Summer Rental Read Free Page B

Tybee Island, lazing around the beach during the day, spending hours getting ready to go out in the evenings.
    Dorie always trailed a wake of would-be boyfriends, so they’d traveled in a pack, cruising the beach road in Julia’s mother’s big Fleetwood Caddy. It hadn’t mattered that Ellis didn’t have her own boyfriend. The Caddy was white with a moonroof and the fifth tire mounted on the trunk, a total pimp car, which they all thought screamingly hysterical—that Julia’s churchgoing mother drove a pimpmobile. They loved the Fleetwood because it could fit six or seven people on its big leather bench seats. They’d roll the windows down and blast their favorite song, screaming the tagline—“WHOOMP, There It Is!”—over and over again, and the Fleetwood would rock with the heavy bass beat.
    They’d dance at a club whose name Ellis had long since forgotten, but she could still remember the boy she’d met and danced with all night long the last summer weekend before her sophomore year of college. His name was Nick, and he went to Boston College, and she’d gladly let him grope her while they swayed to “I Swear,” and she’d allowed herself to fantasize that it was Nick who was promising—by the moon and the stars above—to love her forever. Then school had started, and he’d e-mailed a couple of times, and then nothing.

    Ellis looked down at the iPhone. She opened an e-mail window and typed in the address:
    [email protected].
    Dear Mr. Culpepper. I realize that my group’s check-in time for Ebbtide technically isn’t until 2 p.m. today, but I find myself in the area earlier than planned, and wonder if it would be possible to have access to the house any earlier. Say around noon? I’d be totally grateful. Sincerely, Ellis Sullivan.
    She pushed the send button and a moment later heard the soft whooshing noise that notified her the message had been sent. Not for the first time, she pictured Mr. Culpepper as a wizened but kindly old duffer. She imagined him in a faded but starched Hawaiian shirt, with knobby knees protruding below madras Bermuda shorts, and wearing high black socks and beat-up sandals. His face would be weathered, his head nearly bald. He would take an instant liking to her and the girls, calling them “sweetheart” and “dearie.”
    She couldn’t wait to meet Mr. Culpepper in person.

 
    3
    Maryn drove south, switching between the interstate and winding back roads, with no specific destination in mind. Away. That was the only place she knew she was going. Away from her home, what little family she had left. Away from Biggie; that one really hurt. But there was nothing she could do about that. She could still see Biggie’s melting brown eyes watching as she rushed around the house, throwing her things in a duffle bag. He’d followed her from room to room, and then, when she was about to leave, he’d met her at the back door, his red leather leash in his mouth, convinced they were going to the dog park.
    It broke her heart to leave Biggie behind. She told herself the aging golden retriever would be all right. He would never harm Biggie, not even to get back at her. He adored Biggie, had raised him from a puppy. Biggie had been there before her, and he would be there after her. Wouldn’t he? Anyway, the main thing was that she had to get away. From him. And that meant leaving Biggie behind.
    Thinking of him, she twisted the diamond solitaire on her ring finger. She’d wanted to fling it at him so many times, tell him yes, he’d bought her with it, but he’d gotten the deal of a lifetime. She’d almost left it behind, along with her other belongings. But at the last second, she decided she would keep wearing it, a reminder—as if she needed one—of how easily and cheaply she’d sold herself to the devil.

    Maryn glanced down at her arm. Her sleeve hid them, but she could still feel the bracelet of ugly purple bruises on her left forearm. Another reminder of the real