Ellis opened the refrigerator, which was empty except for a box of baking soda, and then she peeked inside the freezer, which held two miserly aluminum ice cube trays, but no automatic ice maker. She congratulated herself for picking up a five-pound bag of ice to keep the groceries she’d bought cold until check-in time. She noticed, to her chagrin, that there was no dishwasher. How had she missed this during all the hours she’d spent poring over the pictures and description of the house?

Never mind, she told herself. It was only for a month, and after all, four women—not to mention Dorie’s husband, Stephen—were sharing this house. Everybody would pitch in and make do. It would be like Girl Scout camp, Ellis told herself. But with air-conditioning and indoor plumbing.

Finally, August had come. The month they’d all been planning for was becoming a reality. Ellis could not wait for the fun to begin. As she left the kitchen, she did an impromptu skip-step.

*   *   *

Ty tipped the Corona bottle to his lips and sucked down the last drop of icy beer. He wandered around the corner of the porch to check on his new tenant’s whereabouts. Whoa! The silver Honda was pulled up directly in front of the house now, and as he watched, a woman in pink pants and a tight white T-shirt hurried towards the house, her arms full of grocery sacks. Her dark hair fanned out behind her in the breeze.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it? “Ellis, dude,” he whispered. “You’re not gay. You’re a girl.”

In fact, she was the girl. The one from this morning. He’d really only gotten a glimpse of her this morning, but now, as he leaned up against the side of his apartment, watching as she ferried endless suitcases, boxes, and bags into the house, her sandals flapping madly, he liked what he saw. Her figure was what his mother would have called “sturdy,” with a high, round butt that probably wouldn’t be considered fashionable, but which Ty found fascinating. She had her hair pulled back with some kind of a headband, and her oval face was bright pink in the blazing afternoon sun.

Intriguing. But no, he told himself sternly. This Ellis person might have a cute butt, but she’d already proven herself a major pain in his ass, a distraction he totally didn’t need right now. His cell phone beeped. He picked it up and read the alert. Hodarthe, a pharmaceutical company out of Topeka, was announcing that the FDA had approved a promising new cholesterol-busting drug. Maybe it was time to dump some of his Pfizer stock. Or maybe it was too late. He needed to do some quick research.

Ellis Sullivan was leaning into the trunk of the Honda, her head obscured from view. He allowed himself one last, lingering gaze, and turned to go back to work.

*   *   *

Ellis had just finished emptying the first bag of groceries when she happened to look down at the counter where she’d stacked the rolls of paper towels, toilet paper, and coffee. Ants! A small army of the tiny ones her grandmother called sugar ants made a thin black line leading from the window sill to the back of the sink. Gak! She grabbed a paper towel, wet it, and frantically wiped at the counters. She flung the under-sink cupboard door open, looking for bug spray, but all she found was a damp sponge and a plastic jug of drain cleaner.

Ellis ran to the laundry room and then the linen closet, opening and closing doors, but there was no sign of bug spray. She shuddered. She’d hated bugs her whole life, and although she loved Savannah and the South, she never once missed its bugs after she moved to Philly. She fought the impulse to run out to the car and drive over to the first store to buy an arsenal of Raid, Black Flag, or whatever. They were only harmless little sugar ants, she told herself. But if they’d been roaches, she so would have been out of there.

She made herself return to the kitchen. She soaked a paper towel with drain cleaner and dabbed it on the windowsill. That oughta put a hurt on the little bastards, she thought grimly. At least until she could get some proper bug spray. She put away the rest of the groceries, lining up the cans of Diet Coke, the white wine, skim milk, half-and-half, and bottled water in the fridge. She found an empty cupboard and decided it would be the liquor cabinet. Vodka, gin, rum, scotch, and oh yes, whiskey for Julia, who’d become a die-hard Jack Daniel’s fan at the tender age of fourteen, when she’d begun snitching it from her father’s liquor cabinet, refilling the bottle with water. She’d bought mixers too: tonic water, 7-Up, grapefruit juice, and cranberry juice for Dorie, who liked Cape Cods. Funny, she couldn’t remember what Willa liked to drink. Dorie’s sister Willa was two years older than the rest of them, which meant that she was the girls’ go-to source for liquor when they were teenagers, since her boyfriend Ricky was legal. Of course, Willa always charged them five bucks extra, which Ellis thought was pretty pissy of her. But then, that was Willa for you. Even way back then, she had an angle or an agenda—and it was all Willa, all the time.

Finally, Ellis got the kitchen just the way she wanted it. There was a fugly amateur seascape hanging on the wall beside the stove. She took it down and put it on top of the fridge and replaced it with the whiteboard she’d bought at the office-supply store. She’d spent a happy forty-five minutes ruling off the Kaper chart, carefully listing the assigned chores, the days of the week, and everybody’s names with color-coded Sharpies. It was truly a work of art.

She stood back and admired her handiwork. Now, she thought, it was time to head upstairs and get the bedrooms organized.

But when she’d lugged her big wheeled suitcase upstairs and opened the first bedroom door, her heart sank.

The room was painted white, with battleship-gray painted board floors. It was large and square, and two big windows gave a glorious view of the impossibly blue summer sky. But it was nearly empty. A lonely little double bed was shoved into a corner, covered with a limp and faded pink-and-blue floral quilted spread. A pair of wafer-thin pillows sat at the head of the bed, and there was an olive-drab army blanket folded at the foot of it. There was no nightstand, no lamps or mirror, no chairs or even a luggage rack. A rickety-looking three-drawer pine dresser was against the wall opposite the bed. There was a miniscule closet with no coat hangers, not even a wire one. A small window beside the dresser held a rusty air conditioner.

“A window unit!” Ellis cried. The room was hot and stuffy. She walked out into the hallway and opened up the other two bedroom doors. They were furnished just as sparsely, and yes, each had a dinky little air conditioner stuck into a window.

She switched on the air conditioners in each room. They were loud and they rattled the windows, but within a few minutes, she could feel the temperatures begin to drop and her own boiling blood pressure start to simmer down.

Wait until she got hold of Mr. Culpepper! Nothing upstairs was as it had been described on the Ebbtide website. Her room should have had a queen-sized bed—not the crappy little double bed that was in there now. Julia’s room, which was painted baby blue, should have had a double bed, but it held only a narrow twin. And Willa’s room, the daffodil yellow one, held yet another double bed. Ellis winced, anticipating what Willa’s reaction would be to that. Willa had reluctantly agreed to pay an extra two hundred bucks if the girls would let her have the room with the king-sized bed, since that’s what she and her husband were used to sleeping in at home. Arthur wasn’t coming along, of course, but Willa had insisted she couldn’t possibly sleep in anything less than a king.

Once she’d turned on all the air conditioners, Ellis trudged up the narrow staircase to the third floor. The stairs were steep, and the walls so close that she didn’t see how anybody could get a full-sized suitcase up them. She had to stop to catch her breath when at last she’d reached the third floor. It was even hotter up here, she discovered.