“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 lock but 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 hand. “How the hell are you?”

They stood in the living room, chatting awkwardly. “You’re lookin’ good, Frank,” Ty said. “Bug busting must agree with you.”

“It’s a living,” Frank said. “How ’bout you? Are those your boards I saw out in that garage?”

“Yeah,” Ty said. “I’m still surfing. When I get time, which I haven’t lately.”

Finally, they got down to business.

“Fleas, huh?” Frank said, giving the living room an appraising look.

Ty’s face darkened. “Friggin’ college kids snuck a dog in here last week.”

“You don’t live here?”

Ty laughed. “No, man, I can’t afford to live here. I live over the garage, in what used to be the maid’s apartment. I rent out the house.”

“Pretty cool old place,” Frank said, running a hand over the wood-paneled wall. “It’s one of the original ones, right?”

Ty shrugged. “This isn’t one of the original thirteen, the ones they call the ‘unpainted aristocracy.’ My grandmother’s aunt bought it in the 1920s. We’ve still got the original bill of sale. She paid eight thousand dollars back then.”

“My dad used to have the pest control contract on the one right next door,” Frank said. “The Lunsfords. Nice folks. Clark and Margaret? Maybe you knew them? After the last hurricane hit it so bad, they sold it to some people from Virginia.”

“Haven’t met the new owners,” Ty said. “But Mrs. Lunsford, Miss Margaret, we called her, she was one of my grandmother’s running buddies. They were classmates at Saint Mary’s, back in the day.”

“What was your grandmother’s name?” Frank asked. “Not Bazemore, right?”

“No,” Ty said. “This house belonged to my mom’s family. She was a Culpepper. Edwina and Garrett Culpepper. My granddad died about ten years ago. And then Nanny, she passed two years ago. Everybody called her Winnie.”

“I remember hearing your mom passed, some years back, right?”

“That’s right,” Ty said. “She died the year after Granddad. Hard to believe it’s been that long.”

Frank nodded his head in mute agreement. He picked up his canister of chemicals and, pointing a long-necked wand, began walking around the perimeter of the room, spraying as he talked.

“Your grandmother left you the house, huh? That’s pretty awesome. House like this, right on the ocean. I mean, it’s none of my business, but it’s worth some bank, right?”

“It would be if it were fixed up,” Ty agreed. “Anyway, Nanny left the house to my mom’s only brother, my uncle, who lives in South Dakota. His wife hates the beach, and they never had any kids. He was gonna sell it, so I got the bright idea that I should buy it from them. You know, the place was a gold mine—or so I thought.”

“Awesome.”

“Place is a dump,” Ty said, gloomily. “A giant money pit. That’s the real reason my uncle was so glad to unload it. My grandmother never wanted to modernize anything. Wanted to leave things like they were when she was a little girl and they’d come up here from Charlotte and spend the whole summer. There’s no central heat or air. Granddad finally put in window units, back in the ’80s. No insulation, of course. In some places, you can see daylight through these old floorboards. I about froze my ass living here this past winter. In Nanny’s day, they closed the house up every October and didn’t open it back up until Good Friday. The plumbing sucks, too. Only two full bathrooms for this whole big house and only one indoor shower. And the taxes? The county thinks this dump is worth two million dollars! Don’t get me started.”

“Crazy,” Frank agreed, moving into the dining area and then into the kitchen.

“Hey, look at this,” he chuckled, looking down the room. “This is some old school, here.”

“And not in a good way,” Ty said, leaning on the doorframe. “That stove is shot. I just got new tenants for the whole month. Three women! Been here a day, and they’re already bitching about the place.”

“You need a new stove?” Frank asked casually.

“Yeah,” Ty said, bending down to scratch his ankle. “I need a lot of new stuff for this house. But I can’t afford shit.”

“Reason I ask,” Frank said, “is we just replaced all the appliances over at our place. We put the fridge out in the garage, you know, for beer and stuff. But the stove, it’s just sitting on the back porch, gathering dust. My wife’s kinda into cooking. Wouldn’t let up until we got all new stainless-steel fridge and stove and dishwasher. The old stove’s fine, she just had her heart set on stainless steel. You know how they get.”