Kenny lifted the lid of the ottoman where she stored her laptop bag and pulled out the computer. She fired it up, connected it to the Pelican Pointe network and typed out V-i-l-l-a-5 in the password box. She was about to instinctively double click on Outlook when something in her gut stopped her. The mouse cursor hovered over the icon for several seconds while she contemplated what she was about to do. Opening Outlook for the first time after several days would be akin to opening Pandora’s box. Thousands of emails would need to be read, processed, and responded to, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. While part of her yearned to know every detail—real and rumored—surrounding what prevented NBC from airing the Clinton White interview, Kenny knew that reading just one article would be like eating a piece of forbidden fruit that could change the course of the rest of her trip. She was further confident that one brief reply toanyemail would escalate to an exchange of dialogue that would morph into text messages, phone calls, and ultimately result in her disabling the sacred “Out of Office” feature. There was no turning back from either scenario if she gnawed on the carrot that dangled in front of her.
Kenny took her hand off the mouse, closed her eyes, and breathed like Marah taught her.Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold two, three, four. Out two, three, four. Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold two, three, four. Out two, three, four.She opened her eyes, put her hand back on the mouse, double clicked on Chrome, and typed www.weather.com into the toolbar rather than opening her email. She searched “Hilton Head Island” and the five vertical boxes boasting graphics of bright yellow suns and double-digit numbers that started with sevens and eights quickly populated her screen. The balmy forecast reinforced there would be no time for phone calls, text messages, or email exchanges over the next few days.
Text to Hailey: Cable works & Internet fast (Emoji: thumbs up)
Text from Hailey: Gr8! Wknd plns?
The last text from Hailey made Kenny smile. Even though she didn’t know or appear to have anything in common with the sorority sister from West Virginia, she felt like she had a new friend. She wondered if she and Hailey would have hit it off if they were the same age and met in school; or if Kenny would have had no patience for and envied the assumed carefree blonde from afar, while she was busy being overly serious and focused on the future and post-college plans.
Text to Hailey: Yes! Kayaking on the ocean in the a.m.
Text from Hailey: Love it! (Emoji: dolphin)
As hard as Kenny tried to not think about the morning kayak excursion, it consumed almost every other thought in her head. And as much as she didn’t want to tell Colby about it, because she was still slightly annoyed with himandwasn’t prepared to be totally truthful about the solo vacation, for fear he would find a cheap flight and crash for a few days—he was spontaneous in every way that Kenny wasn’t—she knew she should let someone aside from Hailey know she was going to be paddling on the Atlantic in a plastic boat. Since it was pushing 8:00 p.m. on a Friday, Kenny predicted Colby would be a few cocktails deep, and she’d be able to keep the conversation short. She scrolled through her recent calls log and tapped on Colby’s name.
“We were just talking about you, darling.” Colby enthusiastically picked up on the first ring. “I’m here with Ed! Say ‘hi,’ Ed!” Colby’s voice was muffled as he pulled the phone away from his mouth so his friend could send a forced salutation. “A new biergarten opened around the corner from the office and Eddy-boy dragged me here!”
Kenny rolled her eyes and heard the commotion of clinking glasses and accordion music in the background. Colby could drink vodka sodas “until the cows came home,” a phrase he’d overuse when he had too many of the mixed drinks and started reverting to his midwestern roots, but he could not handle a night of Oktoberfest beers.
“Hey, Colby! Hi, Ed! Sounds like you guys are having a time for yourselves. I was just calling to say ‘Hi!’ and see what I was missing up there on a Friday night.” She tried to make it sound like either of those two statements were true. “I won’t keep you!”
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning, love! It’s loud in here,” Colby screeched into the phone.
“I’m going kayaking in the morning, so I’ll call you when I get back from the beach. Don’t do anything dumb tonight!” Kenny said, relieved the conversation was kept short and she was able to relay her plans in case something went wrong. Even if Colby didn’t remember, Ed would.
“Kayaking! In the ocean? You’re terrified of the ocean! I’m impressed you’re facing that fear. And Ed wants to know when the two of you are going on your second date. But he’s standing right here so I better hang up before I say anything else that’ll piss him off. Love you, mean it, bi-yeee!”
Kenny dropped the phone on the couch next to her, smiled, and slunk into the cushions. She was happy she had forgiven Colby, and that their relationship was on the mend. She couldn’t remember a time that Colby didn’t answer when she called him. No matter how monumental or trivial the topic, or how long or short the conversation was, sheusuallyfelt better after talking to him.
No one knew Kenny like Colby and that was both comforting and annoying. Few people knew Kenny was terrified of the ocean, but Colby did, and he was proud of her for facing the fear. He’d be doubly proud if he knew a handsome man was at the root of her facing it, but that fact was irrelevant. For Kenny, this pending exercise fell under the “try something new” category on the Condition List. She also knew Colby was correct about her personal life even if she was resistant to admitting it. For a fleeting moment she thought maybe she should give Ed a second chance when she got back to New York.
Twenty-Four
J.P. put his bag of take-out food on the oversized, custom-made, live-edge, walnut and blue epoxy dining table that was designed to replicate the real-life ocean scene that was visible on the other side of the glass floor to ceiling windows that spanned the length of the back of the three-story coastal-style beach home. He opened the French doors in the center of the perfectly Windexed wall and Cliff ran out onto the second-tier deck that overlooked the pool and was high enough to see over the dunes, creating a picturesque, unobstructed view of the Atlantic. J.P. visited Mr. Cunningham’s home hundreds of times over the years but was always struck by its grandeur. It may have been one of the largest homes on Sea Pines, but the comfort and familiarity gave J.P. the same sense of nostalgia and security as the two-bedroom condo on the other side of the plantation his parents rented for annual summer vacations when he and his sister were kids.
J.P. left Cliff to occupy himself on the deck while he went inside to change out of his golf clothes and into a bathing suit. When J.P. house-sat for his boss, he always stayed in the guest bedroom on the second floor. It was considered the least desirable room to some because it shared a wall with the main entertaining area and the exterior wall was a sliding door that opened to the deck that sprawled the length of the back of the house, offering little privacy and a lot of sunlight if you forgot to shut the blinds, but it was J.P.’s favorite room. He liked sleeping with the blinds open and being woken up by the light streaming through the glass, with a front row seat to the sunrise over the ocean without leaving the bed. He liked being able to sit in the hot tub outside the sliding door and stare at the stars and moon reflecting over the water until late in the night and have access to his bedroom without traipsing through other parts of the house. Most importantly, he liked the memories. For three summers during his college years, he stayed in this bedroom while he worked toward his dream of touring in the PGA. If it weren’t for the opportunities J.P. had been given over the course of those summers, he never would have enjoyed the accomplished golf career he went on to have, nor would he be in the current position he found himself in to create a prosperous and successful future.
J.P. hung his polo shirts and golf pants in the walk-in closet. Along with Mr. Cunningham’s “no shorts rule” while an employee was on the clock or on the course, he had a strict “no wrinkle rule.” J.P. wasn’t sure if it was a generational thing or if it went back to Mr. Cunningham’s days as a cadet at the Air Force Academy, but he was a stickler for pressed cotton. He kept an ironing board and an industrial steamer in the men’s and women’s locker rooms at the Liberty Oaks Clubhouse and once got into a heated conversation with Miss Luana about the viability of her housekeeping teams starching and pressing the bedsheets when they turned over a room. From cowardly observing that debate, J.P. learned there was one person aside from Mr. Cunningham who was capable, and deserving, of having the last word—a woman of Gullah descent who was fiercely protective of her staff. And family recipes, it was later learned when she unveiled her famous key lime pie cookies at the company potluck.
J.P. unpacked his toiletry bag in the bathroom that was connected to the bedroom and pulled out two towels from the linen closet. He hung one on the towel bar inside the shower and draped one around his neck for when he got out of the hot tub. If there was one thing J.P. didn’t miss about being on the tournament circuit, it was living like a vagabond. The lifestyle required him to check in and out of hotels for weeks at a time, for the better part of a year. He made a practice early in his career to always unpack his belongings in the closets and drawers of wherever he was staying. He also never hung theDo Not Disturbsign on the door like many business travelers. He welcomed housekeeping entering the room every day to freshen the towel supply and neatly make up his bed. It was these little routines that helped J.P. keep a clear mind and forget he was a visitor away from the comfort of his surroundings.
Satisfied that his belongings were put away and organized, J.P. grabbed a Heineken from the refrigerator and the lobster roll he ordered from the restaurant at the clubhouse and opened the French door to the deck where Cliff was patiently waiting for him.
“Buddy, it’s time to wind down,” J.P. said to the dog who started at him like he was ready for an intense game of tug of war.
He placed his sandwich and the bottle on the plastic tray that was affixed to the side of the tub and then hoisted himself up and over the side, slowly lowering his legs and torso down into the bubbling, hot water. J.P. scooted his way around the perimeter and found his favorite spot where the jets hit his shoulders, lower back and calves at all the right pressure points and rested his head back.
“Tell me Cliff, why do you gravitate toward Kenny? Over two million people visit this island every year and you don’t bother with any of them. Most of them make a fuss over you, some even beg for your attention. And you ignore them. I’ve noticed sometimes you’re even rude,” J.P. questioned and chastised his four-legged friend as he stared up at the stars.
As if to defend himself, Cliff sprung up on his hind legs and rested both paws on the side of the hot tub. His tongue hung out of his mouth and his tail wagged.
J.P. sensed the dog’s head next to his own and cast his gaze to the right, looking into his eyes. “You don’t know, do you? That’s all right, boy. Me either,” he said, giving Cliff a sympathetic grin and patting him on the head.
Twenty-Five
Kenny woke up earlier than usual and lay in the cocoon of purple pillows while she stared at the purple garden on the ceiling, hoping she would fall back to sleep for at least another hour. She had three hours to spare until she had to meet J.P. for their kayaking excursion, which meant she had roughly two hours and forty minutes to talk herself out of going. Kenny planned to ride one of the beach cruisers down Lighthouse Road to North Sea Pines Drive, which would take her straight to the entrance of the beach path between Whistling Swan and Oyster Catcher. She predicted the ride would take fifteen to twenty minutes at a leisurely pedal cadence and didn’t want to arrive sweaty, late, or early, so determined her departure time should be promptly at 9:40 a.m.
Filled with anticipation and anxiety about the adventure, she gave up on the notion of getting additional rest and stumbled into the kitchen to plug in the coffee pot. While she waited for the beverage to percolate, she stepped out onto the back porch where she could see the early risers begin to stir. The water aerobics women, foam weights in tow, congregated at the pool steps where they recapped their dinner experiences from the previous night before beginning their synchronized aquatic routine. The older gentlemen, presumably the husbands of the water aerobics squad, began to inadvertently convene by the pickleball courts, like most mornings, because there were two plastic, coin-operated newspaper boxes to the left of the playing area that offeredThe New York TimesandThe Sea Pines Sentinel. She imagined they talked about their tee times and exchanged fishing tales. Young mothers stealthily sneaked out the back sliding doors so they could enjoy a quiet cup of coffee before their children woke up and their husbands returned from their sunrise jogs.
