“No way!” Julia had written. “This is our time together. Remember? No effin’ boys. Anyway, if Booker finds out, the next thing you know, he’ll want to come. And then it’ll be couples. And that’s not what this month is about.”

Booker and Julia had lived together for years, first in New York, and then, for the past six years, in London. Booker was a photographer, and Julia was a model. Ellis didn’t quite understand their relationship. Sometimes, the way Julia talked about Booker, you had to wonder what had kept them together all this time.

Ellis hadn’t liked to conspire against Dorie behind her back, but for once, she was in total agreement with Julia. She liked Stephen, although they’d only met twice before Dorie’s wedding a year ago. He was attractive and thoughtful and obviously wild for Dorie. As for Dorie, she was long overdue for a good man. But just this once, couldn’t they leave men out of it? Especially since Ellis was so obviously without a man—and had been for more years than she cared to admit.

That had never been the case with Dorie. With her strawberry blond hair, freckles, and kittenish green eyes, not to mention her voluptuous curves, Dorie was the man magnet of the group. She had been since third grade, when every single boy at Blessed Sacrament School wanted to be her valentine. Nobody could remember a time when Dorie had been without a boyfriend. And it wasn’t like she even tried. She was just Dorie.

Once, when she was a freshman at the University of Georgia, she’d started dating a doctor. An honest-to-God physician. A gynecologist, if you could believe it. Howard had been gaga for Dorie. He’d given her a pair of two-carat diamond stud earrings—which she didn’t dare show her mother—taken her on a spring break trip to Vegas, let her drive his Mercedes all the way to Savannah and back just so she could hang out with her girlfriends for Saint Patrick’s Day.

The fling had lasted nearly a year. And then Dorie, who was only twenty, after all, got tired of playing doctor with a thirty-year-old who wanted her to quit her sorority and instead spend weekends hanging out with him at the country club. It wasn’t until years later that she got up the nerve to admit where she’d actually met Howard.

They’d all gone back to the Dunaways’ house after Willa’s bachelorette party; they’d been doing tequila shooters at Spanky’s down on River Street. It was their own version of Truth or Dare. Of course, nobody else had a story near as cool as Dorie’s.

“I went to the student health clinic, you know, to get on the pill, because Bo and I were getting pretty serious, and I thought only sluts used condoms, but I was terrified of getting knocked up,” Dorie had said, giggling nervously. “And anyway, who do you think gave me my first pelvic exam? Howard! And he was really so sweet, so gentle, you know? Afterwards, he called me into his office, and he gave me this very serious talk about the dangers of STDs and all that. I almost died, I was so embarrassed! Then he handed me my prescription and a package with, like, six months’ worth of Ortho-Novum, and he’d written his home phone number on the back of the prescription.”

Howard had been one of the nicer guys in Dorie’s constantly changing constellation of boyfriends. A lot of them had been rats. So when she’d started talking about “the new guy at school”—meaning, Our Lady of Angels, the Catholic girls’ high school they’d all attended, and where Dorie taught English—nobody really thought much of it. Stephen was the girls’ soccer coach, and he taught history. He was lanky and dark haired, with a deliciously dry sense of humor. He wasn’t from Savannah, he’d grown up in Omaha. And he was Catholic, so Dorie’s mother approved. He and Dorie dated for two years before he finally talked her into getting married.

Dr. Dunaway—Dorie’s mom (she had a Ph.D. in English and always insisted that everybody call her “Doctor” instead of “Mrs.”)—had been so relieved that Dorie was finally settling down, she’d even helped Dorie pay for the wedding.

“I still can’t believe how cheap that woman is,” Julia had complained at the reception, where the alcohol had consisted of jug wine and a keg of Natty Lite. “Remember how she used to make Dorie and Willa use their allowances to buy their own shampoo and tampons?”

So Stephen was nice, but he was still a man, and this was supposed to have been a chick trip. Ellis was glad he’d bowed out at the last minute. And she felt guilty for being glad.

“Come on, you guys,” Ellis exclaimed, refusing to look Julia in the eyes for fear of laughing. “It’s hot as hell out here. Let’s get this stuff inside. I want to show you the house.”

“Screw the house,” Julia said dramatically, throwing a garment bag over her shoulder. “I don’t know about you two, but 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: Mr.Culpepper@Ebbtide.com

From: EllisSullivan@hotmail.com

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 is my 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?”