Текст книги "Summer Rental"
Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
Dedicated with love to Molly Hogan Abel, who actually did hang the moon and the stars
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to express heartfelt thanks to all those who patiently answered her questions, offered her advice and/or Diet Coke, or just put up with her whining and complaining during the writing and research of this novel. Any errors or misstatements of fact are my own and not theirs.
Huge thanks go to the Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities of Southern Pines, North Carolina, where large portions of this novel were plotted, and to my precious, invaluable writer buddies, Diane Chamberlain, Margaret Maron, Katy Munger, Sarah Shaber, Alexandra Sokoloff, and Bren Witchger, who trounced me at Scrabble and Balderdash and helped in more ways than I can say. Thanks to Anne Needham for helping me with foreclosure info; to Beth Fleishman, who helped me scout Nags Head; Frank Jones, who told me about day-trading; Sascha Springer, my source on location scouts; and Bobbie Murray of Pelican Cottages of Nags Head, who rented me the adorable Windswept cottage and connected me with longtime Nags Head residents Jean and Edward Griffin and Nancy and Peter Rascoe.
To my editor, the amazing Jennifer Enderlin, I offer everlasting gratitude for whipping me, and the girls of Ebbtide, into shape. Many thanks also to the team at St. Martin’s Press, including but not limited to the fabulous Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Matthew Baldacci, John Karle, John Murphy, and Dori Weintraub. The best damn agent in the whole world, Stuart Krichevsky, guided and presided, and was, as always, a beacon of light when things got funky, so huge thanks to him and the girls of SKLA.
Family might be listed last, but they come first in my heart, and in my thanks—to Tom, Andy, Katie, Mark, and yes, Molly, all my love, now and always.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
Also by Mary Kay Andrews
Copyright
1
It was not an auspicious beginning for a vacation, let alone for a new life. The rain chased her all the way down the East Coast, slashing at the windshield, pounding her car from every angle. Between the backwash from a continuous stream of eighteen-wheelers blowing past her at eighty miles an hour (in contrast to her own sedate fifty-five mph) and violent gusts of wind from the storm, it was all she could do to stay on the roadway.
It was her own fault, Ellis decided. She should have stuck to her original plan. She should have gotten up at a sensible hour, at least waiting until daylight to start the drive from Philadelphia to North Carolina. Instead, on some insane impulse, she’d simply locked up the town house and driven off shortly after midnight.
It was a most un-Ellis-like decision. But then, her old life, back there in Philly, was gone. And somewhere, on that long drive south, she had subconsciously decided that the seeds of a new life must be waiting, at the beach. In August.
Ellis took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, first forward, and then backwards, trying to work out the kinks from six hours of driving. She reached for the commuter mug of coffee in the Accord’s cup holder and took a long sip, hoping it would clear the fatigue fog.
An hour later, she saw the sign: Nags Head, 132 miles. She smiled. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle. She should arrive at the house, which was called Ebbtide, by around seven.
Her smile faded. What had she been thinking? Check-in was at 2 P.M., according to the renter’s agreement she’d signed.
She composed a mental e-mail to herself: To: [email protected]. From: [email protected]. Subject: Failure to plan = plan to fail.
But the memo would have to wait. The highway rose and she found herself on a long, gently arching bridge. One more damned bridge. Surely it was the last. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge had nearly done her in. She felt her jaw clench tightly. Her fingertips clamped the steering wheel, and her heart raced. A bead of sweat trickled down her back.
Nags Head was on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. She’d studied her guidebooks, maps, and AAA Triptik for weeks now. She knew the island’s geography, even its topography, intimately. But she’d refused to allow herself to focus on the bridge issue. Because the fact was, as the girls knew all too well, bridges—even wimpy little bridges like the Sam Varnedoe that separated Whitemarsh and Wilmington islands back home in Savannah—scared the living bejeezus out of Ellis Sullivan.
She kept her eyes straight ahead, not daring to look right or left at the water flowing under the bridge. When she’d finally crossed the bridge, her hands were clammy, her T-shirt sweat-soaked.
Now she was on the Outer Banks proper. Signs for the little towns flashed by: Corolla, Duck, Southern Shores, Kitty Hawk, Avalon Beach. The sun rose, and she was somehow shocked at how densely developed the beachfront was here. She’d expected to see clumps of sea oats silhouetted against sparkling blue water; sailboats bobbing at anchor; great, gray shingled houses staring moodily out to sea; the occasional lighthouse. The reality was that, so far, what she’d seen of the storied Outer Banks could just as well have been the Jersey shore, Myrtle Beach, Fort Lauderdale, or any other East Coast tourist resort—meaning miles and miles of hotels and motels, restaurants, and strip shopping centers lining both sides of the road, and a shoreline packed with cheek-to-jowl condo complexes and huge, pastel-painted beach houses.
She followed Route 12 south, and when the GPS computerized voice instructed her to turn left and then right, she knew she was getting close. Virginia Dare Trail was the beach road. Here, at least, there was a little bit of elbow room between the houses. Once or twice she actually caught a glimpse of sand dunes and sea oat plumes. Finally, the well-modulated woman’s voice announced cheerily, “Arrive at destination, on left.”
Ellis slowed the car and stared. A long crushed-shell drive led through a weedy patch of sand. There was a mailbox at the curb, with a sun-bleached cedar sign in the cutout shape of a whale. EBBTIDE was painted on the sign in faded white letters. The driveway ended at what looked like a two-story garage. The wood-shingled structure was a weathered grayish-brownish affair. Through a set of open wooden garage doors, she spotted a beat-up tan Bronco with a red surfboard strapped to the rooftop rack.
To the side of the garage, a rambling three-story wood-frame house arose from a set of wooden stairs. Stretched across the front of the house was a long, open porch. A row of rocking chairs marched across the porch, and a gaudy striped beach towel was draped carelessly across a railing. From the sandy side yard, a wooden walkway led up and over a towering sand dune.
On an impulse, she pulled the car into the next driveway. Here, there was no house at all, only the charred remains of a concrete-block foundation, along with some blackened timbers. A black-and-orange NO TRESPASSING sign was posted on a block wall. Ellis put the Accord in park and got out of the car, her cramped legs and back screaming in protest. The air was already hot and muggy. She did a couple of deep knee bends, scanning the yard next door for any signs of life. Had the earlier renters already checked out? Or did the Bronco in the garage belong to somebody who was still enjoying a last hour or two on the beach before it was time to head home?
She strolled over to the mailbox and peered up at the house. Their house, at least for the month of August. Ellis intended to make every hour of this month count.
“Ebbtide,” she said aloud, satisfied that the exterior of the house, at least, seemed to match the photo she’d spotted in the Vacation Rentals by Owner listing. Of course, that photo had also shown an inviting green lawn dotted with billowing blue hydrangeas and a hot-pink bicycle built for two with a charming wicker basket leaning up against a rose-covered picket fence. None of these were in evidence now. In fact, the only thing in evidence in what passed for a yard, besides a bumper crop of weeds, was a busted-up Styrofoam cooler full of empty malt liquor cans and a sodden heap of yellowing newspapers, still in their plastic wrappers.
She glanced down at her watch. She had half a day to kill until check-in. Being Ellis, she’d already planned to arrive hours before the others. The extra time would give her a chance to go to the grocery store, prepare their first night’s dinner, get the house situated. Linens were not included in the house rental, so she’d brought enough sheets and towels for everybody, just in case. And yes, she would have first crack at choosing her bedroom, but since she had done all the legwork finding the house and planning this trip, would anybody really mind?
Well, maybe Willa would mind. She was only older than the others by twenty months, but really, she could be so pushy and bossy. It would be just like Willa to accuse Ellis of hogging the best bedroom. Which she had no intention of doing. She just didn’t want a bedroom facing the street and a lot of noise. She was a light sleeper—and she had a lot of thinking to do. And anyway, as the only single woman in the group, she was used to her own space. Too used to it, she thought wryly.
She was dying to see Ebbtide up close. She glanced up and down the road. There was no sign of traffic. Just another sleepy summer morning at the beach. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to walk up the driveway of the burnt-out house to see what she could see. Technically, she knew, it was trespassing. But it wasn’t like she was looting the place. What was left to loot?
Quickly, before she lost her nerve, Ellis trotted up the crushed oyster-shell drive. Another wooden boardwalk and a set of stairs leading up and over the sand dune, just like the one at Ebbtide, seemed to have survived the fire that had taken this house. She trod the steps quickly, not wanting to be seen from the road.
There was a shed-roofed deck at the top of the dunes. At one time it would have been an amazing place to sit and sip a cocktail and enjoy the ocean breezes. But not now. Some of the decking had rotted out, and the railings missed pickets in several places. A couple of broken plastic lawn chairs lay sprawled on their side, but it was the view that captured Ellis’s attention. From here she could see the Nags Head she’d imagined. The dunes, covered with sea oats, beach plums, and shrubs whose names she didn’t know, sloped down to meet a wide, white beach. The tide was out, and the Atlantic Ocean sparkled gray-blue below. Here and there, people walked along the shore, stooping to pick up shells.
“Perfect!” Ellis exclaimed. Just then, she heard the slap of a wooden screen door. Turning, she saw movement from the second-floor apartment over the garage at Ebbtide. That apartment had a small wooden deck wrapping around the sides and back of it. As she watched, a man walked out onto the deck. She could see him clearly—good Lord—he was in his underwear.
The man was barefoot, deeply tanned, with unkempt sun-bleached brownish hair. A pair of baggy white boxer briefs hung low on his slim hips. He turned, faced the water, yawned and stretched. And then, while Ellis watched, slack-jawed with amazement and disgust, he quite casually proceeded to pee off the edge of the deck.
He took his own good time about it too. Ellis was rooted to the spot where she stood, her face crimson with embarrassment. When he was finally finished, he stretched and turned. And that’s when he spotted her, a lone figure in hot pink capris and a white T-shirt, her long dark hair blowing in the breeze coming off the beach.
The man gave her a nonchalant smile. His teeth were white and even, and from here she could see the golden stubble of a days-old beard. He waved casually. “Hey,” he called. “How ya doin’?”
Ellis managed a strangled “Hey.” And then she fled down the stairs as fast as her flip-flop-shod feet would take her.
2
Ellis jumped in the Accord and backed out onto the roadway so quickly she nearly mowed over the Ebbtide mailbox. That’s what she got for trespassing, she thought. A bird’s-eye view of a pervert. She checked over her shoulder, back towards that garage apartment, to see if the man would reemerge from the deck to see where she’d gone. But there was no sign of him now.
Hopefully, she thought, he was the owner of that Bronco parked in the garage. Hopefully, he would be checking out of Ebbtide any time now, and he would be long gone by her check-in. Hopefully.
But what was she going to do with herself until then? There was an outlet mall down the road, but it probably didn’t open until ten. And she needed to get groceries, but she didn’t want her refrigerated goods to sit in her hot car for the hours until check-in.
She drove aimlessly down the road until she came to a restaurant whose marquee promised BREAKFAST SERVED ALL DAY—EVERY DAY. The parking lot was full. She even spotted a couple of UPS trucks, which, her father had told her years ago, meant the joint must be half decent.
The hostess showed her to a table near the window, and Ellis ordered scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, and an English muffin. Unbuttered. No coffee. She was wide awake now. Instead, she asked for ice water and grapefruit juice.
When the food came, she ate slowly, willing the time to pass quickly. The restaurant was noisy with small children laughing and running between the tables and the excited chatter of vacationing families and friends. When she’d finished eating, Ellis took out her iPhone to check her e-mails.
The iPhone was new. All those years she’d worked at the bank, the BlackBerry clipped securely to the outside of her pocketbook had been her lifeline to her workday world. It was the first thing she touched every morning, weekends included—even before she brushed her teeth and showered—and it was the last thing she checked at night, before drifting off to sleep.
But two weeks ago, an e-mail on that BlackBerry had summoned her to a meeting with Phyllis K. Stone in human resources. Around the company, Ms. Stone was known as “the grim reaper” or “Stonehenge.” But she’d always been perfectly nice to Ellis on the rare occasions they’d had dealings. On that particular day, Ellis had assumed she was going to be given her new health-care packet. But the packet which Ms. Stone silently slid across her desk to Ellis had nothing to do with deductibles or co-pays. BancAtlantic, her employer for the past eleven years, was, Ms. Stone said blandly, being swallowed up—no, acquired was the exact word—by CityGroup, Inc.
“Obviously, CityGroup has its own marketing department,” Ms. Stone went on. “And because their concern at this time is in cost savings and maximum efficiency as well as financial stability for our stockholders, the executive committee has decided that BancAtlantic’s marketing group will be extraneous.”
Ellis wasn’t sure she understood what Ms. Stone was saying. “Extraneous? Does that mean I’ll be transferred over to the CityGroup side?”
Ms. Stone slid the packet a millimeter closer to Ellis. “I’m afraid not.”
Ellis felt her mouth go dry and her palms begin to sweat. She liked her job, liked the people she worked with, loved the lifestyle it afforded her: the town house in a good neighborhood, business travel with a generous expense account, a new car every three years. “Then,” she said, her voice quavering a little, “I’ll be offered another position within the bank? I mean, it’s not like I was born into marketing. My degree is in finance, and before I joined BancAtlantic…”
Ms. Stone’s lips pursed slightly. Her fuchsia lipstick had feathered into the deep creases in her upper lip. She had a mustache too. Ellis wondered why she didn’t wax it, or at least get it bleached.
Now Ms. Stone was tapping the file folder again. It had a glossy photograph of BancAtlantic’s granite-and-chrome headquarters building on it, and the words TRANSITIONS FOR TOMORROW were superimposed across the photo.
There was a clattering outside the window of Ms. Stone’s seventh-floor office. Ellis looked up and saw a window-washing apparatus glide slowly past. But the men on the apparatus were not window washers. They wore dark jumpsuits, and they were wrestling with a huge chrome logo, consisting of eight-foot-high letters: CG, in flowing script.
It occurred to Ellis that the bank’s new owners were not waiting until tomorrow for transitions.
“This is your separation package,” Ms. Stone said quietly. “You’ll find it’s quite generous. You’ll have your pension, of course. Your buyout will give you two weeks’ salary for every year of your service with the institution.”
“Institution?” Ellis said dully.
“BancAtlantic,” Ms. Stone reminded her. “Although,” she said, glancing down at the wristwatch strapped to her unnaturally narrow wrist, “as of three minutes ago, BancAtlantic ceased to exist. We’re CityGroup now. It’s an exciting time, isn’t it?”
Somehow, Ellis thought, she would not have chosen “exciting” as the adjective to describe this moment. She finally reached over and picked up the file folder which Ms. Stone had been inching towards her. She rifled through the contents. It contained legal forms and memos, and just looking at the fine print of the documents made a vein in her forehead throb. She had to get back to her office, read the documents, and try to process everything.
She stood up. “How long?” she asked. “I’ve got a big project I’ve been working on, and the report should be done by next week.”
Ms. Stone blinked. Ellis could have sworn she hadn’t seen the woman blink before. Ever.
“Oh,” Ms. Stone said. “I thought you understood. Your termination is immediate.”
“Like, right now?”
“I’m afraid so,” Ms. Stone said, holding out her hand, palm up, expectantly.
Ellis Sullivan was not normally a woman given to sarcasm. But somehow, the occasion seemed to cry out for … something.
“What?” Ellis said hotly. “It’s not enough you just fired me? You took my job, my career, eleven years of my life? And for that I get, what? Twenty-two weeks of pay? Are you freakin’ kidding me? What do you want now, lady? A kidney? My spleen maybe?”
Ms. Stone’s mustachioed upper lip twitched. “That’s entirely uncalled for,” she said, her voice tight. “This is purely a professional business decision made by the executive committee. Please don’t try to make it personal.”
“Not personal?” Ellis cried, fighting back tears.
“Not in the least,” Ms. Stone said. She stood up now. She was a good six inches shorter than Ellis. She was holding out her hand again. “I’m going to have to ask for your employee security badge.”
Ellis ripped the laminated badge from the beaded silk cord that hung around her neck, and flung it right in Ms. Stone’s face. The woman blinked again, and then ducked, but the badge glanced off her chin before falling onto the desktop.
“The cord’s mine,” Ellis said. “It’s not company property.”
“Fine,” Ms. Stone said. “Understood. And now I’ll need your BlackBerry. The company’s BlackBerry, that is.”
Ellis winced. “I don’t have it with me,” she admitted. “It’s in my office. I’ll drop it off here after I clean out my desk.”
Ms. Stone smirked. “Your desk has already been cleaned out.” She crossed to the door and opened it. A security guard in an unfamiliar charcoal gray uniform stood in the hallway, clutching a large cardboard carton. Sticking out of the top of the carton was a goofy red-plush stuffed bear wearing a T-shirt with the BancAtlantic logo stitched in green script. Ellis had won the bear two years ago at the department’s Christmas party. Her Louis Vuitton pocketbook, the one she’d splurged on after her last promotion, was draped across the security guard’s arm.
Ms. Stone jerked her head in the direction of the pocketbook. Ellis took it from the guard, reached inside, and unclipped the BlackBerry.
Ms. Stone ducked, but all the fight had suddenly drained from Ellis. She put the BlackBerry on the edge of the desk, turned and followed the waiting security guard down the hall and into the elevator.
There she held out her arms for the carton. “I can take it from here. Don’t worry. I won’t come running back upstairs with an Uzi or anything.”
The guard shrugged. “Sorry. I’ve gotta escort you all the way out of the building. It’s policy.”
She punched the “B” button on the control panel, and they rode the elevator down to the basement parking garage in silence. The guard followed her to the Accord. She opened the trunk and he put the carton inside it, handing her a slip of paper that had been lying on top of the contents.
“It’s an inventory of everything from your office,” he said apologetically. “If you could just initial it, you know?”
She scrawled her initials at the bottom of the page without even looking at the list and handed it back to him.
He nodded. “This really sucks, man. I hate this part.”
“Not your first termination of the day?”
“You’re my eleventh,” he said gloomily. “After lunch, we’ve got commercial loan. The whole stinkin’ department.”
Ellis nodded. It was no consolation to know that the rest of her company was being disassembled and discarded, one department at a time. “See ya,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t.
She hadn’t known what to do with herself for the first two days after what she’d come to think of as T-day. The first morning, she’d gotten up at her usual 6 A.M. and groped in the dark for her BlackBerry. After a brief moment of panic, she’d remembered that the bank had repossessed it, along with her former identity. Then, groaning, she settled back into the bed, realizing she really had no pressing need to get up.
What followed was a week of bereavement. She went two days without bathing, lived in grungy yoga pants and sweatshirts, subsisted on a steady diet of cold cereal and daytime television because she couldn’t bear leaving the town house. Anyway, where would she go? After seven straight days of therapy courtesy of Dr. Phil reruns, she’d forced herself to go out and buy the iPhone. She even bought a perky pink rubber jacket for the thing.
Since she’d never had any e-mail address other than her BancAtlantic one, she set herself up with a Hotmail account and e-mailed everybody she could think of that she had a new e-mail. There had been the inevitable flurry of replies from friends wanting to know what was up.
She couldn’t stand the idea of anybody pitying her, especially since she already had enough self-pity to go around, so she made up a peppy reply: “Midlife career adjustment! Time to stop and smell the roses! Details to follow.”
But there were no details. Not yet. This trip with the girls, which she’d been plotting since April, when they’d all been together down in Savannah for Julia’s mother’s funeral, was the only thing that had kept her going since she’d lost her job. A small, insistent voice in the back of her head kept telling her she should have canceled the trip, should have saved her money, should have put herself right back out there on the job market.
And she’d replied to that small, insistent voice. Shut. The. Hell. Up.
It was almost August. No way was she canceling this beach trip.
So here she was, sitting in a restaurant in Nags Head, North Carolina, and two weeks’ worth of her severance package had already been eaten up. She didn’t care. In the past five years, she’d taken exactly one week of vacation per year, spending Christmas with her mother and aunt at the condo down in Sarasota, listening to her mother bicker with Aunt Claudia.
In April, Ellis had sat next to Julia in the front row of Blessed Sacrament Church in Savannah. Dorie sat on the other side of Julia, and Willa sat beside Dorie. Booker, Julia’s boyfriend of many years, couldn’t make the trip from London. All four of the girls clutched each other’s hands as a young priest none of them recognized, Father Tranh, said the Mass of Christian Burial for Catherine Donohue Capelli. Later, back at the Capelli house, after all the funeral-goers had finally cleared out, the girls had taken off their funeral dresses, climbed into pajamas, and sprawled out on the double bed in Julia’s old bedroom, just like they’d done all those Friday nights in the old days. Only this time, instead of sipping Pabst Blue Ribbon stolen from Mr. Capelli’s beer fridge in the garage, they’d gotten shit-faced on a pitcher of cosmos.
And that’s when they’d hatched the plan. No more catching up at funerals. Ellis’s father had died two years earlier, and Mr. Capelli had been gone, what? Six years? No more of that, Julia had declared, waving the empty pitcher in the air.
“We’re gonna go away together,” she announced. “To the beach. All of us.” She’d looked over at Dorie, the newlywed of the group, and added, meaningfully, “Just us girls.”
The group had elected Ellis, the planner, the organizer, ruthlessly efficient Ellis, to put the trip together. And that’s what she’d done. And now here she was, jobless, but with the whole month of August to spend in a summer rental with her best friends. Plus Willa, Dorie’s sister, who’d invited herself along.
She felt positively giddy at the prospect. The amber-hued summers of her girlhood had been the sweetest of her life. She and Dorie and Julia had been inseparable, spending weeks at a time at Julia’s grandmother’s rambling cottage on Tybee Island, lazing around the beach during the day, spending hours getting ready to go out in the evenings.
Dorie always trailed a wake of would-be boyfriends, so they’d traveled in a pack, cruising the beach road in Julia’s mother’s big Fleetwood Caddy. It hadn’t mattered that Ellis didn’t have her own boyfriend. The Caddy was white with a moonroof and the fifth tire mounted on the trunk, a total pimp car, which they all thought screamingly hysterical—that Julia’s churchgoing mother drove a pimpmobile. They loved the Fleetwood because it could fit six or seven people on its big leather bench seats. They’d roll the windows down and blast their favorite song, screaming the tagline—“WHOOMP, There It Is!”—over and over again, and the Fleetwood would rock with the heavy bass beat.
They’d dance at a club whose name Ellis had long since forgotten, but she could still remember the boy she’d met and danced with all night long the last summer weekend before her sophomore year of college. His name was Nick, and he went to Boston College, and she’d gladly let him grope her while they swayed to “I Swear,” and she’d allowed herself to fantasize that it was Nick who was promising—by the moon and the stars above—to love her forever. Then school had started, and he’d e-mailed a couple of times, and then nothing.
Ellis looked down at the iPhone. She opened an e-mail window and typed in the address:
Dear Mr. Culpepper. I realize that my group’s check-in time for Ebbtide technically isn’t until 2 p.m. today, but I find myself in the area earlier than planned, and wonder if it would be possible to have access to the house any earlier. Say around noon? I’d be totally grateful. Sincerely, Ellis Sullivan.
She pushed the send button and a moment later heard the soft whooshing noise that notified her the message had been sent. Not for the first time, she pictured Mr. Culpepper as a wizened but kindly old duffer. She imagined him in a faded but starched Hawaiian shirt, with knobby knees protruding below madras Bermuda shorts, and wearing high black socks and beat-up sandals. His face would be weathered, his head nearly bald. He would take an instant liking to her and the girls, calling them “sweetheart” and “dearie.”
She couldn’t wait to meet Mr. Culpepper in person.
