And yet, I hated to leave anything open and unfinished, so I wondered. All through dinner, as I sat with Luke’s arm loosely around my shoulders, trying not to track Morris’s work—or lack of it—from a distance. As it grew dark, and the tiki torches took on a mild, warm glow, bugs circling them. For the entire drive home that I knew by heart, four turns, two stop signs, one flashing yellow light. It was like a voice barely in earshot, whispering just loud enough to make you want to lean closer so you could make it out. When I finally got to my house, I cut the engine, then slid my feet out of my shoes. We were blocks from the beach, just like the office was, but no matter. The first thing I felt on my bare feet, like always, was sand.
* * *
The next day was Sunday, which meant another round of checkouts and arrivals. So much for a day of rest. For me, the last day of the week always meant follow-up duty.
Colby Realty didn’t employ their own housekeeping staff. Instead, we subcontracted out to several cleaning companies, each of which handled certain houses each week. It was hard work, and you had to do it quickly: checkout was at ten, check-in at four. Which left six hours to make houses fully used by folks on vacation appear pristine and untouched. Not everyone could pull it off, which was why Grandmother insisted that we check behind every crew for quality control before the keys went back out. The Sunday shift of this was the least desirable job at the agency. Which was why it was usually part of mine.
The first place on my list that day was Summer Daydream, a peach-colored house on the second row back from the oceanfront. I parked, then climbed the stairs to the front door and followed the sound of a vacuum through the entryway and into the TV room. There I saw one of our longtime cleaners, Lolly, chasing dust bunnies with her canister and hose.
“Emaline,” Lolly called out to me as I passed by the living room. When I doubled back, she cut off the vaccuum, picking up a Windex bottle.
“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”
She sighed, spritzing a big glass coffee table covered in smudges and cup rings. Here we go. “Well, you know how I put out my back last month. Went to the doctor finally and they sent me for an MRI. You ever have one of those?”
I shook my head. Lolly was a talker, and I’d learned that the less I responded, the better chance I had of actually extracting myself at some point.
“Awful,” she said, spritzing the table again. “You have to lay in this metal tube and be totally still. I thought I was going to have a panic attack. And then they tell me that my L4 and L5 are totally shot. Gonna need surgery. Like I have time for that.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She waved her paper towel at me, shrugging. “First Ron’s prostate thing, now this. And you know our insurance won’t cover it all. Plus Tracy’s moved back in with the kids since her divorce, so we don’t get a moment’s peace.”
I nodded, then shot a look at my car, wondering how I could get out there.
Lolly sighed again, then started back on the table. “Tell your mom the towel rack in the master bathroom finally fell off. It won’t take another bolt, they’re going to have to replace the whole thing.”
“Okay.”
“And there’s a big scratch on the game room wall, a black one. Magic Eraser won’t take it out.”
“Got it.”
She started dragging the vacuum and canister towards me. Behind her, the room now looked perfect: couch cushions fluffed, table with not a streak or mark, clean lines on the carpet. Ready for vacation. Again.
“Janice,” she hollered into the kitchen. “I’m packing up. You about done?”
“Yep,” another voice replied. “Meet you outside in ten.”
I did my quick pass through the house, checking that all beds were made, bathrooms were clean, and towels had been distributed, as well as everything else on the checklist I knew by heart. By the time I was done, Lolly and her friend were wrapping up as well, their stuff piled up on the front steps.
“Catch you later at Tidal Wave?” she called out.
I nodded, then went to get into my car. I was just pulling the door open when I heard footsteps on the road behind me. I turned. It was a tall guy with glasses, jogging, wearing an iPod. He looked familiar, somehow, but no name came to mind, so I went back to what I was doing.
“Hey,” he called out. I turned again to see he was slowing to a walk, taking out his headphones. “You’re from the realty place. Right?”
I squinted at his face, trying to remember him. Before I could, though, he said, “You told us about the table place. When you brought the wine and cheese.”
The vips, I thought. Of course. He was the one with the obnoxious woman at Sand Dollars. “Oh, yeah. Right. That was me.”
“Theo,” he said, pointing to himself. Then he stuck out his hand. “I forgot your name.”
I was pretty sure we hadn’t gotten to this level of familiarity during our previous meeting, but I shook anyway. “Emaline.”
He nodded, then looked behind me. “So this is where you live?”
I glanced at Summer Daydream, which was an eight-bedroom, ten-bath, four-story monstrosity sporting a pool and triple garage. “Uh, no,” I said. “Just working.”
“On Sunday morning?”
“The rental industry never sleeps.” I wasn’t even sure why he was talking to me, especially since it meant cutting his run short. Who does that? “Half our houses turn over on Sunday.”