Kenny knew she was equipped to handle the consuming and dizzying heart-skips-a-beat, head-in-the-clouds, can’t-stop-smiling phenomenon that overcame her when she saw or thought about J.P. The solution was simple. Ignore it. Ignore him. Ignore the feelings. She was fluent in ignoring the impractical. The brief hiatus of life would quickly culminate and any further meetings with Bike Boy and his dog would end just as abruptly as they started.
The same wasn’t true for Muffin Evans. The Manuscript Eater would always be a reality in Kenny’s life if she maintained any aspiration of becoming a published author. Kenny knew nothing about writing women’s fiction, nor did she care to learn, but thought it might behoove her to entertain the suggestion. Colby casually reminded Kenny during their make-up phone call that Mary Kay Andrews was a serious journalist at theAtlanta Journal Constitutionbefore writing thirty feel-good bestsellers. Ina Garten worked in nuclear energy policy and budgeting for the Carter and Ford administrations prior to authoring over a dozen cookbooks. Kenny appreciated these women’s career pivots; although she was certain they did so on their own accord and not because some egotistical book dictator predetermined their fate and contributions to the literary world.
Kenny hung her damp towel over the side of the back patio wall and poured herself another cup of coffee while she debated whether she should shower before heading to the beach to bake in the South Carolina sun for the rest of the day. She pulled out the ingredients to assemble a yogurt parfait for breakfast with the granola and fruit she got at the farmers market, but then reached for the bag of key lime pie cookies instead of a mixing bowl. The indulgence didn’t exactly meet the early morning nutritional requirements Kenny tried to consume but the sooner she got rid of the cookies, the easier it would be to forget that J.P. sent them. She’d shove the handwritten note somewhere in her overstuffed planner and maybe stumble across it in five years when she decided to house clean drawers.
Problem solved.
To avoid the possible embarrassment of being called out by a stranger she may encounter on the beach for another potential bout of irritated eye syndrome, Kenny showered off the sweat and chlorine from her morning swim. She went a step further and broke out a new razor to shave her legs for her solo Friday afternoon outing. As she lathered her legs with lavender-scented foam, she was briefly thrown back to the idyllic Gillette Venus commercials. The silky-smooth calves of long-legged women flashing one succinct knee pop after another across the television screen like the Radio City Rockettes laying across color coordinated beach towels on milky white sands against a cloudless button blue sky. If one close shave could have those women feeling, looking, and thinking like goddesses, maybe it could work for her, too.
Text to Hailey: Great! Then I’m heading to beach (Emoji: smiley face with sunglasses)
Text from Hailey: Jelly! (Emoji: pink bikini) (Emoji: palm tree)
Twenty-Two
“Cliff! Cliff, get over here. Now.” J.P. said in a stern whisper.
The defiant dog stared his owner straight in the face, eyes wide and teeth clutching a bright yellow tennis ball. His grin reminiscent of a cheshire cat.
J.P. squatted a few feet from the corner of the bright pink square beach blanket where Cliff had plopped down. He impatiently tapped the long-handled ball launcher toy on the sand in front of him, hoping the puppy would return the ball so he could lob it down the beach and the two would be on their way before the unsuspecting beach-napper was abruptly awoken from her slumber. He couldn’t help but think that maybe Mr. Cunningham was correct about bribing and rewarding Cliff with treats. He wished he had a pocket full of them now.
While J.P. quietly attempted to reel in his intrusive pet, he understood why the dog chose that exact spot on the vast beach to settle. The sleeping sunbather that Cliff was lying next to looked content, at peace, in a happy place. She appeared to be in a bubble of calmness. The slightest smile of her lower lip, the only part of her face peeking out from underneath a strategically placed wide-brimmed straw hat protecting her from the sun, would make any passerby wonder what she was dreaming about. Her legs were stretched in front of her with feet splayed to the sides. Her arms rested on her hip bones and the bright Barbie pink nail polish on her fingers drew attention to a sunburned stomach that probably should’ve been covered like her face.
The waves crept closer and closer to the beach blanket with each current and J.P. assumed the woman had been in a deep sleep for a considerable amount of time. Surrounding beach goers had already moved their coolers, chairs, and sand toys closer to the dunes in anticipation of the 3:47 p.m. high tide.
J.P. was about to strike the ball launcher on the sand again when a large wave made it all the way to his ankles, startling him and causing him to instinctively jump to his feet. When J.P. leapt, Cliff dropped the ball from his mouth and let out an alarmed howl. The sunbather sprung from her torso like a jack in the box and the straw hat slid to her knees which she instinctively pulled up and into her chest.
“Kenny!” J.P. blurted out in a voice that wasn’t as suave as usual. “I didn’t realize that was you. I’m so sorry to startle you. Again,” he stammered, looking bewildered.
He sensed her insecurity as she jumped to her feet and pulled a light blue Salty Dog racer back tank over her head, covering up her half-naked body. He hoped his clumsiness wasn’t the cause of her unease.
“Hi, J.P.,” she sheepishly smiled, still in a sleepy haze. “And hello there, Cliff,” she said directing her gaze toward the dog.
J.P. couldn’t help but notice that Kenny’s eyes were smiling as much as her mouth.
“We rescued you from high tide just in time,” he smirked as he regained his composure and grabbed a corner of the beach mat. “Let’s move this back. It’d take hours to dry if it got crushed by waves.”
“Thanks,” Kenny beamed as she picked up the opposite corner and tugged the beach mat closer to the dunes. “What time is it? I must’ve been sleeping longer than I thought,” she giggled.
“It’s almost four o’clock, Sleeping Beauty,” J.P. answered.
“Oh, here we go,” Kenny exaggerated an eye roll. “And I guess your role in this is the knight in shining armor who saves the damsel in distress from the aggressive late afternoon whitecaps, just before they swallow her whole.” She sarcastically motioned to the gently rolling waves lapping on the sand.
“You’re welcome,” J.P. grinned ear to ear.
He sensed the sarcasm was an attempt to mask anything she might say to come out as blatantly flirty.
“I really don’t know how you’d survive these few weeks down here without me,” J.P. said while he slipped out of his REEF sandals and sat down on the mat. “Mind if I sit for a minute?” an already reclined J.P. asked in a way that didn’t warrant a response.
“Of course, have a seat,” Kenny said as she unzipped her insulated Bogg bag and pulled out two sparkling waters. “Why are you in those long, dark pants? It must be ninety degrees,” she exclaimed as she sat down next to J.P. and handed him a Pellegrino.
“Tell me about it. The big guy won’t budge when it comes to the dress code. Even in the middle of July, he’s a stickler.” J.P. rolled his eyes as he pulled up the bottom of his pant legs. “Cheers!” He lifted the bottle, twisted off the cap and took a gulp.
“The big guy being Mr. Cunningham?” Kenny asked, assuming she already knew the answer.
“Yeah. Mr. C doesn’t have too many quirks, but he insists on long pants. He thinks they bring a level of ‘professionalism and old-fashioned class that shorts don’t,’” J.P. said using air quotes and deepening his voice as if to mimic the old man.
“Respectable. I mean you look great; it just seems like an odd uniform choice for someone who’s running around in the heat all day.”
