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“Dude.” Parker’s eyes follow her all the way out the door. “Hot new woman in town. I should have scored her digits.”
“There goes your plan for the Bennett house, though,” I say, barreling past his comment. “Looks like it’s already spoken for.”
“There has to be more to the story. Ginny Bennett was unmarried with no kids, as far as I know. So who was that?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
But I fully intend to find out.
CHAPTER3
Elise
Thanks to the two hotties at the beach bar—not that I’m looking, they were both entirely too young for me—I finally find Surfside Avenue.
Slowing my SUV to a crawl, I motor down the street and pull into the crushed-shell driveway of Aunt Gin’s house.
More like beach shack, if I’m being honest.
The house stands high above sea level, raised up on stilts, the staircase weathered and missing a piece of railing. Definitely not up to any kind of modern safety code. A chunk of the gray shaker shingles desperately needs a good pressure wash and one of the shutters hangs askew.
And this is only what I can see. I sigh, resting my head against the cool leather seat. At least I can hear the ocean, the smell of the salt air tickling my nose.
Determined to make the most of my inheritance and the road trip, I roll up the windows and lock my car. Shells crunch beneath my sandals, then I carefully traverse the stairs to the house, the wood groaning and creaking under my weight.
I peer into the grimy front window, covered with a thick deposit of salt. Aunt Gin didn’t clean her windows anytime over the last decade, it seems. White sheets drape over what’s likely a sofa and a kitchen table, and the back windows are shaded by vertical blinds, 1980’s style.
Rummaging through my shoulder bag, I find the tiny manila envelope with my name scrawled in swirly penmanship, and shake the keys into my palm. I pry the screened porch door open and try the first key. No dice. The second key slides into the lock, though, and with a good bit of effort, I force the canary yellow door open.
Creak.The echo is loud in the dark room and musty humidity smacks me in the face. Aunt Gin’s beach shack is roughly one thousand degrees. I scour the room for a thermostat, only to find an ancient wall air conditioning unit in the back corner.
Super.Wiping away a fine layer of dust, I flip the lid and jab the ‘on’ button. The beige machine rattles, then roars to life, shooting out white beams of visible semi-cool air. Probably straight freon, but I’m not too concerned about the environment at the moment; I just want the beads of sweat trickling down my back to dry.
Next, I open the vertical blinds on every window and golden rays spill into the room, dust particles glittering in the sunlight. The backyard is the long, white sandy beach, the Atlantic Ocean a giant swimming pool. Stepping out onto the wooden deck, I note wood rot on a few of the planks, as well as the rails. A built-in bench runs the length of the deck, but it also needs to be replaced.
I close my eyes and tip my face toward the sinking sun, the cool ocean breeze washing over me. My muscles relax and my breathing slows, matching the gentle rhythm of the tide, and it’s the calmest I’ve felt in months.
This could be a really good thing, Elise.
After a few minutes, I reluctantly leave the deck to continue my home inspection.The kitchen is small and unrenovated, the cabinets matching the bright front door. Must have been a sale on canary yellow paint. I turn the faucet on and rust-colored water sputters into the stainless-steel sink. Note to self: buy bottled water. An old, unplugged refrigerator sits in the far-right corner and I don’t dare open it. The stovetop appears to be original and there’s no microwave. I see many restaurant meals in my future.
A quick spin around the living room reveals built-in bookshelves, sans television. Aunt Gin must have been a big reader, because the shelves are bursting, two levels deep with books. I pull a few dusty novels out:Pride and Prejudice,a Nora Roberts romance trilogy,The Old Man and the Sea.Eclectic taste, but every book’s in pristine condition, not a dog-ear in sight.
Next, I move to the dark, narrow hallway, popping my head into the sole bathroom. The room is tiny, with vintage black-and-white penny tile, a pink sink, and a matching shower/tub combo.
At the far end of the hallway is the main bedroom, with a large picture window giving a view of the ocean. The same knotty pine wood flooring continues to each bedroom, and there’s no carpet. The wood needs to be refinished, but appears to be in decent shape. One tiny closet and a queen-sized bed round out the bedroom. Two identical rooms sit at the other end of the hallway, although they’re each half the size of the master and only one boasts a partial ocean view.
And therein ends my grand tour of Aunt Gin’s house. Tons of work needed and not currently habitable.
I shut off the A/C, close the blinds, and lock the door behind me. I need to find a hotel while I decide what to do with my new beach shack.
* * *
Turns out, spring is high season in Seaglass Beach. Consequently, lodging options are scarce. After failing to secure a room at the nearest Marriott using Harry’s points (le sigh), I end up at the ‘famed’ Seaglass Inn and Club. The architecture is reminiscent of a bygone era, with a two-story inn and separate, free-standing bungalows framing both sides of the main building. Everything is white, except for the terracotta tiled roof.
I park in the spot marked for check-in—no valet—and roll my shoulders, releasing the tension. Snagging my purse, I head to the lobby, hopeful the Vacancy info online is accurate.
The lobby’s dim but clean, and smells like sunscreen and bleach. A woman in her mid-twenties leans against the white-plank front desk, flipping through a magazine. She glances up and quickly straightens, her posture dancer-perfect.
