Summer Rental by Mary Kay Andrews

I’m here for the beach. We’ve had a hideous winter in England, and no spring to speak of. Just rain and more rain. So no offense, Ellis, but right now the only thing I want you to show me is the ice, the bourbon, and the beach. In that exact order.”
    “You got it,” Ellis said, grabbing a tote bag. “And don’t worry,Dorie. I even bought you your own bottle of tequila. And I brought my blender from home, just in case, which was a good thing, ’cuz there wasn’t one here.”

    Dorie wrinkled her nose. “Actually? Right now I’d settle for another big ol’ iced tea.”
    Julia stopped in her tracks. “Seriously? Iced tea? Eudora Dunaway is turning down a margarita? Alert the media!”
    Dorie gave Julia a playful kick in the pants. “Hey! You make me sound like a falling-down drunk. It just so happens that I had a serious case of tequila poisoning after a friend’s Cinco de Mayo party, and I haven’t been able to look at the stuff ever since.”
    “S-u-u-u-r-e,” Julia said. “Dorie is breaking up with Jose Cuervo. You hear that, Ellis?”
    Ellis heard, and she saw the barely disguised suspicion in Julia’s eyes, and she thought—just maybe—Julia was onto something. Something about Dorie was … off.

 
    7
    To: [email protected]
    From: [email protected]
    Subject: WTF? Fleas!
    Mr. Culpepper, you need to get an exterminator over here ASAP. This place is crawling with fleas. Also ants and mildew. And the kitchen faucet drips. Constantly. And the mattresses suck, bigtime. Your website specifically stated that our house would have a “fully stocked kitchen.” In my mind, a fully stocked kitchen includes items such as a stove with more than one working burner and such basics as saucepans, silverware, and dishes. I do not consider five cracked, chipped, and mismatched plates and a collection of plastic NASCAR go-cups to be “serving-ware for eight.” As this ismy third e-mail in the past two days, I’d appreciate it if you would take care of these things, IMMEDIATELY.
    Ellis tapped the “send” button and scratched her right knee absentmindedly. Both of her ankles, her calves, and the backs of her knees were dotted with angry red flea bites. She had flea bites underneath her breasts, and flea bites on the back of her neck.

    Julia had only a couple of bites, on her ankles, and Dorie didn’t have a single one. But the fleas must have made Ellis’s bedroom their home office, because that first morning at Ebbtide she woke up scratching like a maniac. She’d stared down at the white sheet on her bed, and had been horrified to see a semimicroscopic insect hopping around. “Fleas!” she’d screeched.
    She’d stripped her bed of all the linens, taken every stitch of clothing out of her suitcases, even picked up the throw rug on the floor, and washed and bleached the daylights out of everything. But the fleas didn’t care.
    When she’d gone downstairs that first morning, Julia and Dorie were already sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee.
    “Ellis,” Julia said, pointing at the Kaper chart on the kitchen wall. “You’re not really serious about this thing—right?”
    Ellis got herself a glass of orange juice and settled at the kitchen table. “Well, now that Stephen and Willa aren’t coming, I guess I’ll have to redo it, but I still don’t think it’ll be too much trouble, not if everybody pitches in.”
    Julia stood and pointed at the first line of the chart with her half-eaten piece of toast. She read aloud in a high-pitched schoolmarm voice: “Monday: Julia cooks breakfast. Dorie does dishes. Willa sweeps sand from floors. Stephen takes out trash. Ellis does laundry.”
    Dorie pressed her napkin to her lips to suppress a giggle, but after Ellis glared at her, she looked down innocently at her cereal bowl.
    “Ellis, honey,” Julia said, nibbling at her toast. “I’m sorry. It’s ludicrous. It really is. This chart thing … what did they call it back in Girl