Free Summer Rental by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

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 lockbut 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 played tight end.
    “Dude!” Ty said, pumping his old teammate’s