“Guilty, that was me. I haven’t done laps in years, but the water looked incredibly inviting this morning. Are you staying at Pelican Pointe?”
It was a loaded question, but Kenny pulled the trigger. She wasn’t sure what she wanted the answer to be. Part of her wanted to see J.P. every day for the rest of her life. The other half wanted to never, ever see him again following three unflattering, chance encounters.
“No, no I’m not staying there. I live down at South Beach. By the Salty Dog? I’m not sure if you’re familiar with Sea Pines? But my boss owns Pelican Pointe and sometimes I help him out with odds and ends around the complex.”
“Oh, you must work for Mr. Cunningham,” Kenny interjected likesheknew Mr. Cunningham.
“I do. How do you know Mr. C?” J.P. looked surprised.
“I don’tknowMr. Cunningham. Derek, the guard at the Greenwood Gate, was telling me what a wonderful gentleman he is,” Kenny backtracked.
“How do you know Derek?” J.P. shot back, equally surprised that she knew the plantation security guard.
“Well, I don’t really know him either. Just from driving onto the plantation yesterday. People seem to talk to me and tell me things, I guess,” she admitted, hoping the conversation would end soon. The butterflies were fluttering, and she was terrified about what other ridiculous comments might fly out of her mouth or what rumbles would erupt from her hungry stomach.
“I could see why people would want to talk to you, Kenny. And I am happy that I ran into you. Or rather, that Cliff ran over you.” J.P. smirked. “I was at Pelican Pointe this morning dropping off new beach chairs and bikes for the villa guests. You won’t miss them. They’re bright orange and will be stored under the pavilion. First come, first served, but feel free to use them when they’re available.”
“Great, thanks. I’ll check them out. I better be on my way. Still have some unpacking to do. Nice to meet you, J.P. And you, too, Cliff.” She crouched down and rubbed the shaggy mutt behind the ears.
“See you around, Kenny. Let’s go, Cliff.” J.P. waved and started to walk down the beach.
She pulled her feet out from the hole in the sand she buried them into, relieved that the daddy-dog duo wasn’t headed in her direction. She thought she survived a speaking encounter with Bike Boy, relatively unscathed, when he turned back and yelled, “I’m going to send someone over to check out the chlorine levels. Your eyes areveryred and agitated and I hope it’s not from the pool. I wouldn’t want anything to keep you from your morning laps.”
Sliding her unkempt feet into her flip-flops, Kenny nodded, threw J.P. a double thumbs up and a wink with one very itchy, bloodshot eye. She wondered how many bad impressions she would have to make before possibly giving off a good one.
She topped off her Swell bottle from the dispenser filled with ice water and oranges that was on the bar at the Beach Club and pulled out her phone to plug Pelican Pointe back into GPS.
Text to Hailey: Hi Hailey, I just finished beach yoga at the Sea Pines Beach Club. Is there a place within walking distance I can get a mani/pedi?
Kenny wasn’t sure the message had enough time to be transported all the way to West Virginia and the little bubbles were already populating at the bottom of the phone.
Text from Hailey: Sea Pines Center! (Emoji: hand with pink fingers). Dnt kno name, but take (Emoji: person walking) ins
Kenny flagged the message with a heart and interpreted it to mean there was a salon in Sea Pines Center that didn’t require appointments. She was grateful to be learning Hailey-bonics, but even more grateful that she passed Sea Pines Center on her walk back to Pelican Pointe. The situation on her toes surpassed vanity. Her feet looked like they would pose alarm to any podiatrist.
Seventeen
From: Muffin Evans
To: Colby Jackson
Subject: Armchair Detective
Have you heard from the Armchair Detective woman since I emailed her last week to inform her that Border isn’t going to publish her depressing piece of nonfiction? I’d like you to get in touch with her. I think she was named after a president. Carter or Kennedy? I’ve been spending time at the St. Regis and Four Seasons pool decks and all these vacationers are carrying around archaic romantic comedies and outdated book club bestsellers. The women’s fiction space needs a new, fresh, beach-read author. That girl is a strong writer. Get her to come up with something. I’m boarding the Bora Bora Lagoon cruise, please don’t clog my inbox with trivial questions or thoughts.
—M.E.
Colby slunk down in his chair, calmly wheeled himself closer to the workstation, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the twelve-inch cotton Dammit Doll customized to look like Muffin Evans that his office Secret Santa gifted him when he was M.E.’s assistant. He started whispering the poem that was embroidered on the doll’s midsection.
“Whenever things don’t go so well and you want to hit the wall and yell, here’s a little Dammit Doll that you can’t do without. Just grasp it firmly by the legs and find a place to slam it. And as you whack the stuffing out, yell ‘Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”
By the time Colby reached the last line of the rhyme he was in an all-out tirade, shouting other choice words throughout the G-rated poem and pounding the doll so hard against the corner of his cube that the seams on the mini–Muffin Evan’s doll burst, and her insides were flying everywhere. A small group gathered to witness the meltdown that was grandiose, even for Colby.
“Ithoughtthe Manuscript Eater was fasting until Friday. Ithoughtshe didn’t have service in her fancy South Pacific bungalow and wasn’t going to be able to destroy anyone until she was stateside. It’s amazing to me that someone can be halfway around the world and still chew people up and spit them out before lunch. Before breakfast! Bora Bora is five hours behind New York. She probably didn’t even have her kale and berry smoothie, yet!” Colby maniacally shouted as he paced back and forth in his cube.
“Colby, take a breath man,” said Ed, Colby’s cube mate and one of Border Books’ longtime contract managers. “How many times do we have to go through this, we’re not saving lives. I know we like to project that image, but I promise you, this author M.E. just shot in the foot will be welcomed with open arms when they wobble into one of those boutique self-publishing houses down in The Village.”
“No, this time you’re wrong, Ed. This time it is life or death,” Colby rebutted. “We’re not talking about ‘some author.’ We’re talking about Kenny. She didn’t know that I had been assigned to lead the review team. I was going to tell her over drinks last Wednesday that Border made the decision to pass onArmchair Detective,but she was already down after losing the big Clinton White interview to NBC, so I didn’t have the heart to tell her. ThatandM.E. said she was holding rejection letters until this Friday. I thought I had time.”
