Kenny took a big inhale and could feel her lungs expand as she breathed in the scents of pine and cedar. She wished she could bottle up the earthy scent and take it back to Manhattan. It was a smell she couldn’t get enough of. She picked up the damp cloth she kept on the railing of the porch and wiped off the dew and fallen copper-colored tree needles from the surface, so she had a dry place to set her phone and mug.
It had been almost two weeks since Kenny arrived on Sea Pines, and she still couldn’t believe this was her reality, even if it was temporary. She was enamored with the vitality that Mother Nature had on full display. She was no horticulturist, but it seemed to her the palm and oak trees grew taller and sturdier every night and the mossy greens turned lusher and more vibrant each morning. The flecks of yellow from the sun, bursts of blue from the sky, and pops of purples, pinks, and oranges from the flowering shrubs perfectly accented the predominantly green canvas. Kenny closed her eyes and thought about Marilyn the therapist’s morning homework assignment which she had forgone since she started her vacation from reality. While gratitude was an easy feeling to identify, there was no way she could choose to focus on just one of the full of life colors she would see when she opened her eyes again. The sight was enchanting. A vision that no photograph or watercolor, lens or paintbrush, could ever capture.
Kenny went inside, poured a cup of coffee, and rifled through her overstuffed computer bag to find theMeditations from the Matbook. She hadn’t flipped to a daily reflection since the morning after the night she played drunken travel agent and booked the extended stay at Pelican Pointe to escape life, but she was in a contemplative mood. She sat down on the ottoman and opened to page 317.
“Day 275. ‘One must be able to let things happen,’ by C.G. Jung.”
Kenny reread the line a few times, both silently and aloud. It amazed her that these short mantras always spoke directly to her, whether it was a quote from the Dalai Lama, Deepak Chopra, or C.G. Jung, whom she’d never heard of until now. She imagined “letting things happen” somehow equated to letting go of the past, not controlling the present nor attempting to predict the future. These seemed to be common themes among the intellectuals Marilyn worked hard to introduce Kenny to. And, maybe not so ironically, all hot button issues for her.
She allowed herself to fall down the meditation and meaning rabbit hole to learn more about the author and the quote. She thought if she was going to heed the life advice, she should know it was coming from a credible source and have some understanding of it. She Googled C.G. Jung and learned he was a famous Swiss psychiatrist by the name of Carl Gustav who was regarded as one of the most influential psychologists in history. She found scholarly articles equating his esteemed words to the Buddhist practice of “action in nonaction,” a phrase Kenny heard tossed around in yoga classes but never really understood. She read Mommy Bloggers who wrote philosophical posts about the internal struggles of going after what you want versus letting things come to you. And saw the quote written in a variety of fonts with various images attached on countless Pinterest boards. But the explanation Kenny liked best was an easy, straightforward one. The idea was to simply bring awareness to any situation, without fear or control, and justexperienceit.
She made a pact with herself that she would approach the pending kayak trip with this effortless awareness. She was going to focus on the act of being in a small boat and paddling on the ocean rather than thinking about the frenzy of sharks that would be swimming in circles a few feet below. She was going to enjoy J.P.’s company and conversation without expectation or reading into any possible chemistry between them. She was going to take Jung’s advice to let things happen. Shark attacks or kisses, so be it!
Underlying it all, she remembered that the excursion was purely a business venture to determine if kayaks would be a safe amenity to provide to guests at Mr. Cunningham’s properties—and nothing more. She wouldneveragree to a first date that required her to wear a bathing suit. She was fitting comfortably back into to her skinny leggings and her face was noticeably less full, so she was hopeful the twelve IVF pounds from the egg preservation ordeal had finally disappeared; but she could never justify not being fully clothed for a first date.
Kenny rummaged through her bathing suit drawer and was relieved she packed the black Roxy surf shirt she bought for an interview she produced at an indoor water park in the Poconos about the lifeguard industry. She pulled the surf top over a modest and practical black one-piece suit and slipped up a pair of bright yellow running shorts. After inspecting herself in the mirror and satisfied with the ensemble, she closed the dresser drawer only to immediately open it back up and fish out the same pair of running shorts in black. Although she wasn’t superstitious and decided she wasn’t going to dwell on sharks, she had flashbacks to a Steven Spielberg interview where he talked about his use of the bright color to signify danger throughoutJaws,and thought wearing yellow shorts would be like playing with fire.
There was never more than a whisper of a breeze on the beaches of Hilton Head, but Kenny thought the wind might be a little gustier on the water that could result in disastrous matted knots in her hair. She pulled up a “French Braid for Beginners” YouTube video and after thirty minutes of trying to overlap multiple strands of hair into an artful twist on the crown of her head with only two hands, she gave up. Despite the blue scrunchie keeping Kenny’s hair secure when she was active, that was simply not an option for the non-date. She dug through the travel bag where she kept all her hair accessories and found a wide, black athletic headband that would hold her hair back and prevent sweat from dripping into her eyes.
I should’ve been wearing this during my first beach run-in with J.P.,Kenny thought.But then maybe my eyes wouldn’t have been so irritated. And Jose wouldn’t have been sent to Pelican Pointe to tend to the pool water and deliver the key lime pie cookies. And J.P. and I wouldn’t have had anything to talk about on the beach yesterday and he never would have asked me to go kayaking.
Kenny started playing what Marilyn called the “What If, Should Have”game. The therapist said the game was more dangerous than playing ice hockey without pads or a stick, and if Kenny found herself out of the box and on the ice, she should immediately call a time out.
“Time out, Kenny! You’re overthinking, and we’re not doing that today,” she said as she pulled the stretch wrap to her forehead, brushed her hair back into a high ponytail, and secured it with a black elastic tie.
She gently rubbed sunscreen onto her sun-kissed face and when she bent over to lather her legs and feet, noticed the lobster-red burn from the previous day’s beach nap had begun to fade. When she realized this was the first time that she was leaving the villa with the intention of running into J.P., she brushed a small swipe of waterproof mascara on her lashes and dabbled her lips with pink gloss.
Text from Colby: I had the craziest dream: You told me you’re going kayaking with sharks? Tell me it’s not true! LYMIB!
Text to Colby: I’m wearing my favorite yellow bathing suit (Emoji: shark)
Text from Colby: Nice try. I knew you were lying . . . you don’t own a yellow bathing suit. Call me later. LYMIB!
Twenty-Six
J.P. opened the door of the garage that, from the outside, looked like a smaller version of Mr. Cunningham’s beach front monstrosity on Marlin Manor. Mr. Cunningham didn’t drive expensive cars, own a yacht, or take lavish international holidays but he spared no expense when it came to his “coastal cottage.” Outsiders or the envious labeled the compound as pretentious and wondered who would need a home of such luxury and extravagance. But those who knew Mr. Cunningham and his lifestyle admired and viewed the estate as they did him—a pillar of the community.
Mr. Cunningham was the wealthiest man on Hilton Head, possibly in all the Lowcountry, and the only thing bigger than his bank account and business smarts was his heart. He donated more money than he could spend and was hands-on in all his philanthropic endeavors. Several weeks of the year he invited visitors to stay at his home for a much-deserved vacation. He would host veterans who recently returned from deployment; single mothers who worked full time while also going to school to earn a degree, along with their children and a team to provide childcare; nuns from the Order of the Immaculate Heart of Mary who served in the Diocese of Savannah and foster children who struggled to survive in an overcrowded system.
Mr. Cunningham was well-traveled and well-educated and used his inherited privilege and wealth to better the lives of the less fortunate. He had doormats at every entrance, of which there were many, inscribed with the wordsIs E Mo Theach Do TheachmeaningMy House is Your Housein Gaelic. The only price to pay for lodging was to commit to doing something kind for another, every day without fanfare.
With Cliff on his heels, J.P. rolled the two-wheeled kayak trolley to the center of the garage and lifted two blue, sit-on-top kayaks from the storage rack that hung on the wall. He wondered if Kenny had ever seenthiskind of cart before. He strapped the first kayak to the trolley and secured an oar under two bungee cords that were fastened to the front and the back ends of the boat. He scooped up two purple and green zip up life jackets from a large plastic storage bin with his right forearm and pulled the trolley out of the garage, over the crushed oyster shell and concrete driveway, and down the private beach walk.
Cliff darted for the water as soon as his paws hit the sand. It was a rare day when J.P. didn’t have to be at the clubhouse for an early morning lesson or tee time and today was one of those days. Which meant he took advantage and slept in, leaving Cliff with more pent-up energy than usual for this time of day. He ran in and out of the water with abandon and only stopped for quick breaks to scratch his back. J.P. didn’t always encourage Cliff to jump the waves and roll around in the sand-—he loved Cliff, not the smell of ocean wet dog—but didn’t mind when they were staying at or passing by the compound. Mr. Cunningham didn’t have a dog of his own but installed a stainless steel dog grooming tub next to the outdoor shower for humans. At first glance, it could be mistaken for an industrial sized Weber grill-smoker combo. Upon closer inspection, there was no denying it was the equivalent of a car wash for pets.
J.P. had time to spare before Kenny arrived, so he dropped the trolley and life jackets a few feet from the water’s edge, took off his shirt, and walked into the ocean until the waves reached his knees. The temperatures hovered in the eighties. He didn’t remember September waters being so warm; but then he didn’t remember the last time he took a few hours to enjoy the ocean. He took Cliff for walks on the beach almost daily, but he rarely took time to enjoy the water. J.P. continued to walk until his waist was submerged and, without thinking, dove headfirst into the waves. He bobbed up and down for a few minutes and when he turned around to face the shore, he saw Cliff pacing back and forth at the water’s edge, frantically barking in J.P.’s direction.
This dogJ.P. laughed to himself.
“I’m coming, Buddy! Look, I’m fine!” J.P. yelled, waving his hands in the air as he waded in the water and closer to shore to appease his panicked pup.
J.P. had a hard time admitting it to himself or anyone else, but his life while he was on the tournament circuit had been a lonely one. There was a fellowship among competitors, an inherent appreciation and respect that everyone shared a similar existence—eat, sleep, golf, repeat—with the common goal of becoming the next Tiger Woods or Phil Michelson. The golfers bonded over the free breakfast buffets and talked aboutSports Centerwhich seemed to always be on the television during prime workout time in the hotel gyms. They’d share nightcaps in the lobby lounges to commiserate about poor performances and occasionally grab a meal at one of the restaurants recommended by the locals in whatever city they were competing. But the lifestyle made it hard to maintain meaningful relationships. Tournaments lasted days at a time and often ran consecutive weeks, making the dating scene difficult.
Most women J.P. was attracted to wanted something more than on-again, off-again flings when he happened to be available. Even when he was physically present, he wasn’t always mentally. He knew that his drive to succeed ruined a few potentially good romantic relationships, but it was a price he was willing to pay for his dream career. He missed holidays with family and reunions with friends during the years he dedicated to the Korn Ferry Tour to earn his PGA Tour card. And since giving up on his aspiration of qualifying for The Masters, he was content living the bachelor life on Sea Pines. After parting ways with his swing coach, mental coach, and trainer, J.P.’s relationship with Cliff was the most time-consuming and accountable one he had in years.
Cliff sprung up J.P.’s hips on his hind legs like a pogo stick when the trusty owner emerged from the water. J.P. laughed and enjoyed the attention and affection he didn’t realize he was missing.
“Come on, Cliff. Let’s get you up to the house before Kenny gets here. Your little heart wouldn’t be able to handle seeing both of us in the water,” J.P. said as he removed the kayak from the trolley and pulled it back up the beach to collect the second one.
