“Yes, that’s him. And that’s the Liberty Oak Tree.” J.P. gave a dorky grin, acknowledging he slipped in another factoid. “Anyway, he’s notorious for dropping bits of Sea Pines history into his sets, and I’ve heard enough of his monologues and taken my niece on enough of his Bubble Gum cruises over the years on theVagabonddown there, that I’d be a fierce competitor in a game of Hilton Head trivia.” He pointed to a large white ship docked below them, next to another, larger white ship that hadSpirit of Harbour Townscrawled across the side.
There was a still silence as both of their attentions turned back to the bold, colorful spectrum in front of them. The blazing orange circle at the focal point deliberately slid down the vista.
“This is my favorite part,” J.P. said quietly, as if not to disturb the moment.
“Me too,” Kenny agreed, as the sun disappeared into the horizon.
They stood in quiet for another few moments, each trying to anticipate what the others’ next move was going to be. They turned their bodies inward and when they locked eyes, Cliff barked and broke the silence.
“We should probably get going. I’m sure the lighthouse keeper is waiting to lock up for the night,” Kenny said, even though she never wanted this moment to end.
“You’re right. And he won’t forget we’re up here with Cliff barking,” he replied, wondering if Kenny could sense the disappointment in his voice.
They made the trek down the dozens of steps, mostly in quiet.
“Cliff and I started running this week, thanks in part to you putting me to shame on those kayaks. These steps nearly killed me tonight. My legs felt like Jello-O before the climb, now I’m not sure I can feel them at all,” J.P. confessed as they turned the corner on the last flight.
“Those first few come back runs are the worst. What made you think scaling a lighthouse would be a good idea tonight?”
“I have no idea. I was perfectly content sitting in my red rocking chair outside of Nell’s Harbour Shop.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment; your quads are going to be on fire tomorrow. But I’m happy I wasn’t up there alone.” Kenny curled the edges of her lips up and smiled.
I am a glutton for punishment, J.P. thought.I don’t fall for anyone and here I am falling for a girl who lives eight hundred miles away.
They got to the bottom of the steps and walked out the door, past the young lighthouse keeper who was taken up with his phone.
J.P. abruptly turned around and handed Cliff’s leash to Kenny. “If you have a half hour to spare, why don’t you find two rocking chairs? I’ll grab us a beer from the Quarterdeck. They have a few drafts on tap from a new microbrewery down in Savannah that they’ve been serving. Mr. C has been on my case to check them out. He strives to keep things fresh in the kitchen and behind the bar at the clubhouse.”
“Sure, that sounds great,” Kenny stumbled for words and took the leash.
She led Cliff down the brick walkway in search of two unoccupied red rocking chairs that were next to each other, and J.P. shuffled inside to the bar. As he stood in line waiting to be served, he wondered why he couldn’t have simply asked Kenny if she wanted to grab a drink. Instead, he couched it as a work assignment, like the kayaking excursion. He easily could have tested the beer or kayaks on his own. He wasn’t sure which scenario would be perceived as more pathetic, that he didn’t want to conduct these easy tasks by himself, or he couldn’t ask a girl to spend time together without some elaborate justification.
He was thrown back to the time in high school when he feigned to not understand trigonometry because he had a crush on the peer tutor, who also happened to be captain of the cheerleading squad. Katie George not only understood triangles on paper, but she was always the bubbly, tiny one at the top of the triangle when the team built pyramids. Katie and J.P. went on to date for four years and he eventually admitted that he never, once, had a problem in a math class, but he still felt like that seventeen-year-old boy who couldn’t go straight after what he wanted. He always thought there was a fine line between the guys who came off as overly confident and the guys who came off as arrogant. He never wanted to come off as either; as a result, he never mastered how to straddle that line.
He sat down next to Kenny. “Nice find on the rockers! I thought you’d still be looking, or we’d be walking around drinking these.”
“See that boat over there?” She pointed to a yacht that took up most of the harbor.
“Silver Topsfrom Mobile, Alabama? That’s not a boat. That’s a floating city.”
“Yes, that one. Two of the older gentlemen who own that ‘floating city’ were sitting here with a small dog who got all riled up when he saw Cliff. We got to talking and when they found out I was on the hunt for rocking chairs they told me to have a seat because they were heading home for their nightly ritual of Manhattans and Mahjong.”
“I couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes and you scored seatsandmade new friends. Impressive. That yacht shows up for a few weeks every autumn. I’ve admired it for years. Everyone on the plantation has admired it for years,” J.P. clarified and handed Kenny one of the plastic cups filled to the brim with gold colored beer.
“It’s a cool story. A group of nine siblings and their spouses pulled their retirement when the men left their decades long careers in the aerospace industry and bought that ship. The crew, nicknamed ‘The Silver Tops’ by their children, always loved to travel but when they realized how much they spent in hotels and airfare, they decided to invest their money elsewhere,” Kenny continued.
“Geez, people really do tell you things.” J.P. shook his head. “Well, cheers to The Silver Tops and the possibility of one day having a life of cruises, Manhattans, and Mahjong.”
“Cheers.” Kenny clinked her plastic cup and took a sip. “So how have you been? Are you still at Marlin Manor? Holding down the fort for Mr. Cunningham?”
“No, we got evicted earlier today,” J.P. joked. “Mr. C drove home from Georgia this afternoon. We are back to slumming it, our little life of paupers.”
“I don’t want to hear your sob story. When I go back to New York, I’ll be going back to a Polly Pocket sized two-hundred-square foot concrete rectangle with bars on the windows,” Kenny said matter-of-factly.
“Are you going back to Rikers? Are you here on some extended work release program or something?”
Kenny playfully pushed J.P.’s arm. “Shut up!” She surprised herself by instinctively touching him and blamed it on the few sips of beer she had taken. “My studio, I call it The Dollhouse, is quite cozy. Right now, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s safe and comfortable, and I love my neighborhood.”
