Ed had a major crush on Kenny since the time he first saw a photo of her on Colby’s desk and was elated when Kenny eventually agreed to go on a blind date with him a few months after she broke off her engagement to George. Ed knew Kenny enjoyed cycling so he rented two Citi Bikes, and the pair rode along the Hudson River to the Little Red Lighthouse under the George Washington Bridge. On the way back down, they dropped the bikes at the station on West Eighty-Second Street and Riverside Drive and walked down three more blocks to the Boat Basin for a burger and a beer.
Kenny had zero interest in dating, but she did enjoy the afternoon. A large part of her producing career was building relationships with perfect strangers in the hopes that someday, after many meetings, they would sit down and tell their deepest, darkest secrets on national television. She treated this date and countless others like a casual, no strings attached “booking meeting.” It was just another afternoon learning all about someone else’s life while carefully constructing and concealing the internal wall that protected her own thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
She didn’t need or want anything to come out of the afternoon with Ed, other than to get Colby off her back, so she put on a smile and a pair of Hoka’s and literally went along for the ride with the book nerd. Ed, on the other hand, said it was the best date he ever had and pined for her since.
The chemistry was undeniable,he told Colby.
“Oh shit, she’s going to be crushed,” Ed replied, flashing a crooked smile that screamed with sympathy. “You better pick up that phone right now.”
“I’m a dead man, Ed. Kenny left the bar when I went to the bathroom last Wednesday and ignored my calls the rest of the night. I thought the day had gotten to her. Then she sent the message that she was deployed on one of those last-minute assignments, and she’d be unreachable. But now it sounds like M.E. emailed her last week! So, she’s known. And I haven’t heard from her. I’m sure it’s all been festering inside her like a time bomb. I really screwed this one up.”
“IsArmchair Detectivecompletely off the table? Or is M.E. just playing one of those mind games where she rips apart the draft, comes back a week later with a minor edit and then ships it off for publication? Kenny told me the concept of the book and it seemed catchy. Given her background, I’m sure she’s a brilliant writer,” Ed questioned.
“Armchair Detectiveis dead in the water. M.E. conveyed that in no uncertain terms. But after spending a week’s worth of happy hours at the five-star resorts of Bora Bora, she’s decided she wants Kenny to be the next breakout beach-read author.” Colby laughed with sarcasm. “Maybe it was one too many Mai Tais or M.E. losing her knack for reading an audience, but my best friend is hopeless at love, not a hopeless romantic. Fictitious worlds of happily ever after are not in her wheelhouse. You know! You were planning a proposal after a three-mile bike ride with the girl, and she couldn’t even commit to a second date.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Ed rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, but you know what I mean. It would never work. Even if I thought that Kenny could put on her best ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ hat and come up with the next book club best-seller, she’d first have to hear me out. Right now, we’re about five years away from that.”
Colby picked up the polyester innards of the M.E. Dammit Doll that were scattered across the floor and tossed them and the gutted cloth doll body into the trash can under his desk. He shooed away Ed and the two other onlookers that continued to loiter as if to let them know his one-man performance was over.
“I’m going to Starbucks to wallow over a lemon loaf and a Red Eye. I’ll be back later,” Colby said as he dragged himself down the hall toward the elevator.
Eighteen
Kenny stretched her arms high over her head and her legs long in front of her. The Egyptian cotton sateen sheets felt smooth and cool on her body. It was her fourth day waking up at Pelican Pointe and, if possible, she was more refreshed and rejuvenated than the days before. It also marked a full week since she turned on a TV, read a newspaper, checked her email, and turned on the “out of office reply” message on Outlook.
She was proud of her efforts sticking to The Hiatus of Life Conditions List since she wrote them down and hung them on the refrigerator. The Pelican Pointe groundskeeper showed her how to work the grill, so she stocked the freezer with poultry and meats to prepare salads with protein for lunches and dinner. She developed a workout plan that incorporated running, swimming, biking, and yoga and committed to completing a version of a duathlon every day. Kenny hadn’t had a cocktail since she finished the bottle of Clos du Bois and even tried one new thing by choosing to do a gel pedicure in a bright fuchsia color rather than a traditional pedicure with Essie’s Fiji #348 that colored her toes every day for the last five years.
Kenny evaluated her current headspace and was quite comfortable in the distraction-free zone. She decided that checking in on her email or the state of the world could wait another day and poured a coffee, dragged a white bar stool onto the back deck, and enjoyed her new morning ritual of watching the early risers of Pelican Pointe start their days.
Text from Hailey:(Emoji: apple) & (Emoji: carrot) market 2day! Near SP water tower!
I’ll take Farmer’s Market for $200, Hailey?Kenny laughed to herself as she read the cryptic message.
Kenny assumed SP stood for Sea Pines, but she had no idea the plantation had a water tower. She thought that water towers were strictly a Jersey Shore thing, until Google confirmed that Kenny’s travel agent turned friend was correct. A blue water tower stood at the southern tip of Sea Pines, somewhere near Beach Marker #13.
Text to Hailey: Perfect! I need fruits/veggies. Is it by Tower Beach?
Text from Hailey: Yes, ma’am! Must try key-lime pie (Emoji: cookie)
Kenny’s legs were on fire from the previous day’s four-mile run up Plantation Drive to Lawton Stables and back, so she had already planned to bike as part of Thursday’s duathlon; she didn’t have a destination in mind. She had a special spot in her heart for farmers markets. They reminded her of vacationing in Stone Harbor and Cape May as a kid. Garden State farmers peddled their famous Jersey tomatoes and other produce under the beach towns’ iconic water towers on Sunday afternoons, capitalizing on the foot traffic of local churchgoers, weekend visitors who were leaving town, and out-of-state vacationers checking in for long weeks and frantically stocking rental houses with an overabundance of food for large groups of families and friends.
Kenny threw on a mesh tank top, yoga pants, and baseball hat and dabbled on bubblegum pink lip moisturizer. She wore all black, which is slimming to any physique, but felt more confident in her appearance than she had in months. She pulled out the brown burlap “Shop Local” bag from under the kitchen sink that she made a habit of carrying everywhere after New York banned plastic bags and started charging for paper ones, double checked that the percolator was unplugged and slid out the back door to take her first bike ride of the trip.
She wheeled the bright orange, three-speed beach cruiser out of the pavilion, down the sidewalk next to the pickleball courts, and to the parking lot so she could get adjusted. She placed her reusable grocery bag, cross body bag, and Swell bottle in the oversized basket that hung from the handlebars and jumped on the extra wide, cushioned triangular seat. The saddle was much more comfortable than seats on the bikes at Fly Wheel or Soul Cycle. She’d never achieve the same kind of cardio output on a bike that had foot brakes and a tiny bell to alert other bikers and pedestrians she was coming up on the rear but she was grateful to have the bike at her disposal.
Kenny pulled out of Pelican Pointe and onto Plantation Drive, before making a left onto a long and windy Baynard Cove Road. It was a hot, humid morning, and she welcomed getting sprayed by sprinkler systems that were watering the golf greens and landscaping beds that lined the paved bike paths. The largely shaded lanes were protected by green shrubs and trees of all shapes and sizes, some whose roots grew so big and strong that the pressure they exerted caused cracks in the pavement. The mini speedbumps could be viewed as a thrill or safety hazard depending on the biker riding over them.
She made a right onto South Sea Pines Drive and was awestruck by the sheer size of some of the newer construction homes. All the houses on the plantation were large, but the height and depth of the mansions she passed dwarfed some of the older homes at the northern end of Sea Pines. Many of the single-family homes were bigger than her prewar Manhattan brownstone that housed twenty apartments. The two worlds seemed farther apart than a twelve-hour drive or two-hour flight.
She reached the corner of South Sea Pines Drive and Wren Drive where she saw a giant temporary sandwich board. The hand-painted piece of cardboard was eye-catching for no other reason than it was glaringly out of place and she was surprised the Sea Pines aesthetic police hadn’t removed it.
Sea Pines Farmer’s Market Every Thursday
8:00 a.m.–12:00 p.m.
BYOT (Bring Your Own Table)
