“It sure is,” Kenny replied. “You must love coming to work with this view.”
“I do. I’m from Kansas, and we don’t have anything like this where I grew up.”
“Are you here seasonally?” Kenny asked the young lady who didn’t look like she was more than seventeen years old.
“Yep. I’m doing an internship at one of the resorts during the week and pick up a few hours here on the weekends. My boyfriend has the same internship and helps the captains on some of the deep-sea fishing charter boats to pick up extra cash. We squeeze in a few hours each week to sit on the beach or go sight-seeing.” She beamed and nodded to the lines of boats adorned with nets and fishing poles at the end of the dock.
Thisgirlshould be writing the next beach read, Kenny thought. Young and in love at the beach; getting college credits to entertain already-happy vacationers; making money at a seemingly stress-free job with tips that presumably grow higher with each round of beer buckets and frozen drinks; and spending any free time exploring paradise. Kenny pondered using this girl’s life as a catalyst for a storyline of her book.
“Wow. What an awesome experience. I regret that I never took a summer or semester to work in a beach town.” Kenny wondered if she had taken that chance, where the path would have led.
“It’s the chance of a lifetime! I go back to the intern apartment every night and journal about my day and the people I meet. I don’t want to forget any of it. Maybe someday I’ll even write a book about this summer,” the excitable server announced. “Are you ready to order? The kitchen is getting backed up, and I don’t want you waiting all day for lunch!”
Ironic. I guess that plotline is off the table.
“I’ll have the Ceasar salad and a side of the Bow Wow shrimp,” Kenny said, although she wasn’t particularly hungry for either and was certainly in no rush.
“Coming right up. Enjoy this table, it’s the best one in the house.” The girl winked and spun on her heels to greet the table behind Kenny and take drink orders.
For years, Marilyn encouraged Kenny to journal or write letters to herself—or others—about what she was experiencing; but Kenny chalked up the practice to busy work and shelved the idea on the same mental rack as self-care, overrated and unnecessary. She also equated the dozens of filled notebooks in the drawers of her workspace at the office to some version of journaling. In her mind, those overly detailed reporter’s notebooks were a precise account of her daily life. Practically, a diary. The notes were primarily work-related, but work was primarily her life, so to keep a separate journal would be redundant and time consuming in a life that was already strapped for time.
However, Kenny was intrigued by what she heard directly and indirectly from the summer intern. If a college student from Kansas could pull enough fodder from three months of her life to write a book, then Kenny suddenly became confident that she could cull something from her decades-long career in the news business that would satisfy Muffin Evans and the easy-read audience that she was plotting to commandeer. It was time to put the Clinton White debacle andArmchair Detectiverejection in the rearview mirror.
Kenny picked up the black ballpoint, bold tip pen and began writing. What started off as an exercise in making bulleted lists turned into structured sentences that morphed into short paragraphs and resulted in a mini story of her experiences.
Before I Got Scooped
I’ve met presidents, politicians, celebrities, movie stars, professional athletes, and had high tea with a dame. I’ve interviewed killers, criminals, convicts, men on death row . . . and the wrongfully accused and convicted. Survivors, victims, those who felt they had no voice—and their loved ones—confided in me, sharing deeply personal, emotional, tragic, and resilient stories. I’ve spoken to medical heroes, scientific heroes, law enforcement heroes, religious heroes, and everyday heroes. I’ve filmed in sugar cane fields, gun ranges, and morgues; at crime scenes, movie premieres, and water parks; on red carpets, horse farms, fashion shows, urban superhero conventions, under Niagara Falls (over Niagara Falls), and in feet of snow on Alex Trebek’s college campus; in houses of worship, prisons, police stations, theaters, airports, and hospitals.
I’ve reported on the biggest courtroom dramas of the decade, spending more time in courthouses than many trial attorneys. I’ve covered mass shootings, terror attacks, natural disasters, plane crashes, inaugurations, elections, and a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic. I’ve logged more air miles, checked into more hotels, and driven more rental cars than I could ever count. I’ve landed the big interviews, lost the big interviews, and cried over both. I’ve scooped stories, my stories have been scooped, and I’m learning that life goes on.
Kenny put the pen behind her ear and leaned back in the plastic chair to read what she wrote and noticed two arms reaching over her table.
“Look at that! You like writing, too? My creativity runs wild down here,” the server said and set down the salad and appetizer plates on the table away from Kenny’s notebook. “Enjoy! I’ll be back in a few minutes to see if you need anything.”
Thirty-One
Before J.P. could get to the end of the long hallway to open the door to Mr. Cunningham’s office, he heard a loudThud!and then a soft whimper from Cliff whom he assumed ran head-on into the locked door in an attempt to deliverThe Wall Street Journalhe retrieved from under the Adirondack chair on the wrap-around front porch of the clubhouse in exchange for a morning Milk-Bone from Mr. Cunningham, who was still in Georgia on business.
“Cliff, you clumsy pup. We need to work on pumping those brakes,” he said to the dog who he found lying on his belly, defeated with the rolled-up newspaper still clenched in his mouth.
J.P. unlocked the door and Cliff slowly and dizzily stood on his paws, walked to the large mahogany pedestal desk, and dropped the paper next to the bottom right drawer where he knew the treats were stashed.
“You’re not as simple as you sometimes act, are you?” He nodded and raided the drawer, breaking his own rule of no snacks before lunchtime.
He sat down in the mahogany and leather swivel executive chair and waited for Mr. Cunningham to call his office line. J.P. anticipated the discussion would entail big news as such conversations always did when the esteemed businessman was away scouting new investments. When Mr. C asked that J.P. be in his office and in view of the oversized desk calendar for the conference, he knew the old man had something up his sleeve.
Precisely on cue, the landline rang as the digital clock turned to 9:15 a.m.
“Good morning! How are things on Jekyll Island?” J.P. asked, slightly nervous to hear the predicted enormity of whatever his boss was about to tell him.
“Peachy, Jonathan. Just peachy,” Mr. Cunningham said with a hefty laugh.
“You’re getting funny in your old age,” J.P. indulged the older gentleman, knowing he had likely waited all weekend to deliver the kitschy joke.
“I’m happy you appreciate the humor,” Mr. Cunningham replied.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. C. What’s going on down there? The only time you want me in your office for phone calls is when you have big news to share.”
