The Shore House - Heidi Hostetter Page 0,3

previous summer, and they’d been shredded in the winter weather. Kaye wanted to believe it was a simple mistake, a miscommunication between her and the property manager, but her more cynical side wondered if it was purposeful, retribution for ending the rental agreement.

“Thank you for rushing the order, Matty, I appreciate it.”

Mrs. Ivey nudged her. “He doesn’t go by ‘Matty’ anymore, Kaye. Not since taking over the business after Bobby and Tricia retired and moved to Boca. We must call him Matthew now.”

“Is that right?” Kaye smiled. “Do you own the business now?”

“Kind of.” Matthew shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m technically the owner but Dad still directs operations. Even from Florida.” He turned and waved his arms at the others seated in the truck. “Let’s go, you guys. I’m not paying you to sit in the truck.”

Two younger versions of Bobby DiNapoli tumbled out, a little reluctantly. Matthew gestured to the back of the truck. “Jimmy, unstrap the big ladder.”

Then he turned his attention back to Kaye. “We’ll have the new awnings up in no time.” He pointed to the side of the house. “While we were taking the old ones down, we noticed a shutter off its hinges. We’ll fix that for you too, while we’re up there.”

“Thank you, Matty—Matthew. I appreciate it. Please bring the invoice to me and I’ll pay it right away. I have my checkbook. Also, there are drinks in the cooler on the back deck, sandwiches, and pastries from Mueller’s on the table inside. Help yourselves to anything you like.”

One of the brothers headed immediately for the house, but Matty grabbed his hoodie and pulled him back. “Work first. I’m not kidding.” He lifted his chin toward the truck. “Get the awnings and start unpacking them. Jimmy, you get the hardware.”

As they watched the DiNapoli brothers work, it occurred to Kaye how quickly time passed. She remembered Matty as a boy, one of a dozen kids who came together in June and played with each other all summer. Her own son Brad had been in that group as well. They’d be outside all day, biking or crabbing or swimming or sailing, coming inside only for food or drinks before going out again. It was a comfortable constant, a rhythm she had looked forward to during the hectic months of school.

“The benefits of being a full-time resident,” Mrs. Ivey commented as the boys disappeared behind the house. “You get moved to the head of the line.”

“I hope so.” Kaye gestured to a sad, leggy rose vine in the front yard. “Because this yard needs attention and I’m about to call in a favor from Gerta.”

Gerta and her partner Corrie had maintained the yards and lawns of Dewberry Beach homes for years. They cultivated, mulched, and planted annuals into gardens before residents arrived for the season, and throughout the summer they cut the grass and deadheaded the roses. When summer was over, they tucked the gardens away for the winter by removing spent annuals and wrapping delicate shrubbery and rose bushes with burlap. They were gifted, talented women and Dewberry Beach was lucky to have them.

Apparently, though, the property manager in charge had neglected to call them—Kaye’s garden needed work. Most of the rose bushes had succumbed to black spot disease and the vines were in desperate need of a good pruning. The hydrangea that Chase’s mother had bought them as a housewarming gift the week they moved in was overgrown, the woody stalks split nearly to the ground. The annuals could be easily replaced, of course, with a trip to the big garden center off Highway 35—red geraniums and variegated trailing ivy for the window boxes, blue sage and wispy sea grass for the pots out front, and rosemary for the back deck. The perennials were more of a challenge. Three summers of neglect had taken their toll; she could see the insect damage from where she stood. All the plants would need to be dug up and discarded, the beds turned, replanted, and mulched. It was too big a job for her alone.

“Gerta won’t be able to help,” Mrs. Ivey said. “They went out of business.”

“You can’t be serious. When did that happen?”

“Last summer, I think. Maybe the winter before? With all the development on the vacant lots, there was too much demand for them to handle on their own. They didn’t hire anyone because they liked the personal touch.” Mrs. Ivey sighed. “It wasn’t long before the developers lost patience, and in came the rented