She never answered the door for unexpected visitors in New York but noticed herself letting her guard down over the last few days, for better or worse. She hoped that if this man did come knocking with the worst of intentions, someone from the pickleball court or pool deck would be able to identify him in a lineup.
“Hello, miss. I’m Jose. I’m with Low Country Hospitality’s grounds crew and wanted to let you know that I’ll be servicing the pool here at Pelican Pointe. I’ll stop by a few times a week for maintenance but if you notice anything needs tending to between visits, let me know,” he said slipping her a business card.
She knew her eyes were red and agitated the day she bumped into J.P. and Cliff at beach yoga but didn’t think they made an impression that warranted a house call from the property manager’s pool boy.
“Nice to meet you, Jose. Thank you for keeping the pool in pristine condition,” she smiled, although she found the gesture a bit odd and couldn’t help but wonder if the chipper cabana boy knocked on the patio doors of all the guests to hand-deliver his business card.
“It’s my pleasure, miss.” Jose beamed.
Jose’s smile was infectious, and Kenny could tell he genuinely loved his job.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said as he balanced the duffel bag on a bent knee. “This is for you, enjoy,” Jose said as he pulled a small brown lunch bag from the front pocket of the duffel and handed it to Kenny before spinning on his heels and hopping down the steps.
Kenny peered into the brown bag and pulled out a plastic flip-top sandwich bag that was secured with a blue twist tie. Inside were four perfectly shaped sand-colored cookies topped with drizzled frosting and graham cracker crumbs. The presentation reminded her of a snack she would have bought at a grade school bake sale during Catholic School’s Week twenty years ago.
There was also a handwritten note, another thing Kenny hadn’t seen much of since her grade school days. The writer in her admired the perfect penmanship that was complimented by dark black ink from an expensive ballpoint pen.
Kenny,
These are Miss Luana’s famous Key Lime Pie cookies, an island delicacy. I got her last bag at the market today and thought I should share them with the new girl in town.
J.P.
She almost burst. This island hottie sending her cookies by way of an unsuspecting pool boy was almost too much for her jaded heart to handle. She hadn’t felt this level of giddiness because of a boy since third grade when Greg Loftus taped a heart-shaped Reese’s cup to the back of a cardboardSpace Jamvalentine when he gave the rest of the class bags of Skittles.
She fumbled with the twisty tie and took a small bite out of the zesty, airy cake-like cookie. It tasted like heaven and the gesture made her feel like she was walking on a cloud. She closed her eyes and finished the cookie, savoring each delicate bite.
Text to Hailey: These key lime cookies might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted (Emoji: smiley face with heart eyes) Thx for the recco!
The cookie was delicious, but the emoji was more reflective of how Kenny was feeling about the cookie sender.
Text from Hailey: Yippee!!! (Emoji smiley face: licking lips)
Twenty
Cliff darted up the wide brick staircase and ran back and forth until he found the rolled-up copy ofTheWall Street Journalthat was underneath a teak Adirondack chair on the wrap around porch at the Liberty Oaks Clubhouse. He scooped it up between his teeth and stood at attention at the front door while he waited for J.P. to park his bike and drop off the golf bag at the cart garage.
“Good boy,” J.P. exclaimed like he was cheering on a toddler who went to the bathroom on a training potty for the first time.
J.P. pushed down on the brass lever handle and before the door was cracked the slightest, Cliff barreled through and ran down the long hallway, slid on the hardwood floor as he rounded the corner at the end of the corridor, and dropped the paper at Mr. Cunningham’s feet.
“You really outdid yourself with training this mutt, kid,” the jolly old man yelled to J.P. who popped his head in the doorway in time to catch Mr. Cunningham slip Cliff treats that he swore he never gave until after lunchtime.
“Busted! I knew you were sneaking him morning treats,” J.P. accused.
“Cool your horses, he’s a growing boy. Who could afford to put on a few pounds, I might add,” Mr. Cunningham said as he took the newspaper out of the plastic sleeve.
“He doesn’t eat lunch on the days he has morning treats. I know this from experience. When my grandfather would sneak me midmorning Tastykakes, I wouldn’t eat lunch either. He and I denied our secret to his grave. At his funeral, my mom pulled me aside and said she knew we lied to her all those years. She suspected the days I wasn’t hungry for lunch were the days he filled me with junk food. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Mr. C.” J.P. laughed.
“Let me ask you this, Jonathan,” Mr. Cunningham asked, trying to sound serious. “If your mother called out your grandfather, the way you just called me out, would he have stopped giving you Tastykakes?”
“Absolutely not, that was our thing,” J.P. conceded knowing where the conversation was headed.
Mr. Cunninghamalwayshad the last word. But the baffling, albeit frustrating, thing was that he usually deserved it.
“That’s what I thought. I didn’t have the privilege of knowing your grandfather, but my instincts tell me he was a wise man.” Mr. Cunningham winked and dropped another Milk-Bone biscuit to the ground. “I bet you were a tall, lanky kid. You probably needed the extra weight, too.”
Cliff was curled up on the overstuffed deep blue velvet couch next to Mr. Cunningham who motioned for J.P. to sit in one of the wingback chairs on the other side of the coffee table.
