One
Kenny started her day just before sunrise like most other mornings, mentally pumping herself up for the hours to come atop the saddle of her Peloton, powering through a forty-five-minute hill climb that was sprinkled with motivational pep talks. Rushes of adrenaline from the Snoop Dogg playlist and the high five emojis that lit up the scoreboard on the upper right corner ofKennyNYC’s screen had a way of physically waking up her still sleepy body.
For inspirational and aesthetic purposes, the stationary bike occupied one of the front-facing bay windows of Kenny’s spacious three-bedroom apartment on the fifteenth floor of the high-rise, doorman building on Riverside Boulevard.
There was no energy like waking up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. On the days Kenny couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to sign into a vigorous instructor-led class, she’d at least sit on the bike and peddle at a leisurely pace while preparing for the day. Those mornings she’d allow herself to get lost in the sight of activity along the Hudson River.
Flashing lights cruising up and down the West Side Highway would make her wonder. Was there an accident, a fire? Or was the president or Taylor Swift in town? The congestion on the George Washington Bridge. Were these commuters who transplanted out of the city to make their Jersey housewives happy? Or was a Yankees game bringing traffic to a screeching halt?
The barges that moved at glacial paces through the current. What were they carrying? The occasional paddle boarder or kayaker. Were they wearing wet suits? Who would risk falling into that murky water? The Circle Line cruise ships that glided by several times a day. Were they filled with awestruck tourists or native New Yorkers falling in love with their city all over again?
The endless air traffic shuttling airbuses of passengers to and from JFK and LaGuardia. Who were on those planes and where were they going? Would one of those aircraft hit a flock of birds and descend on the congested river? Captain Sully and his crew made that miraculous landing in this exact location.
Kenny was endlessly curious. As a journalist, she was trained to be keenly aware of what was going on around her. Born a news producer, she was inherently interested in people’s stories.
Today Kenny didn’t have time to let her mind wander. She pulled her feet out of her cycle shoes, hopped off the bike and flung her sweaty tank top over her head and into the hamper. She glanced in the full-length mirror, assessing if she could ever be one of those girls who was confident enough to workout in just a sports bra.
She slid into her slippers and shuffled through the kitchen to plug in the percolator. Kenny always filled the pot with water and coffee grinds the night before. Accustomed to working and living on deadlines, she valued every minute of her day, especially the mornings; and the three minutes it took to prepare the coffee pot were best allotted to the nighttime routine.
She grabbed the remote and turned on the living room television which she could see through the open window of her galley kitchen. She turned to Channel 7 and tuned in just in time to catch Joe Gold’s last local forecast before the network morning shows started.
“Well, folks, it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful summer day in New York! The tropical storm that was making its way up the coast all week has changed course and is spinning back out into the Atlantic. We have a perfect ten on our hands. A balmy seventy-eight degrees with ample sunshine. Get out and enjoy this Wednesday!” exclaimed the jovial weather man.
Kenny smiled, pulled out the seasonal coconut crème Coffee mate from the refrigerator, and whispered, “Thanks, Joe.”
James had been on the West Coast for business trips for the past two weeks, and Kenny and the twins couldn’t wait for him to get home. His flight was due to land at LaGuardia Airport later that evening and the couple planned to surprise Jimmy and Rosie with a weekend trip to Long Beach Island to close out the summer before school started. Every New Yorker knew that even a black cloud hovering over the borough of Queens would wreak havoc on air traffic, and Kenny hoped any weather-related flight delays wouldn’t dampen the get-away. The clear, dry forecast was a welcome prediction.
While most Manhattanites would jet out to the Hamptons for a quick escape, she had always preferred to head to the Jersey Shore to find peace and relaxation away from the hustle and bustle of the city. An easy trip down the Garden State Parkway took city-dwellers to some of the oldest and most storied beaches in the country in less than two hours.
August was the favored summer month among beachgoers on LBI, how locals and longtime vacationers referred to their beloved eighteen-mile island off the coast of New Jersey. It was considered late in the season, and most tourists had evacuated for the fall months and back-to-school routines. August was when the bay and the ocean waters reached their warmest temperatures of the year. Sidewalks and running paths were sparse of pedestrian traffic, making for lackadaisical bike rides and unhurried walks. The notoriously long lines for ice cream at The Skipper Dipper and Ship Bottom Ice Cream Co. were minimal. Seafood markets were amply stocked with the freshest selections of the daily catch, but you didn’t have to pick up the scallops or crab legs you planned to boil for dinner, before lunchtime. Farias and other surf shops hosted their year-end tent sales offering discounted rash guards, sunscreen, and OluKai sandals. It was the last hurrah for the once-again sleepy beach town before it went into hibernation.
The clock turned 7:15 a.m., and Kenny braced herself. It was the last day of summer camp for Jimmy and Rosie, and she was chaperoning their field trip to the Central Park Zoo followed by a picnic lunch in Sheep Meadow. At any minute, the twins would burst through their bedroom doors with more enthusiasm than the sea lions in the Polar Circle at feeding time.
She was excited to spend the afternoon with her two six-year-olds and their playmates, but an important work dinner at Tavern on the Green that evening lingered over her head. She was meeting with Luke and Lonnie Locke, two hot-shot attorneys from Connecticut. They were brothers from a lengthy line of legal minds and the duo was a force to be reckoned with both inside and outside the courtroom. They represented a defendant in a high-profile, salacious, and scandalous murder story that gripped the nation’s attention.
Clinton White, branded by the media as Dr. Love, was a Harvard-educated, uber wealthy, world-renowned cardiologist with movie-star looks. He stood accused of murdering his runway model turned immigration power-attorney wife. The pending trial had taken the true crime world by storm and the courtroom drama would be covered gavel to gavel by television stations across the country, if not the world. It was poised to reach the same level of infamy as OJ Simpson, Casey Anthony, and Alex Murdaugh.
In news speak, Kenny “owned” the story. She had built a strong working relationship with the Locke brothers, who trusted her with extremely sensitive and confidential details and documents about the case. The knowledge they shared enabled her and her network, WBS, to be the first to break and report news on all things Dr. Love. The story was a rating’s dream. The access and exclusives she’d secured had viewers tuning into WBS in droves. It was only a matter of time before the Locke brothers allowed their client to speak directly to the media; and when Clinton White finally granted an interview, it would be to Kenny and WBS.
Luke, Lonnie, and Kenny met over breakfast meetings, lunch meetings, and held meetings in the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts down the street from the Hartford courthouse in the wee hours of the night if news warranted. They took boxing classes together at a studio in Midtown and she went to Marc Jacobs and Canada Goose sample sales with their wives. They even had a meetingwithClinton White inhis home, inthe kitchen where the murder allegedly happened. What eventually was deemed by the authorities to be the murder weapon hung on the wall over the kitchen island.
She and the attorney brothers had gotten to know one another well but her nerves still set in before big meetings with them. Landing the interview with Clinton White would catapult her to senior producer status and make her a household name across the news industry. Between the field trip, Jimmy’s soccer practice in Riverside Park and Rosie’s piano lesson at Lincoln Center, there would be no time to stop at home or at the office to change or freshen up before the meeting. If there was a minute to spare, the frazzled news producer would make a stop at Sephora to boost her hair with dry shampoo and spritz a sample perfume to mask the inevitable stench that would linger from the Penguin House inside the Central Park Zoo.
There was a lot at stake today that required her to remain laser focused, but she couldn’t help looking ahead to tomorrow when her happy, little family would be reunited. No extracurricular activities, no work commitments, no cross-country plane rides. Just James, Kenny, Jimmy, Rosie, and the Jersey Shore.
Two
Ring.
Startled, Kenny sprung up from her bed, fumbling to find her phone on the nightstand. In a half-asleep state, she knocked over a glass of water and pulled the charger from the wall, but managed to turn off the ear-piercing alarm. She flopped her head back on the pillow, held her phone overhead, thumbed the clock icon, and turned off the subsequent three alarms she had set. She couldn’t remember a time she overslept and rarely hit the snooze button, but she set four morning alarms for every five minutes out of an abundance of caution.
“I cannot believe this! Again? Really?Come on!” She lamented as she lay flat on her back, staring at the high white ceiling.
She had the same dream—or cruel nightmare, as she perceived it—repeatedly. As soon as she fell asleep, a vivid, picture-perfect glimpse of what her life was supposed to look like emerged. It was a beautiful life. A life others envied. She loved that life. Living that version of her life for five hours every night was the best part of her day.
Then she would wake up. And it wasn’t her life. She knew people who had that picture-perfect life, and she didn’t like to think of herself as a jealous person, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit she harbored a few resentments.
This was the type of self-reflection Kenny vowed to work on with the help of Marilyn, the therapist she had been seeing since breaking off her engagement to George three years ago. Recently, Marilyn directed Kenny to engage in a new “rise and shine” ritual. She was to complete three simple tasks before stepping a foot out of the bed. With her eyes closed, she would describe an emotion she felt, choose a color she identified with, and read aloud a passage fromMeditations from the Mat, a daily reflection book the therapist had given Kenny when she learned of the journalist’s yoga practice.
