Twenty-Seven
Kenny was unusually calm as she peddled down Lighthouse Road and rounded Fraser’s Circle. Oncoming traffic forced her to stop at the exact spot on the bike path where she first laid eyes on J.P. the morning she arrived on Sea Pines and froze behind the wheel of the rental car. The driver of the landscaping truck that she found herself head-to-head with waved her on much quicker than she waved on J.P. and Cliff. She laughed at the irony of the circumstances and mouthed “thank you” to the friendly man behind the wheel as she cycled across the street. She passed The Plantation Golf Club and admired the manicured greens and charming clubhouse that made her want to sit on its porch with a good book and glass of lemonade. Well-dressed golfers whose black SUVs hailed from Alabama, Florida, Mississippi, Georgia, and the Carolinas zipped around in green golf carts. A few hundred yards ahead, a steady stream of cars pulled into the Sea Pines Beach Club and her quiet mind began to chatter. She knew that she was getting close to the north end of the plantation and would be arriving at the beach access path soon.
She slowed down her strokes and hoped the thoughts in her mind would follow suit. She recently read a study that hypothesized a person has an average of 60,000 thoughts per day; she was confident, without taking any test or filling out any survey, the number of thoughts that passed through her head daily drove up that statistic. If she were going to stay true to the morning’s meditation, she would have to leave the surplus of swirling thoughts on the bike path that ran parallel to North Sea Pines Drive. Kenny finished up her inner pep talk just in time to see the small, nondescriptPrivate Accesssign that was mostly covered by a dwarf palmetto tree.
She hopped off the beach cruiser and saw a person at the far end of the path pulling something behind him. Her heart fluttered for a second, but she quickly realized it couldn’t have been J.P. The man’s exposed tanned shoulders looked broader than J.P.’s and his dark hair looked like it had been slicked back. Granted, Kenny had never seen J.P. without a shirt or a baseball hat, but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who spent hours gelling his locks. And there was neither sight nor sound of Cliff, who would surely be a third wheel on this voyage.
She continued down the path, struck by the size of the homes that were on either side of it. Along most walkways of this length that Kenny wandered down to admire the southern architecture, there typically were six or seven homes on each side dotting the pathway that dead ended in the dunes. But there were only five homes all together flanking this private walk: two on one side and three on the other. She assumed less houses meant less beachgoers, which made it less likely for a kayaker to collide with a swimmer; and probably the reason why J.P. chose this spot on the beach to meet.
As Kenny got closer to the beach, she noticed the sleek black Cannondale that she squeezed her beach cruiser next to at the farmers market and a red golf bag with the initials JLP embroidered on the pocket, in the driveway of a home that looked like it would occupy one of the small, city blocks in lower Manhattan.
Strange, Kenny whispered. But she stopped herself from overthinking why J.P.’s belongings were in the driveway of this mansion. She knew he lived on the other side of the plantation by the Salty Dog.
She pushed the clunky, orange bike up the wooden ramp, over the dunes, and paused for a moment when she got to the top, looking around for J.P. The beach was desolate except for the shirtless man she had seen from a distance on the beach walk. He kneeled between kayaks near the water’s edge.
Oh. My. God. That is J.P. Why isn’t he wearing a shirt?
Kenny’s first instinct was to quickly look away, like she was caught staring at something she shouldn’t be. She felt like a kid who was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. But, if she couldn’t look at J.P., who she was planning to spend the morning with, where was she supposed to look.
“You made it! It’s fine to leave the bike up there, no one will bother it,” J.P. shouted as he walked up the beach to greet Kenny.
“Hey there! I’m here,” she managed to reply while she waved and pushed down the bike’s kickstand with her foot.
“I should’ve given you my number in case you had a hard time finding me. I know that walkway is a little off the beaten path, for lack of better words.” J.P. laughed.
He’s here. He’s shirtless. He’s talking about exchanging numbers.
“It’s all good,” she said enthusiastically. “I figured if I made it all the way to Oyster Catcher without noticing the sign, I would’ve taken one of the other paths and walked down the beach until I found you.”
Idiot! Don’t make it sound like you don’t want him to have your number.
“Smart girl. It’s surprising how many people probably wouldn’t think about that alternative route. Between what I overhear at the golf course and questions I hear asked of the hotel group, it’s astonishing to learn of the naiveté—or lack of common sense—of some vacationers,” he said like he was letting Kenny in on a secret only the island locals were privy to.
She could see that the stupidity of some people fired up J.P. in the same way that thinking of the New York City subway system and failed attempt to make it to Yankees stadium did. She found the reaction strangely adorable and giggled at how animated the sheer thought of certain things made him. It also diverted her attention from his chiseled abdomen and muscular chest that made her weak at the knees; so, she thought it was in both of their best interests to keep the silly, even if juvenile, conversation going.
“Oh, yea? What’s the craziest question or assumption you’ve heard?” Kenny asked as she grabbed the beach bag out of the basket on the bike handlebars and the two walked down the sand toward the kayaks.
“Alligators. In my opinion, any question or statement regarding an alligator is dumb. ‘Can we feed the alligators?’” J.P. asked in a mocking way. “No, Sea Pines is not a petting zoo,” he answered himself. “Alligators only prey on small mammals, right? No! They’ll prey on you, after you fall intheirpond while trying to feed them,” he continued. “But my favorite question is when golfers ask me what I do with gators when I find them along the course. ‘Nothing! I don’t do anything. Do I look like a relative of Jack Hanna’s?’”
“No wonder people come to you with gator safety questions, you seem to be quite the expert.” Kenny laughed. “Here’s a question that I don’t think is dumb. I, of course, would never approach an alligatorbutif one ran after me for whatever reason, I’m supposed to run in zigzags away from it, right?”
She tried to maintain eye contact with him as he pulled his arms through the life jacket and zipped it up. She could get lost in his perfectly round, bright blue eyes that had navy rings around them with visible golden specks when the sun hit them. But her curious mind was at high risk for directing her eyes to gawk at his torso and shoulders, which she didn’t necessarily want to do, or get caught doing. It was bittersweet knowing he was covering it all up with the feminine-looking Kelly green and purple life preserver.
“I should’ve assumed the reporter would have a question.” J.P. smirked and put his hands on his hips. “It’s not a terrible one, though. That myth has been around for years. But no, you should not waste your time or breath running in zig zags if you’re being chased by an alligator. Just run. Run straight, fast, and far. The only thing running in zigzags will do is slow you down and make you dizzy.”
“Luckily the only place I’ve seen an alligator is in the World of Reptiles exhibit at the Bronx Zoo. And I’d like to keep it that way. I imagine I’d freeze in place out of panic and fear and forget to run in any direction if I came face to face with a gator,” she admitted.
“Like you did that day at the intersection of Fraser Circle when you wouldn’t let Cliff and me cross the street?” he asked with a satisfactory grin. He had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring up the encounter and Kenny had just opened the door wide open.
“You recognized me?” she blurted out. “I’m slightly horrified. I never thought I’d see you again! And I certainly never thought you’d put two and two together if you did,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
“We’re not in New York City anymore. You’re not one in eight million down here, Kenny.” He winked. “Honestly, I never would’ve remembered the encounter, those little stand-offs happen all the time. But Cliff started barking at your car, and heneverbarks, so I took notice of the situation. And you.”
“Aside from my poor driving etiquette, I hope you didn’t take notice of too much else. I was still fresh into my unplanned, third-of-life crisis and running on little sleep. I was also very confused by all those traffic circles. I think I went around four roundabouts in a span of twenty minutes.”
“It’s probably for the best you don’t have a car down here. Hopefully you’re better behind the paddle of a kayak.” J.P. grinned as he handed Kenny the other life jacket. “Let’s see how that fits. We may need to tighten the straps. It needs to be secure in case you go overboard. I waxed down these bad boys with Eelsnot, so we’ll be flying through the water.” His face lit up with the excitement of a nine-year-old boy whose parents finally let him retire the boogie board and buy a skim board.
His loaded statement had Kenny’s mind firing on all cylinders and she wasn’t sure which cylinder to focus on first: J.P. getting close enough to her to snuggly fit the life preserver to her body; the indication that kayakerscanfall off the boat; or the reference to Eelsnot?What the hell is Eelsnot?
