

  “As if,” Ellis said.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, the girls trooped back up the dunes to the house.

  “I’m starved,” Julia announced. She was leafing through a thick booklet advertising local shops and restaurants. “Where shall we go for lunch? Seafood, right? The fish we get in England is crap. It’s the one big thing I miss about living in Savannah. Do you guys remember my mom’s fried grouper sandwiches?”

  “I remember her she-crab bisque,” Ellis said. Unlike her own mother, who was strictly a meat and potatoes, canned peas, and cherry Jell-O kind of cook, Catherine Capelli had been a fabulous cook. “And I’d give anything for another plate of her spaghetti with the Italian sausage that she’d make in the wintertime.”

  “And those little yeast rolls she’d make, dripping with garlic butter,” Dorie put in. “And all the different kinds of cookies she’d bake every year at Christmas. She’d fix a huge plate for each of us to take home to our families. It’s a miracle we all didn’t end up fat little piggies after eating your mama’s cooking all those years, Julia.”

  “She could cook, there was no denying that,” Julia said lightly. “But y
ou still haven’t told me where you want to go have lunch.” She rifled the pages of the booklet. “Awful Arthur’s? Barefoot Bernie’s? Dirty Dick’s?”

  Ellis picked up a manila folder she’d left on top of the microwave. “Let’s see. I’ve got coupons for Mako Mike’s and Freaky Freddie’s. Buy one entrée, get a second free.”

  “You guys go,” Dorie said. “Maybe I’ll just fix myself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.”

  “Peanut butter and jelly? At the beach? Are you nuts?” Julia said.

  “I prefer to think of it as being thrifty,” Dorie replied. “I mean, c’mon, Ellis, aren’t you the tiniest bit worried about your situation? I know you’ll get another great job, but I just think I’d be crazy worried if I were you.”

  “I’ve got some irons in the fire,” Ellis said blithely. “But I’ll be all right. As long as I’m sensible about my spending, which I usually am anyway.” She opened the refrigerator door, secretly relieved at the twenty dollar bill she’d save by eating lunch at home. “Look, I stopped at the seafood place up the street when I got in yesterday and picked up some shrimp. They claimed it was right off the boat. And I brought a can of Old Bay seasoning. We can steam some shrimp in beer.”

  “What else have you got in there?” Dorie asked, leaning in to look. She held up a head of romaine lettuce, a cucumber, and a tomato. “Great. I’ll throw a salad together while the shrimp are cooking.”

  “Oh, all right,” Julia relented. “We’ll stay in for lunch. But tonight, we’re going out for dinner so I can get my fried grouper fix. And it’s my treat, so don’t even try to argue.”

  They took turns showering, and when lunch was ready, they sat companionably around the enamel-topped kitchen table. They discussed plans for the afternoon, while Ellis checked her e-mail.

  “Hey,” she announced. “Old man Culpepper finally answered my e-mail. A pest-control guy is coming over to spray the house at two. But he says we’ve got to stay out of the house for a couple of hours afterwards.”

  “Suits me,” Julia said. “I’ve got a new book, and the beach is calling me back.”

  “Guess I’ve had enough sun for one day,” Dorie said, holding out her sunburnt arm.

  “Me too,” Ellis agreed. “I saw a movie theater up the street. Why don’t we catch a matinee?”

  “A chick flick!” Dorie’s green eyes lit up. “I’ll bring my biggest pocketbook and we’ll sneak in our own Diet Cokes like we did in junior high. And we can stop and buy a giant box of candy at the Dollar Store.”

  “Well…” Ellis said. “You know they always have those big signs that say ‘outside food and drink prohibited’.…”

  Julia set her beer bottle down on the countertop. “Who cares? They just put those signs up so you’ll have to buy their five-dollar Cokes and seven-dollar tubs of popcorn. Nobody pays any attention to those signs.”

  “I do,” Ellis said stubbornly. “What if we got caught? How embarrassing would that be?”

  “Who’s going to catch you?” Julia wanted to know. “It’s not like they have ushers in movie theaters anymore. And even if they did, what do you think is going to happen if they catch you sneaking in your own stuff? Huh? You think they’re gonna revoke your driver’s license? Seize your jujubes as contraband?”

  “Never mind her, Ellis,” Dorie said. “I’ll carry the Cokes and Milk Duds in my purse.” She paused then, remembering that her redrawn budget had no room for movies—let alone seven-dollar boxes of popcorn.

  Ellis noticed Dorie’s sudden look of concern. She opened the manila folder again. “I went online and downloaded some Movie Lover’s passes. If we get there before 1:30, our tickets are only two bucks. And there’s one for each of us.”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “What is with you two with the coupons and early-bird specials? We’re on vacation. We’ve all worked hard and we deserve to be good to ourselves. If you’re that hard up for money, just say so.” She grabbed her pocketbook.

  Ellis saw Dorie bite her lip and look away. “Thanks anyway. We’ll pay our own way,” she said, her voice deliberately even. “And if you don’t want to be seen with a couple of coupon-clippers, we’ll understand.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean … well, you know.” Julia hastily craned her neck to look out the kitchen window. “It’s kind of clouding up out there. So if you’ve got a spare coupon, I guess I could go. Anyway, I figure I laid down a pretty good base coat this morning.”

  “You’re half Italian,” Dorie pointed out. “You were born with a base coat. Unlike me, with this darned red hair and freckles. I swear, I think I get sunburn from my night-light.”

  * * *

  Ty saw the women load up into the red minivan and head off down Virginia Dare Trail. It was only a little after one. He waited five minutes, and then another five, just to make sure they weren’t doubling back. Then he picked up his toolbox and key ring and, whistling, headed over to Ebbtide.

  He stood on the porch, hesitant. Beach towels were draped over the rocking chairs, and three bathing suits—the orange bikini, a lime green flowered one-piece, and the black one-piece, were pinned to the clothesline. Three pairs of flip-flops were neatly lined up by the front door. He fit the key in the lock but still didn’t turn it. It didn’t feel right, somehow. But it was his house, damn it. He was the landlord. Ellis Sullivan had been nagging about a dripping faucet and fleas and ants. So he had a legitimate reason to be in the house.

  Then why did he feel so creepy?

  Because some neurotic chick accused him of spying on her and her friends? When did it become a crime to stand on his own deck and enjoy the sight of a pretty woman? It was a public beach, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like he’d taken a pair of binoculars to peep into some unsuspecting woman’s bedroom.

  He squared his shoulders, unlocked the door, and marched inside. He went directly towards the kitchen. He could hear the faucet dripping from the hallway.

  The kitchen looked a hell of a lot better than the last time he’d been in it. The floor was swept, the counters and stove top sparkled, and damp plates and glasses were neatly stacked in the dish drainer, a clean dish towel draped across them. He could smell the Old Bay seasoning they’d used to cook shrimp, but there were also faint undernotes of flowery perfume and coconut-scented suntan lotion.

  Ty put his toolbox on the counter. He opened the cupboard under the sink and shut off the water. Then he dug out a pair of Channellocks from the toolbox and went to work. A washer. It just needed a washer. He was putting his tools away when he noticed the dishes stacked on the open shelves. Or what there were of them. He could have sworn there had been dishes for eight when he’d gotten the house ready back before Easter. Now, there were, as Ellis Sullivan had claimed, only five dinner plates. Five chipped, cracked plates. Three cereal bowls, none of them matching. What had happened to all the china he’d stocked the house with back in the spring? He opened one of two drawers. The silverware was pretty skimpy too. There were no knives to speak of. In the cupboard, he found a couple of small saucepans, none with a lid, and the world’s smallest cast-iron skillet.

  And what about the range? He turned all the burners to high and held the palm of his hand over them. Only the smallest eye, at the back of the stove, worked.

  His shoulders slumped. His old man had taught him how to do basic plumbing and rudimentary electrical repairs, but he didn’t have any idea how to fix this stove. It had been in the house since his grandmother lived here, at least since the 1970s. It was unlikely he’d find somebody who could fix it, since you probably couldn’t even buy replacement parts for the thing anymore.

  He was standing there, staring at the half-broken stove, when the doorbell rang.

  “Ty Bazemore!”

  He wouldn’t have recognized Frank Patterson if he hadn’t been wearing a BUG-OFF PEST CONTROL uniform shirt, with the name FRANK embroidered in script above the left breast. They’d gone to high school together, where Patterson quarterbacked for the football team and Ty had pl
ayed tight end.

  “Dude!” Ty said, pumping his old teammate’s hand. “How the hell are you?”

  They stood in the living room, chatting awkwardly. “You’re lookin’ good, Frank,” Ty said. “Bug busting must agree with you.”

  “It’s a living,” Frank said. “How ’bout you? Are those your boards I saw out in that garage?”

  “Yeah,” Ty said. “I’m still surfing. When I get time, which I haven’t lately.”

  Finally, they got down to business.

  “Fleas, huh?” Frank said, giving the living room an appraising look.

  Ty’s face darkened. “Friggin’ college kids snuck a dog in here last week.”

  “You don’t live here?”

  Ty laughed. “No, man, I can’t afford to live here. I live over the garage, in what used to be the maid’s apartment. I rent out the house.”

  “Pretty cool old place,” Frank said, running a hand over the wood-paneled wall. “It’s one of the original ones, right?”

  Ty shrugged. “This isn’t one of the original thirteen, the ones they call the ‘unpainted aristocracy.’ My grandmother’s aunt bought it in the 1920s. We’ve still got the original bill of sale. She paid eight thousand dollars back then.”

  “My dad used to have the pest control contract on the one right next door,” Frank said. “The Lunsfords. Nice folks. Clark and Margaret? Maybe you knew them? After the last hurricane hit it so bad, they sold it to some people from Virginia.”

  “Haven’t met the new owners,” Ty said. “But Mrs. Lunsford, Miss Margaret, we called her, she was one of my grandmother’s running buddies. They were classmates at Saint Mary’s, back in the day.”

  “What was your grandmother’s name?” Frank asked. “Not Bazemore, right?”

  “No,” Ty said. “This house belonged to my mom’s family. She was a Culpepper. Edwina and Garrett Culpepper. My granddad died about ten years ago. And then Nanny, she passed two years ago. Everybody called her Winnie.”

  “I remember hearing your mom passed, some years back, right?”