Free Beach Rental by Grace Greene Page A

eyes and could almost see Juli sitting across from him at the table. It was an appealing vision. Not because it was Juli, of course, but for the companionship.
    She was probably accustomed to using her looks to get her places. She looked young, but not soft. Wary.
    Perhaps it was the quality of wariness that brought out the protector in Ben. He had a strong need to fix people.
    Maia had encouraged Ben. Maia believed everything Ben did or said was wonderful. That was Maia.
    Adela was different. The instant Ben told her he was planning to marry— who? A girl who’d been working a party— when had they met? Five days before— and the marriage was going to take place when? In three days—no wonder Adela had freaked. Even Ben stopped taking her calls.
    He half-suspected Ben had arranged a hasty marriage to forestall Adela. For every good-natured bone in Ben’s body, Adela was, well, the opposite. She wasn’t mean, but her temper drove her way beyond good judgment.
    Luke rinsed his plate and fork under the kitchen faucet and left them in the sink for Esther.
    In the end, what it came down to was his duty to his cousin and friend. Even to Adela. It would be best for all concerned if he, Luke, confronted Juli privately and let her know he was watching.

Chapter Eight

    When renters used their side of the front porch it was easy to hear them through the tall wooden divider. Today, all was quiet.
    Juli had her sketchbook, pencils, sharpener and eraser laid out like surgical instruments on the white plastic patio table. While these instruments weren’t as sharp, they were scary. She reminded herself it wasn’t about success or failure.
    This wasn’t a commitment.
    She started with the medium pencil and played around sketching shapes and shading them. Juli was bent over the sketchbook in her lap and didn’t hear the renter coming up the crossover until she was at the house. Juli looked up. The woman stopped, first tugging at the hem of her knit tank top, then brushing sand from her arms.
    “Hi, there. Name’s Emily. Husband’s James. I’m sure you’ve seen him coming and going.”
    “Nice to meet you, Emily. I’m Juli. My husband’s name is Ben.” She laid the sketchbook on the table and stood up.
    Emily leaned against the railing. “Just you and your hubby? No kids?”
    “Just us.” She remembered Ben’s warning not to let on they weren’t renters.
    “I hope my crew aren’t bothering you.”
    “Not at all. We hardly hear anyone.”
    She laughed. “Lucky you. I could use some quiet. Are you an artist? What a great place to come and capture nature. I won’t bother you. Creative people need their space, I know.”
    Children’s voices rose, distantly from inside the house, perhaps in teasing or in anger. Hard to tell.
    Emily said, “Better go. See you around.”
    “Bye,” she waved.
    Juli watched Emily vanish from view as she entered her side of the porch.
    She’d maintained the image of being a renter without actually having to lie. The renter had taken her for a creative type.
    She had to laugh. Two weeks ago this woman, or someone like her, could have been checking out at Juli’s register, griping about the price of food, the lack of brands she wanted, the poor quality of the help, whatever. If Juli said the wrong thing, the woman might have complained to the store manager—all because she was in a mood, or mad at her husband or kids, and gotten Juli written up.
    Here she saw Juli as a fellow vacationer who could afford one of these houses on the oceanfront for a week, and one stupid sketch pad and pencil made her a creative type who must have her space respected.
    Footsteps sounded on the wooden steps coming up from the parking area below the house. That stairway led up to the crossover where it met the front porch. She leaned over the railing to see who was visiting and her good mood evaporated.
    She and Luke were going to clash. She could feel it in her bones.
    “Ben here?” He joined her on the