J.P. caught Kenny’s eye just as she accidentally doled out an innocent compliment and suddenly felt vulnerable himself.
“I should do more running. Or at least walking and lifting. I’ve been relying too much on carts these days. I need to keep this in check.” He straightened his back and tapped the midsection of his polo shirt.
J.P. instantly regretted that one swift move. He hoped Kenny didn’t perceive him as a meathead or a guy whose main concern was six pack abs and a tight ass.
“Carts? What kind of carts?”
“Golf carts. What kind of cart did you think I meant.” J.P. laughed. “What other kind of carts are there?”
“I wasn’t sure what you meant. There are utility carts, hand carts, valet carts,” Kenny rattled off while striking her fingers.
J.P. cracked a smile, realizing that Kenny had no idea who he was. Although J.P. preferred to keep a low profile, he was a local celebrity around Hilton Head. He was considered the best golf instructor in the southeast region and could’ve chosen to instruct at any course in the country after retiring from his professional golf career. If people inside the golf community didn’t recognize his face, they knew his name. If people outside of the golf community didn’t know his name, they recognized his face because of his picture on the Liberty Oaks Golf Course ads that were everywhere from church bulletins and weekly coupon circulars to real estate brochures and flyers inThe Sea Pines Sentinel.
To Kenny, he was nothing more than a billionaire’s gopher. And J.P. was fine with that.
“Yes, golf carts are my preferred cart. When I’m not delivering beach chairs and bicycles to Mr. Cunningham’s rental properties, I give golf lessons at Liberty Oaks,” J.P. said, downplaying his position at the esteemed course that was on par with Augusta and Pebble Beach.
“Why do you know so much about carts? What is it that you do?” He playfully nudged Kenny’s left arm with his right elbow. “Are you an heir to Home Depot?”
“I’m a news producer at WBS.” She laughed, returning the slightest nudge. “Which means I know a little bit about a lot of things. Some of which are ridiculous, like my unusual knowledge of carts.”
“I bet that’s an awesome job. Maybe not whatever story you did about different methods of transporting objects, but it sounds like most days wouldn’t be boring. Do you have a certain beat?”
“It’s a pretty cool job.Mostdays. It’s never boring, although some days I wish it were. I’ve reported on everything from presidential campaigns to potty training but have covered the world of true crime and murder mysteries for a while now.” She repeated the generic canned answer she’d given countless times before when people asked about her career. “I know so much about carts thanks to my camera and sound crews who lug enormous amounts of audio and visual equipment wherever they go and are always looking for the fastest, quickest, and easiest ways to move the gear. We, the producers, ask them to film and shoot interviews in impossible locations—like on top of the New Years Eve ball in Times Square or on a tightrope over the Grand Canyon.” Kenny laughed. “Sometimes watching these guys wrangle their equipment to wherever we want them to be is more impressive than the story we’re filming.”
“That’s very cool. I geek out when shows share behind the scenes footage of that kind of stuff. And I must admitInside Editionis a guilty pleasure of mine, so I’m pretty tuned into the true crime zeitgeist.”
“Inside Edition?” Kenny flailed her arms in the air. “I didn’t see that coming. You strike me as the type of person whose television only turns to ESPN. WhyInside Edition? You don’t fit the infotainment demographic.”
“Comical. Embarrassing. I know.” J.P. laughed, uneasy that he let this stranger in on such a ridiculous indulgence.
“A few summers ago, I had a rather well-off, high maintenance client. She and her husband had their yacht parked at Harbour Town for the summer. The husband decided his housewife needed a hobby, to get her off the houseboat, and ‘gifted’ her hours of golf lessons almost every day for three months. She, however, had no desire to learn golf and preferred to spend our lesson time talking about her husband’s illicit affairs and what was broadcast onInside Editionthe previous night. They eventually sailed back down to Palm Beach, but I kept watching. The content is good fodder for small talk during lessons when there’s an awkward silence.”
“Look at that.Inside Editonimpacting the lives of one frustrated golf instructor and scorned lover at a time, with their hard-hitting journalism,” Kenny joked.
“Exactly. Speaking of scorned lovers, how about the Dr. Love saga? I’m sure you know all about that one. He seems like a real nut!” J.P.’s face lit up like he was personally invested in the story.
“Unfortunately, I do. I know Clinton White and his saga all too well.” Kenny’s face dropped.
J.P. unintentionally hit a nerve. He never fully comprehended idioms in English class. But they suddenly made sense. He wished he could eat his words.
“Oh no. You’re not the producer, are you? If you are, I’m so sorry. I never would have brought him up,” J.P. said apologetically, looking alarmed.
“What producer?” Kenny asked. “I’m the producer assigned to the story for WBS?” she questioned him, confused.
“The network producer Dr. Love tried to seduce?” J.P. asked with hesitation in his voice.
“Oh God, no!” Kenny clarified. “I’ve been in his company and he’s very charismatic, a real charmer, but I never misconstrued that for him coming onto me. In fact, most men and women accused of murdering their spouses are very bewitching toward the media. Is that the storylineInside Editionhas been leading with this week?” Kenny continued nonchalantly.
“Whew! I would have felt like a real jackass. The identity of the producer hasn’t been revealed so I got nervous for a second. But, yes,Inside Editionbroke the story last night,” J.P. replied.
“I haven’t watched the news or checked my email since I’ve been down here.” She paused. “I didn’t really have a choice because the internet and cable weren’t hooked up in the villa, but it’s been surprisingly refreshing. The whole reason for me ending up here in the first place was a long-overdue, dire need to disconnect and recharge. Clinton White and a bottle of wine forced me to pull the trigger,” she lamented.
J.P.’s eyes widened, and he looked at her like he was waiting for her to continue the thought.
“Wait!” she shouted, throwing her hands in the air again. “That came out all wrong. First ‘pull the trigger’ was a poor choice of words given that Ada White is assumed dead.” She retracted. “In a nutshell, my network WBS and I were supposed to be getting the first interview with Clinton White. Then we got scooped by NBC. I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of wine, came across a pop-up ad for Pelican Pointe while drunkenly surfing the internet, and emailed the reservations department with my credit card information. Apparently, I requested an immediate check-in date,” she shook her head.
J.P. sensed undertones of failure mixed with embarrassment in Kenny’s otherwise optimistic, nonchalant delivery of how and why she ended up on Sea Pines. He surprised himself by how well he thought he was understanding this woman he just met.
