“I left him up at the house.” He nodded to the mansion behind the dunes. “He went bonkers when I was out here earlier. He’d lose his mind if he saw both of us this far from shore.”
“Thathouse? Is it really a single-family home? It’s larger than most boutique hotels I’ve stayed in over the years.” She stared at the house that stretched so long it still seemed to be in front of her.
“Yep. That is one house, for one guy.” J.P. laughed as he and Kenny started to leisurely paddle again.
She looked at him confused.
That couldn’t possibly be his house. Or could it?
“I know what you’re thinking. I amnotthat one guy,” J.P. assured. “My place down by South Beach would fit in the guest garage. It’s Mr. Cunningham’s place. Cliff and I are house-sitting for him while he’s away on business this week.”
“Wow! That isn’t too shabby.” She wasn’t sure what else to say without the words potentially coming out wrong or offensive.
The house was so opulent it appeared out of place on the island that was notably unpretentious and unassuming, despite the wealth and elegance among some who lived and others who vacationed there.
“Some think it’s a little . . . over the top? Which I guess I can understand. But that’s not what I see when I look at it. I see it as a symbol of all the old man’s best intention; the good fortunes and opportunity he’s brought to so many people,” J.P. said in a serious tone.
“You seem to have a lot of respect for Mr. Cunningham. And the feelings must be mutual if he asks you to crash there while he’s out of town,” Kenny replied.
“I’ve known Mr. C for more than twenty years and I still remember the first time I met him. Like all stereotypical Ohioans, my family came down here every summer for vacation. The year I turned fourteen, my big gift was a round of golf with my dad at Liberty Oaks. Golf wasn’t big in our small town outside Columbus, so I didn’t play much. I was a three-sport athlete, but golf wasn’t one of them. Anyway, after our eighteen holes we were sitting in the clubhouse having lunch when this guy came over to my dad and introduced himself. His name was Mike Cunningham. He told my dad he saw me on the course and thought I had real potential for a kid my age. They chatted while I chowed down on my burger and when we were leaving Mike gave my dad a piece of paper with his number on it and told him to call the next time we were in town.” He smiled at the memory.
“Huh? I guess your dad called him the following summer?” Kenny asked, genuinely interested in what transpired over the course of two decades that forged the strong bond between an inexperienced teen golfer from the Midwest and a billionaire from the Lowcountry.
“On the way back to Urbana, we got a call on my dad’s big black bag car phone that I got a starting position on the varsity soccer team at my new high school, as a freshman. That same year I got pulled up to the varsity teams for basketball and baseball, too, so we both forgot about Mike. Fast forward, my dad arranged for us to play the course for my fifteenth birthday and Mike was the first guy we saw when we got to the clubhouse. That’s when we learned he owned Liberty Oaks and several other properties and businesses around the area. My dad and I played our game and then Mike crashed our lunch again. That time, though, he was more focused on me than my dad. My interests, hobbies, school grades, friends, what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
J.P. took a deep breath and another deliberate stroke of his paddle to keep the current and conversation moving. He hoped Kenny wouldn’t sense his trepidation. He wasn’t sure if he was more hesitant to share details of his past or the fact that he noticed a fin grazing the surface of the water had been closely following the kayaks.
“At the time, I had never been to a job interview, but I imagined that’s what it felt like. I didn’t have answers to many of his questions, and he told me that I should by the age of fifteen. That kind of resonated with me. I liked this guy. I liked the way he interacted with people and how people responded to him. I realized I liked everything he had and that I really liked golf. On the drive home that year, I called my coaches and quit soccer, basketball, and baseball.”
“You put a lot of stock into a stranger you randomly met in South Carolina. What did your parents make of all of it? Were they okay with you quitting? I’d imagine they sunk a lot of time and money into you and those sports over the years?” Kenny questioned.
“They were skeptical at first,” J.P. continued. “Especially since my school didn’t have a golf team, and my athletic director guaranteed them I’d graduate with some type of athletic scholarship if I stuck with soccer or baseball; but we found a club program that I joined, and I got more serious about my studies than I had ever been. I was eventually accepted into the Professional Golf Management program at Penn State which was a double-edged sword for my parents who were die-hard Buckeyes fans and alum. They got over it after my first home match at State College. Then over the summers I’d stay down here with Mr. C, free of room and board and out of trouble, interning at various courses and perfecting my game.”
“Let me get this straight, you spent the summers of your late teens and early twentiesthere? Playing golf by day and unwinding on those decks at night. Life was tough for a young adult J.P! Did Mr. Cunningham have a wife or children at home?” Kenny wanted to know so much more about this man—or family—who opened their home up to a teen from outside Columbus they knew little about other than he had a good swing and SAT scores.
“No. It’s a tragic story.” J.P. turned somber. “After Mr. C graduated from the Air Force Academy and served his time, he returned to his native New York. He reconnected with his childhood sweetheart, and they quickly got married, eager to start a big family. They planned to have a few biological children and eventually expand their family through adoption. Mr. C worked as a hedge fund manager on Wall Street and his wife was a schoolteacher at a public school in Washington Heights. They were active in the city’s social and philanthropy circles but were close to retreating to a quieter life somewhere around Hilton Head and running a bed and breakfast.” J.P. nodded toward the mansion on the beach. “But when Mrs. C was seven months pregnant with their first child, she was killed in a car accident on her way to Brookyln to meet Mr. C at a fundraiser for the Boys and Girls Club.”
“Oh my God. That’s heartbreaking. I’m not a parent and I don’t have a spouse, but I can’t imagine how anyone would ever get over that,” Kenny sympathized. Like so many of the stories she covered, she couldn’t help but question why terrible things happen to good people.
“Me either. I didn’t know Mr. C before the accident, and he’s only shared snippets of his past over the years, but people have told me he’s never been the same. The accident that stole the perfect life he had at his fingertips is the reason he does a lot of what he does today. Like that house, it’s not a bed and breakfast but he opens it up to people year-round. You never know who’s going to walk through the door.” He laughed trying to lighten the moment.
“From the little bit that I’ve heard from you and Derek at the guard house, it seems like he is an extraordinary man who is important to a lot of people.” Kenny smiled. “But let’s get back to you! With your education you may be more than a glorified handy man who occasionally teaches a golf lesson?”
“I wear a few different hats down at the course. I manage the teams who work in and around the clubhouse.”
“Is that a cryptic way of saying you run the whole show?” she asked.
“Something like that,” he replied. “You can grill me more about it later, reporter woman. There’s a more interesting story unfolding behind you that I’d hate for you to miss.” J.P. grabbed the side of Kenny’s kayak so both boats stopped and started floating with the current.
She turned her head and out of the corner of her eye saw a fin grazing the surface of the water. It was so close she could touch it. She gasped but nothing came out. She could feel her hands loosen the grip of her paddle. J.P. grabbed it before she completely let go and dropped it into the ocean.
“Breathe, Kenny. It’s a dolphin! Actually, it’s a pod of dolphins! Four of them have been trailing us for a while now. Let me turn us around.” He dragged the blade of his paddle in the water and spun around the kayaks.
She hadn’t opened her eyes or closed her mouth since the initial shock of seeing the tip of the dorsal fin at the rear of her boat. Her focus was squarely on trying to not shake so violently that she tumbled overboard into what she determined to be shark infested waters or throw up from the instant wave of nausea that overcame her when she saw her life flash before her eyes.
Breath in, two, three, four. Hold two, three, four. Out two, three, four. Breath in, two, three, four. Hold two, three, four. Out two, three, four.
When her heart rate tempered and she was confident that the organ wasn’t going to beat out of her chest and through her life jacket, she slowly opened her eyes.
