Within a half hour, all the neighbors had scattered, and Kenny took the last gulp of her coffee. She had every intention of going for a run, but since waking up to older women doing their water aerobics, she couldn’t stop thinking about jumping in the pool. She hadn’t done a lap in years, but she had always been an excellent swimmer. She loved the water, and the sport came easy to her. There weren’t too many indoor pools in Manhattan, so her favorite form of exercise fell by the wayside. The one red, racerback Speedo she owned also deteriorated with time, and sagged and stretched out in all the wrong places. But she didn’t know anyone at Pelican Pointe, nor did she plan on getting to know anyone, so she slipped into the dry-rotted suit, wrapped herself in a beach towel from the linen closet, and walked down the back steps of the patio to the pool deck.
Kenny bent her left knee and gingerly dragged her right big toe over the surface of the water. The temperature was warm but not hot like she was expecting. She tossed her towel on the chaise lounge closest to the steps of the concrete pool and dipped in one foot, and then the other, holding onto the railing with her right hand and swinging her goggles by the strap in her left. She slowly descended into the pool and acclimated her body—ankles, knees, waist, and bellybutton—with each step. The water sent a quick jolt through her body when it touched certain parts of her overheated skin. She finally hit the bottom of the shallow end of the lap pool and before squatting to submerge her shoulders, she tied her hair up in a ponytail and pulled the goggles over her eyes. She dipped her face to make sure the lenses weren’t leaking and then held her breath and slipped under the water. With that one swift movement, she felt like she was nine years old and had just jumped into her uncle’s pool for the first time of the season. It was a feeling of pure happiness. She backed up to the to the wall, took a mini head dive with her arms extended in front of her, and pushed off with her feet.
With each circular arm motion, she powered forward through the water, taking a breath after every third stroke. Kenny could hear her childhood swim coach in her partially submerged ears.One. Two. Three. Breathe. One, Two. Three. Breathe.It wasn’t until this moment that she realized everyone in her life had been telling her to breathe. As she glided through the water, her gaze slightly forward, slightly down, and breathing side to side, she became fully present. She noticed the tiny blue square tiles at the bottom of the pool that designated lap lanes and the bigger tiles on the side of the pool that denoted the changes in depth. She noticed cracks in the concrete walls and weighted diving rings scattered below that were probably dropped in by the kids who were feeding the fish earlier. She noticed acorns that had fallen to the bottom of the pool from the oak trees that hung over it and the dragonflies that were buzzing around the surface.
Her inside heated up and her breathing became heavy. She was putting in a solid workout. There was no method for her swimming, she concocted her own individual medley, jumping from stroke to stroke at random. Not the specific order of butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle that such a race was swam. Out of the corner of her eyes, Kenny saw movement around the pool deck and decided to call it quits for the day. She didn’t want to be known as the new tenant in Villa #5 who hogged the pool. And she certainly didn’t want anyone watching her swim.
She removed the goggles from her head and pulled the scrunchie from her tangled hair. She bobbed up and down in the shallow end three quick times and on the fourth lingered under water for a little while longer, throwing her head back before coming up for air so her shoulder length hair stayed slick off her face and rested down her back.
She stepped out of the pool and patted her arms and legs dry. She draped the royal blue and white striped terry cloth towel over her shoulders and twisted and rang her hair out like a soaked sponge. She took the long way around the pool back toward her patio steps to check out the amenities under the pavilion.
The right side of the square structure housed two gas grills separated by a built-in prep station that was stocked with stainless steel BBQ utensils, cleaners, and aluminum foil. The back wall was lined with piles of wood that were protected by yellow caution tape and a sign that read “Construction Area: Wet Bar Coming in Fall.” The left side had a built-in counter height ledge with a row of stools facing the pickleball court and a variety of high- and low-top tables, occupying the space in the middle. In the front right corner, there was a marker-stained magnetic white board on a wobbly wooden easel that looked like it had been plucked straight from a kindergarten classroom on the last day of a long school year.Community Newswas sprawled across the top in purple cursive handwriting and one lonely sheet of white computer paper with black Times New Roman font stuck to it.
What: Beach Yoga
Where: Sea Pines Beach Club (Beach Marker #38)
When: Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday @ 9:00 a.m.
Bring a towel, water, and $5!
While the advertisement left much to be desired, beach yoga sounded delightful. Kenny hadn’t practiced with Yogi Marah since last Wednesday’s meltdown and, mentally and physically, she felt the absence. Her body was still crammed and compact from sitting in the car for so many hours over the weekend, and she was slightly concerned how her unused muscles were going to react to the rigorous swim workout she put them through.
It was already 8:15 a.m. and Kenny’s phone told her that the Sea Pines Beach Club was a twenty-minute walk from Pelican Pointe, but she could cut that time almost in half, being the city slicker she was. She could qualify for competitive speedwalking at the Olympic level after so many years of commuting through the streets of Manhattan in stilettos. If she wore sneakers, she’d likely place in the event. She sprinted up the back steps to the villa and started taking down the straps of her bathing suit as she shut the door behind her and charged toward the bedroom.
She slipped into a pair of black leggings; they weren’t her fat pair, but the skinny ones were still too tight, and pulled a black sports bra and maroon Rams tank over her head. She tied her wet hair up into a knot with the silk blue scrunchy and quickly dabbed SPF 50 on her face. Although it was already September, Kenny hadn’t seen much sun and knew the rays reflecting off the ocean water would be powerful. She filled her water bottle, grabbed a dry towel, and shuffled out the door.
Sixteen
“Welcome! Welcome! My name is Bonnie. Please make yourself at home. I wasn’t expecting such a large turnout today, so I’ll try to keep my voice up,” a soft-spoken middle-aged woman with a sweet southern drawl vowed as she struggled to corral a boisterous group of ladies. “Let’s try to form a semicircle. I will set up my mat in the middle so everyone can hear me, and y’all will still have a view of this beautiful ocean behind me.”
She continued. “I’m tickled pink to see so many new faces on this sunny Sea Pines morning and am always elated when I get to start the day with my Wine After Nine gals. While we get settled would everyone like to go around and introduce themselves? Tell us what brings you to Hilton Head, and where y’all are visiting from,” Bonnie instructed as the gaggle of women floundered around her flapping their towels to the sand.
“I’ll start, Miss Bonnie,” volunteered a tall, slender woman wearing a tan sleeveless, collared Dri-FIT tank and black skort. “I’m Savannah, and me and my gals are lucky enough to call Sea Pines home. We start our Tuesdays with Miss Bonnie, have a standing 11:00 a.m. tee time at Liberty Oaks and then hydrate with a liquid lunch at the clubhouse,” she bragged on behalf of herself and the rest of her foursome.
“Howdy, I’m Addison!” chirped a perky redhead who wore a cropped white tank with a washed-out American flag on it. “My girlfriends and I are celebrating our forty-fifth birthdays! We missed a fortieth celebration and couldn’t wait until we turned fifty for a girls’ getaway! We come by way of Austin, Dallas, and Houston.”
“Hi, I’m Emma,” announced a petite blonde who was decked out in hot pink Lululemon gear from head to toe. “We’re from Greenwich, Connecticut and Olivia convinced our Moms Who Tennis Club to come down for a weeklong camp at Smith Stearns,” she said pointing to a petite brunette wearing the same spandex ensemble in lime green.
“Good morning, ladies! My name is Suzanne, and I’m here with fellow bookworms from our Roanoke Readers Club. We’re open to suggestions for our November Book. We’ve been on a murder mystery run lately,” the gray-haired women advocated from under her Lily Pulitzer visor.
Ironic. If only I had written a crime book that I could suggest Suzanne and her friends read, Kenny thought.
“I’m Bailey, and I’m getting married next month!” squealed a blonde wearing a white sports bra and white boy shorts flanked by five girls in black sports bras and black boy shorts. “We’re from Columbus and, no, we didn’t drive down in a red minivan!” she giggled, referring to an ongoing island joke popularized by legendary Hilton Head children’s entertainer, Greg Russell. “But our Uber driver did pick us up in one from the Bermuda Triangle last night!” she continued from behind her full face of makeup that was likely still intact from the night before.
“Oh, honey, I thought your pretty faces looked familiar,” Addison from Austin interjected. “You were the group hanging out with that preppy bachelor party. They were too young and Vineyard Vines for our tastes, but I hope one of you girls got lucky.”
Kennyhatedthese round-robin introductions. She had no time for hobbies, going to bachelorette parties, celebrating birthdays, or letting anyone into her life. What could she possibly share with a bunch of strangers?
“Last one, dear,” Bonnie smiled at Kenny. “What brings you to Sea Pines?”
“Hi ladies, my name is Kennedy. I’m from Manhattan and”—she stumbled—“and I’m here because I needed a break from life. I haven’t unplugged in a long time, and I’m spending a few weeks on Sea Pines, hoping to recharge and get inspired.”
“Good for you, Kennedy. You won’t have to look too far to find inspiration around here,” Bonnie replied. “Many thanks to each of you for sharing and joining our community today. I’m going to ask everyone to take an affirmation card and a chakra stone that we’ll keep on our towels during class. The energy these crystals and mantras project will fuel our practice and carry us through the rest of our day. Keep your card face down until the end of class. After Savasana we’ll read our affirmations aloud, and I’ll tell you the significance of your stone.”
Bonnie splayed the deck of light blue affirmation cards in a rainbow shape on her towel. In the middle of the arc was a plush white velvet bag. She invited the group to approach one by one and directed, “Slowly, wave your right hand back and forth over the cards and when you feel a slight pull or force from your index finger, pick up the card your hand is hovering over. Then, without looking in the bag, place your hand inside and pick out the stone that feels like it should be in your palm.”
Kenny didn’t have time in her overbooked life to balance her chakras or heal her body through Reiki, she thought it was all yoga voodoo. But she had time today, so she played along and grabbed a card and a stone. She didn’t feel any outside force pulling her pointer finger toward a particular card, but she did like the color of the stone she pulled from the velvet bag. It matched the palette of the tranquil bathroom at Pelican Pointe.
