Summer Rental (18 page)

“Hey!” he protested. “I didn’t know you were spying on me. You could have let me know you were standing there or something, you know.”

“Do you always parade around in your drawers and pee in public?” Ellis asked. “What if somebody else had seen you? Like a child? You could get arrested for public indecency.”

“It was early. Nobody ever gets to that part of the beach that time of day. And anyway, somebody would really have to work at seeing me from the beach, what with the dunes and the sea oats and everything.”

“
We
see you from that part of the beach,” she said pointedly.

“And I haven’t hardly walked out on the deck in my boxers at all lately, either,” Ty said. “Anyway, can I help it if you and your gorgeous friends choose to run around in your skimpy bathing suits right outside my deck? I mean, it would be un-American if I didn’t appreciate the natural beauty right there on the beach.”

“Humph,” she humphed. But the corners of her lips twitched slightly. She concluded that up close like this, Ty Bazemore wasn’t nearly as repulsive. In fact, he was alarmingly attractive, with his rumpled hair and cleft chin. She’d always been a sucker for a cleft chin.

“I’ll just bet you do enjoy looking at Dorie and Julia,” she said lightly. “I mean, Julia’s a model, and as for Dorie, well, no matter what she does to try to hide it, she’s always had the kind of looks that draws men like flies.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, they’re okay,” he said. “Especially the curvy little redhead. But actually, since you mention it, you’re pretty killer in a bathing suit yourself, Ellis Sullivan. Especially that black one-piece.”

She gaped at him, blushing furiously.

He grinned innocently. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s a simple observation. A compliment. No need to call the vice squad.”

This conversation was taking a decidedly personal turn, Ellis decided. She fought the urge to cut and run. Ty Bazemore had just told her he liked her black bathing suit. She should stay and flirt. She remembered how to flirt, didn’t she?

In the meantime, he was still looking at her, lazily taking in those stupid cupcake boxers and her flimsy tanktop. Panic set in again. She yawned widely and stood to go.

“Bedtime,” she said. “Well, good night.”

“So soon?” he said, standing up lazily. “What’s your hurry?”

“No hurry,” she said lightly, starting back up the boardwalk towards the house. “It’s been a long day and I’m tired, that’s all.”

“I scared you with that compliment, didn’t I?” he called. “Funny, you didn’t strike me as a wussy.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Wussy? Who was he calling a wussy?

She marched right back to the deck, stopping when she was inches away from him. “You take that back,” she said, her fists clenched. “I killed a rattlesnake in my backyard with a shovel when I was ten. My daddy was standing right there but he was terrified of snakes. He barfed when he saw what I’d done. I was the only girl at our neighborhood pool who would backward dive off the high dive. I was the quarterback on my college coed flag-football team, and I broke my nose and played the next day anyway. I am
not
a wussy.”

It was all true—all except for the high-dive part. But
he
didn’t know that.

“You’re scared of me though,” Ty said, looking her right in the eyes.

“Am not.”

“Prove it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Like this,” he said, pulling her towards him and sliding his arms around her waist. His mouth was an inch from hers, her eyes half closed. “You’re afraid to kiss me,” he taunted, his lips barely grazing hers.

“Am not,” she said, her breath catching as she said it.

“Prove it.”

She sighed impatiently, wrapped her arms around his neck, tilted her face to his and kissed him softly. Her lips were full and warm with promise. Gently, he pulled her closer, gathering the soft fabric of her shorts into his hands. With his tongue, he teased her lips apart. She melted into his chest. For a moment. And then, without warning, she wriggled out of his arms.

“Told ya I wasn’t a wussy,” she said, and then Ellis Sullivan, flying cupcake boxers and all, was scampering up the walkway in the bright moonlight. He slowly followed, pausing to take a last look at the water, and when he got to the deck of his own place, he looked over at Ebbtide, just in time to see the next-to-last light in the house blink off.

18

Julia was nearly asleep when she heard her cell phone vibrating on the rickety wooden nightstand. She fumbled for it in the dark, and sighed when she saw the screen.

“Hey,” she said, sitting up in bed.

“Hey, baby,” Booker said softly. “You missing me?”

“Yeahhh,” she said slowly, smiling as she pictured him. He’d be sitting there in his favorite ratty gray high school gym shorts and a bleached-out T-shirt. His wiry gray-streaked hair would be standing on end, because he ran his fingers through it when he was bored, and the horn-rimmed glasses would have slid down on his nose. Most likely he’d be drinking his favorite late-night treat—Dr Pepper. “Come to think of it, I am.”

Julia Capelli had been a nineteen-year-old college dropout, bumming around Europe for a year, picking up modeling assignments wherever she could, when she met Booker Calloway in a grotty pub in Brighton.

He was a fashion photographer, and she’d been hired for a low-budget teenybopper catalog shoot. She’d been drinking with a couple of the other girls, and he’d stopped at their table to buy them all drinks and hit on Geen
ie, the busty redhead in their bunch. He was already thirty then, sexy as hell with his long, dark hair, gold-flecked hazel eyes, and ever-present Nikons slung bandolier-style across his chest. He was a confirmed expatriate who’d grown up in California and who swore he’d never go back.

Booker completely ignored Julia that night, but the next day, after the shoot, he’d pulled her aside to offer her some advice—“get yourself to a tanning bed, for Chrissake”—and to offer to take some better head shots for her book. They’d done a couple more shoots together, and after that, Booker was acting as her de facto agent, and then one day, she’d realized that they were essentially working—and living—together, full time.

It seemed to Julia that their couplehood had just gradually evolved. And why not? He was smart, successful, a thoughtful and kind lover, a levelheaded presence in the crazy world they both inhabited. Everybody loved Booker, even her mother, who’d been fully prepared to hate the totally inappropriate older man who’d seduced her daughter into staying in England instead of coming home to the States, college, her family, a normal life. Within five minutes of meeting him, Catherine Capelli was totally won over. The only thing her mother didn’t like about Booker was that her headstrong daug
hter steadfastly refused to marry him.

Booker never let her forget that one of the last things her mother told her before her death was that she should “marry that nice man, Sugar, before he gets away.”

“I could come down there Saturday morning,” he was saying now. “My meetings in DC are over Friday night. It’s not that long a drive, I could head back here Monday morning. What do you say?”

She sighed again. “Book, we’ve already been over this. This is a chick trip. No boys allowed. Anyway, it’s barely been a week. I need some time to sort things out. We have an agreement, remember?”

“You have an agreement,” he grumbled. “I didn’t have much choice in the matter, did I?”

She chuckled ruefully. “Not much. Now, can we talk about something else? How’s it going up there? Do you like the people you’re working with?”

“They’re all right, a pretty tight-knit bunch. I’d forgotten how burea
ucratic a magazine can be. They’ve got policies and procedures for everything. And it’s gonna take a while to get up to speed with their software.”

“You can do it,” she reassured him. “And anyway, they’re making it worth your while, remember?”

“Damned straight they are. Hey, guess what? I think I found us a house today.”

She flopped back down onto her back. “Oh, Book. I don’t know. I told you…”

“Julia, just hear me out,” he said, his voice pleading. “You’ll love it. It’s in Alexandria. Right on the metro line. Built in 1918, what’s that style house you always talk about, the ones with all the built-in china cabinets and bookcases and stuff?”

“Craftsman?”

“Yeah, that’s it. The real estate agent said it’s the best example of Craftsman architecture in the whole neighborhood. It’s got a big, wide porch across the front, and these great windows that give the most amazing light. And hardwood floors. Three fireplaces. Living room, den, and master bedroom. Four bedrooms. Only two baths, but there’s this funny little trunk room just off the master that would make a great master bath. The kitchen needs a total redo, but the agent thinks we can get the house for way less than asking price, because the owner’s already taken a job in LA, and he’s
desperate to unload the place. Hey, I took a bunch of shots with my cell phone. I’ll send ’em right now. Wait until you see this place, Julia.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He was like a kid describing a new bike. And he hadn’t heard a damned thing she’d been telling him for the past six weeks.

“Oh, Book,” she said finally. “It sounds wonderful. Really. But I don’t need a house. I don’t need to live in DC. I don’t need to get married. I love you. I do. But I can’t do this.”

Silence. “I just … I mean, I guess I don’t get it. You say you love me. You know I love you. I thought the new job, moving back to the States, would be a good thing. I’ll have real security for the first time. No more crazy freelancing, running all over the globe, running down assignments. We can have our own house. A real home. No more shitty flats in London.”

“I love that shitty flat,” Julia put in, picturing it in her mind’s eye: the orange Arne Jacobsen Egg Chair she’d picked up at a car-boot sale in suburban London, the white leather Conran sofa she’d bought with her first earnings from a magazine job, the bits and bobs of silver and china picked up at the Bermondsey Market, all arranged against walls she’d painted and layered with pictures and photographs picked up at junk markets and antique stalls in every city she’d ever visited.

Now, faced with the possibility of giving up her home for the past ten years, she realized she’d been nesting without even realizing it.

“Ok, well, maybe we keep the flat for when you’re over there for modeling gigs.”

She cringed at the mention of her career. “Booker, denial is not just a river in Egypt. I’m not getting modeling gigs these days. Not the kind I used to get. I’m thirty-five. I’m not cover-girl material anymore, except for maybe
Modern Maturity
. Last month I did a catalog shoot for Lands’ End, for God’s sake. Next thing you know, I’ll be the spokesmodel for Depends.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Julia, that’s nuts. You forget how many years I was in the business. You’ve got more work than you can handle. Yeah, I realize it’s not
Elle
or
Vogue,
but you’re also not exactly ready for the glue factory just yet. You are still a sensational-looking girl, and you can have a career in modeling for as long as you want.”

“Maybe I don’t want a career in modeling anymore,” Julia said.

“All right,” Booker said wearily. “Do something else. Nobody said you had to model. I just thought that’s why you’ve been so mopey lately, because you hate the offers you’re getting.”

“That’s just it,” Julia said. “I don’t know how to do anything else. I quit college after one semester, remember?”

“And now’s your chance to go back to school, if that’s what you want,” Booker jumped in. “Or not. I don’t give a damn. I just want you with me. I want us to get married, have a kid—if I’ve still got any swimmers—and get old together. Is that so awful?”

“No,” Julia said. “Not awful. Sweet. You’re sweet, and I’m a mixed-up bitch.”

Now, she thought. Now was the time to tell him the truth. Maybe
she couldn’t even have a baby. Telling the girls was such a relief. How had she walked around with this secret for so many years? What had she been afraid of?

She walked over to the bedroom window and looked idly out at the beach. There was a full moon, and now she could see a couple standing at the end of the boardwalk, on the little deck there. It was a man and a woman, and they were standing close, and now they were embracing. The girl pasted herself to the man’s chest, and the moment was so sensual, Julia almost turned away. Almost. A second later, the girl pulled away and began running back towards the house.

“Good Lord,” she breathed. “Ellis!”

“What?” Booker demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Julia chuckled. “I just saw our Ellis, outside in the moonlight, making out with a strange man.”

“I thought you said this was a chick thing. No guys allowed.”

“I did. They weren’t,” she said.

“Julia,” Booker’s voice was plaintive. “Have you heard a single word I’ve just said?”

She was staring down at Ellis, who was walking towards the house at a fast clip. She was in her pajamas, for God’s sake. And even from where Julia stood, with the moonlight making things absurdly bright, she could see the bemused smile on Ellis’s face. Well good for Ellis. But who on earth was the man? He stood for a long while on the deck, staring at the house. Julia hadn’t turned the light on in her room, so she was sure he couldn’t see her, but just in case, she took a few steps away from the window.

“I hear you, Booker,” she said sofly. “But I can’t talk about this any more. Love you. G’night.”

He was still sputtering when she disconnected. Julia heard the downstairs screen door open and close, and then the sound of the front door closing. Ellis’s bare feet trod lightly on the stairs.

Julia stayed at the window, peering out. Finally, the man walked slowly up the boardwalk towards the house. Julia held her breath. Delicious! Was h
e going to follow Ellis into the house, sneak into her bedroom for a secret tryst? Wait. He was heading towards the garage. What? When he stood for a moment under the garage light she saw his face clearly. It was the garage guy, Ty Bazemore. Ellis and Ty! What a lovely, unexpected development, Julia thought.