Summer Rental (27 page)

“You mean when I grow up?” Julia snorted.

“Yes,” Dorie said quietly. “Next week. Next year. What would you be?”

“Hold that thought,” Ellis said, peering into the mirror on the back of Julia’s closet door. She held her arms out. “I can’t wear this, y’all. I’m sorry. But I feel naked in this rig.”

“Here,” Julia said, thrusting a filmy black jacket in her direction. “Put this on. And quit being such a baby.”

Ellis slid her arms into the jacket. It was a nearly sheer, cobwebby fabric, with tight-fitting sleeves that flared gently at the wrists. At least it covered her shoulders. She did a little pirouette. “You think?”

“Absolutely,” Dorie said, applauding. “Perfection. You look amazing.” She turned to Julia. “And you, my friend, are a genius. So how are we going to put all that talent to work?”

Julia took a deep breath. “Well … actually, the job I want isn’t in front of a camera. It’s behind it.”

“You want to be a photographer?” Ellis asked. “I’ve never even seen you with a camera.”

“Not a photographer, a stylist,” Julia said. “A photo stylist.”

“Really?” Dorie asked, starting to apply makeup to Ellis. “What all does that entail?”

“The stylist is the one who’s responsible for the look of a shoot,” Julia said. “She shops for all the props and accessories, fluffs everything and makes it pretty—whether it’s a modeling shoot, or a food or interiors piece. I’ve always loved to mess around with that kind of stuff.”

Ellis lifted her face to allow Dorie to brush mascara onto her lashes. “So do it, already.”

“I’d love to,” Julia said. “But it’s nearly impossible to break into. It’s really competitive. And unfortunately, with print magazines going out of business right and left, the job market sucks right now.”

“Could Booker help you get a job as a photo stylist?” Dorie asked. She was lightly fluffing powder over Ellis’s cheeks.

“Probably.”

Julia leaned in to assess Dorie’s handiwork. She picked up a flat black compact and a long-handled brush and handed it to her. “Excellent. Now put some of this blusher across her cheekbones and contour it just along the edge of her jawline.”

Dorie nodded and went to work. “Have you told Booker you want to be a photo stylist?”

“Noooo,” Julia said, picking up a comb and going to work on Ellis’s hair. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. I’d probably have to get a job as a stylist’s assistant first.”

“What does a stylist’s assistant do?” Ellis asked.

“Grunt work,” Julia said. “You make the cappuccino runs, help load and unload the props and equipment, catalog and return the props to the stores where you bought or borrowed them. Nothing glamorous about it. And the pay is shit.”

“And you told me Booker wants you to move back to the States and marry him,” Ellis added. “So tell me something, Julia Capelli. What’s your problem?”

“I don’t know,” Julia admitted. “I wish I did.”

Julia gathered Ellis’s thick straight hair in one hand and picked up a pair of scissors in the other. “Good Lord, Ellis,” she complained. “You’ve been wearing your hair—parted straight down the middle, down to your shoulders—like this since sixth grade. Talk about a rut.”

Ellis looked up in alarm. “You are not going to make me change my hair. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Dorie and Julia exchanged a look.

“Ellie-Belly,” Dorie said plaintively. “Don’t you trust us?”

“No,” Ellis said firmly, taking the scissors away from Julia. “I’ll wear the corset-thingy. I’ll wear the skirt. I’ll even wear this damned pink push-up bra that is poking me in the ribs. But I am not letting her cut my hair. Not. Happening.”

“All right,” Julia said, her expression clearly saying it was not all right. “I’ll do what I can. But at least let me try something new. Okay?”

“No cutting,” Ellis said between her clenched teeth.

“Wimp,” Julia muttered.

“Bitch,” Ellis answered back. But she was grinning. And as Julia gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, twisted, and then expertly pinned it up, she blinked. Between the hair and the makeup, she looked like someone completely different. Like herself, but prettier.

There was a polite tap at Julia’s bedroom door. The three of them turned to see Madison leaning into the room. Her face was pale beneath the bandage on her cheek, and ugly bruises had already blossomed on her elbow.

“Wow,” Madison breathed. “Ellis, you look amazing.”

“See?” Julia and Dorie cried in unison.

“Hey, Dorie,” Maryn said. “I hate to bother you, but I’m wondering if I could borrow some more ibuprofen. My ankle’s kinda starting to throb.”

“You poor thing,” Dorie said, getting up from the bed. “It’s in my room. I’ll get it and come right back.” As she passed her in the doorway, Dorie bent down to get a better look at Madison’s ankle. “It’s really swollen now,” she reported. “I’ve got an Ace bandage in my first aid kit. I’ll bring that too.” She gestured towards Julia’s bed. “Sit over there,” she ordered.

“Oh no,” Madison demurred.

“Sit!” Ellis repeated.

Madison clearly looked uncomfortable perched on the edge of Julia’s bed. She looked around the room, and then back at Ellis. “Special occasion?” she asked.

Ellis blushed. “Just a dinner date. But Julia and Dorie decided I needed an extreme makeover.”

Madison nodded hesitantly at Julia. “Great job.”

“Thank you,” Julia said, reluctant to accept the compliment.

Ellis glanced at the clock on Julia’s bedside table. “Okay, are we done here? Because he’s picking me up in, like, ten minutes.”

“What about shoes?” Julia asked. “I shudder to think what kind of shoes you’d planned to wear tonight.”

“I didn’t bring that many shoes,” Ellis said. “Mostly just flip-flops and tennis shoes. The only thing I have that would go with this rig is my black ballet flats.”

“God no,” Julia said swiftly. She went back to the open closet, but stopped and frowned. “No good. My feet are like gunboats. I wear a ten, and you’re like, what, a size six?”

“Six or seven,” Ellis said. “The ballet flats will be fine.”

“Ballet flats?” Dorie said, arriving with pill bottle and first aid kit in hand. “No, no, no. You need some strappy little sandals with heels with that skirt. I’ve got just the thing. Can you squeeze into my fives?”

“Not if I want to walk,” Ellis said dryly. “Guys, it’s fine. It’s just a pair of shoes.”

“It’s never
just
a pair of shoes.”

All three heads swiveled in Madison’s direction. She stood, wincing. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Dorie cried. “You really shouldn’t walk until I get you taped up.…”

But Madison was already limping down the hall, towards the stairway.

Five minutes later, she was back, dangling a pair of wicked-looking sandals. They had a tangle of black grosgrain ribbon straps, three-inch spike heels, and the soles were an audacious red.

“Perfect!” Dorie said, clapping her hands in delight.

“Christian Louboutin?” Julia said, raising one eyebrow. “You bring Christian Louboutins to the beach?”

Madison handed the sandals to Ellis and sank down onto the bed. “So kill me. I have a thing for nice shoes. Anyway, I got them on end-of-the-season clearance last summer.” She nodded at Ellis. “I’m a seven and a half, but Louboutins run small. Go ahead. Try ’em on.”

Ellis examined the shoes carefully. “But these have hardly been worn,” she said, tapping the bright crimson, unmarred shoe sole. “I can’t wear your brand-new shoes.”

“Sure you can,” Madison said easily. “Look, in my old life, I had several pairs like this. But all that’s gone. I don’t even know why I packed ’em. Please, Ellis. I would love it if you’d wear them tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Ellis said, but she slid her feet into the sandals and fastened the straps. She stood, wobbily, and did a slow pirouette.

Dorie and Ellis applauded and whistled. Even Madison gave a quick golf clap.

“Wait one minute,” Julia said. She scrabbled around in a quilted satin box on her dresser before triumphantly holding up a pair of dangly chandelier earrings made from crystals and jet beads.

Ellis screwed the earring backs to the posts. “Done,” she said. She blew kisses to her friends and tottered towards the door. “Gotta go. Thanks, guys. I mean it. You’re the best.”

“Run along,” Dorie said. “Have fun. Okay? You do remember how to have fun, right?”

“And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Julia advised.

“I can’t think of anything you wouldn’t do,” Ellis said.

Julia nodded approvingly. “That’s my point.”

27

The girl who answered the door at Ebbtide looked only vaguely like the Ellis Sullivan Ty had seen on the beach and on Sunday night at Cadillac Jack’s.

Ty was no fashion expert, but it looked to him as though Ellis had been transformed. She was wearing some kind of lacy, low-cut black lingerie-looking top with a cobwebby jacket sort of thing over it. The hem of her skirt barely brushed the tops of her knees, and she was wearing some ridiculously high heels. Her hair was in some kind of sophisticated updo, with earrings that nearly brushed the tops of her nearly bare shoulders.

She opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch, giving him a shy smile. “Hey,” she said.

He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. “You’re beautiful,” he blurted. Mental headslap. Of course she was beautiful. Ellis Sullivan was beautiful in those goofy cupcake boxers, with her hair in a lopsided ponytail. But tonight, she was different. He’d have said she looked spectacular, if he were the kind of guy who ever used the word “spectacular.”

Ellis blushed. “Julia and Dorie double-teamed me,” she said. “I fee
l sorta like Cinderella. This is all borrowed finery. The only thing I’m wearing that’s my own is my panties.” She gasped and blushed even harder. “Sorry. TMI again. You seem to have that effect on me.”

“Whatever you’re wearing, it’s working,” Ty said. He gestured down at the khaki slacks he’d so laboriously pressed and the starched white button-down shirt, which he’d found still in the dry-cleaner’s bag at the back of his closet, along with his navy blazer, which he hadn’t worn since the time when, in one last desperate attempt to rein him into the family fold, Kendra had dragged him to a cocktail party at her father’s country club. He’d even polished his best loafers until they shone like they hadn’t since the day he bought them. No socks, though. He had to draw the line somewhere.

“Sorry, but this is all my own stuff,” he joked. “Good thing Julia and Dorie aren’t here to see me.”

He took her hand and led her down the porch steps to the Bronco, which he’d washed and vacuumed earlier in the day. He’d even thrown away all the beer bottles and fast-food wrappers.

“Oh, they can see you, all right,” Ellis said, nodding her chin just slightly north. “They’re watching us from the window in Julia’s room.”

Ty glanced up, but all he saw was the slightest twitch of a curtain. “Let’s give ’em something worth watching,” he said, taking Ellis’s hand and kissing the back of it before he opened the car door and helped her in. Then he turned and waved, and the curtain twitched again. As he pulled the Bronco out of the driveway, he saw Ellis, glancing nervously in the rearview mirror.

*   *   *

He’d chosen a seafood restaurant in Duck, twenty minutes north of Nags Head. It was a tiny place at the end of a gravel road, at a marina overlooking the sound. It had weathered cedar-plank walls, a rusted tin roof, and a buzzing neon sign out front that said
FISH FOOD
.

“Don’t let the decor scare you,” Ty said, parking the car. “This is the best food on the Outer Banks.”

“This looks very nice,” Ellis said with a look of surprise after they’d been shown to their table at a window overlooking a long row of docks. “You
know, before we came down, I sent away for the chamber of commerce information packet, and I even bought the Mobil Outer Banks travel guide, and not one of them mentioned this place.”

“You sent away for stuff?” Ty laughed. “Who does that?”

“I do,” Ellis said. “I don’t like surprises. And anyway, they usually have good coupons. You know, for, like, a free appetizer or dessert.”

“I thought all women loved surprises,” Ty said. “Anyway, you won’t find Fish Food in a restaurant guide. And I’m pretty sure they don’t give coupons. This is kind of a local place. Eddie, the chef, used to wait tables at a restaurant I worked at in high school. He’s got kind of a squirrely sense of humor, but he knows his way around the kitchen.”

The waitress came, and Ty asked Ellis if she wanted a drink. “I’ll have a Blue Dawg—you’ve got that on draft, right? And she’ll have…” He looked over at Ellis, trying to remember what she’d ordered Sunday night, at Cadillac Jack’s. “A cosmo, right?”

They chatted aimlessly until the waitress was back with their drinks and the menus.

“What’s good here?” Ellis asked, looking down at the grease-spattered photocopied sheet of paper.

She was sitting up very straight in her chair and was fiddling with the ribbon that seemed to tie her top together in the front. When she wasn’t trying to hike the top up to keep her breasts from further spilling out, she was tugging at the hem of her short skirt, which was a lost cause anyway. The skirt barely brushed the tops of her thighs, which were lightly dusted with freckles, as was her nose, or what he could see of her nose underneath the layer of sparkly powder covering it. Ty’s fingers itched to reach across the table and yank at both ends of the ribbons, just to see what would happ
en. Was that pink lace bra thing attached to the girdle-looking top she was wearing? He decided that would need further study.

“Ty? Oh my God, is that really you?”

He looked up. Kendra and Ryan were standing, waiting to be seated at the next table over. He felt the blood drain from his face. And now Kendra was
actually coming over to their table, with Ryan, that fuckhead, trailing right behind.

Kill me now, Ty thought. Right here.

“It is you,” Kendra said shrilly. “All dressed up in your Sunday best.”

Ty Bazemore had been “raised right,” at his mother’s and grandmother’s insistence. Two years of cotillion, relentless etiquette drilled into him. You addressed your elders as “sir” and “ma’am.” You stood when a lady entered the room, and you greeted a gentleman by looking him in the eye, smilingly, with a firm handshake. Reluctantly, Ty stood. “Hi, Kendra,” he said, his face expressionless. He nodded in Fuckface’s direction. “Ryan.” He would not shake Ryan’s hand. If his mother had been alive, even she would have understood. If his grandmother had been alive, she would have applauded,
or maybe smacked Fuckface across the face with her ever-present flyswatter.