“Yes,” J.P. answered dumfounded.
“Don’t give up on the idea of her too easily, Jonathan. Your face lights up when you talk about her. That’s a rare phenomenon these days,” Mr. Cunningham lectured.
“I did ask her to go for dinner.” J.P. shook his head at the rare phenomenon of Mr. Cunninghamalwaysgetting in the last word. “I made a reservation at Charlie’s for next Wednesday.” He made his way to the door and indicated to Cliff that it was time to go.
“Attaboy! Excellent choice,” Mr. Cunningham smirked.
Thirty-Seven
More than sixty miles of bike paths snaked through Hilton Head, and most were sparse on Saturday mornings. Vacationers were either ending their tropical get-aways and begrudgingly vacating the island or were just beginning their periods of respite and were still in transit. Locals stayed close to home and steered clear of anxious visitors who clogged incoming and outgoing traffic.
Kenny seized the opportunity of empty trails and ventured on a longer, more leisurely bike ride than her usual loops around Sea Pines. She wandered out the Ocean Gate on the south side of the plantation and rode down South Forest Beach Road, a mile-long stretch of land that was busier with vehicles and pedestrians than the roads of Sea Pines, but still primarily populated by resort complexes, clusters of villas and tennis courts. The character of the island remained the same, whether inside the confines of one of the eleven plantations that comprised a bulk of Hilton Head, or passing along one of the major thoroughfares that connected them. The earth-colored buildings and structures were constructed of stucco, wood, and brick, and protected by lush vegetation that made everything blend in natural harmony. There were no bright lights or neon signs, and even fast-food chains toned down their trademark, eye-popping logos to adhere to the tranquility of the sanctuary that preferred to fly under the radar off the coast of South Carolina.
She peddled until she arrived at Coligny Plaza. What began as Hilton Head’s first grocery store blossomed into a downtown that accommodated boutiques, restaurants, and entertainment venues. Since she hadn’t bought anything new to wear in months and hadn’t been on a date in nearly as long, Kenny decided to take Colby’s advice and freshen her wardrobe. She locked up the bright orange beach cruiser near a huddle of outdoor, round kiosks that looked like tiki huts and popped in and out of the stores that were tucked away throughout the maze-like plaza.
Partially fearful of buyer’s remorse but mostly conflicted about what kind of outfits she should be trying on, she didn’t take any items into the dressing rooms until her second round of perusing through all the boutiques that sold women’s clothing. While browsing the racks, she realized J.P. had only ever seen her in workout clothes, bathing suits, and the loose-fitting maxi-dress she reserved for days she went for a sunless spray tan since the tent-like frock was less likely to smudge her damp skin. She started meticulously examining and closely scrutinizing what hung from every hanger, was folded on every table, and was dressed on every mannequin.
She enjoyed the one-woman fashion show. She had no idea what number would calculate on a scale if she were to step on one, but she felt comfortable in the clothes she was stepping into. The skin that peeked out from under the dresses, tanks, jeans, and shorts she modeled had a healthy glow. Although she could’ve purchased any number of the fashions she tried on, she over-analyzed and talked herself out of all of them.
She loved the chic red jumpsuit that was tied in a big bow at the lower back but that would be too complicated to wear and reassemble if she had to go to the bathroom. She went crazy for the linen orange shift dress with hot pink embellishments but knew the material would be wrinkled beyond repair before leaving the bedroom at Pelican Pointe. She paired an elegant silk sleeveless black halter top with a pair of wide-legged white jeans, but the top made her boobs look like a shelf; and the “no white after Labor Day” rule floated through her mind. She tried on a trendy pair of light blue denim capris but thought the wash and frayed ankles made them too casual.
She had a fleeting appreciation for early phase dating in Manhattan when most meetups took place after work over drinks, which occasionally progressed to post-work dinner and drinks. Kenny had plenty of “office cube to cocktails” ensembles for those occasions. She had a little black dress and sexy pencil skirt for all seasons, but nothing in her closet at Pelican Pointe or back at The Dollhouse ever gave off a first date at the beach kind of vibe.
After she was certain that she overstayed her time in the dressing room and was satisfied that she had tried on every date-worthy piece of clothing at her last stop, she went to the register to ring out a black camisole and white camisole that were buy one, get one half off and a cardboard sleeve of three silk scrunchies because her favorite blue one was losing its elasticity due to overuse. She didn’t really need the tank tops or the hair ties but chalked them up to pity purchases for blowing through the store like a Category Three hurricane, leaving trails of sloppily folded and poorly hung clothes in her wake.
She didn’t work up a sweat on the bike ride to Coligny Plaza but could feel herself start to glisten after the physical and mental endurance challenge that she braved running from store to store trying on clothes. She equated what happened in a women’s fitting room to a high impact sport. Ladies squat, stretch, suck in, stand on tip toes, and move limbs in contortionist ways, all to zip, button, tie, wrap and snap themselves into an effortless look.
Tired, Kenny unlocked the beach cruiser, slightly disappointed she wasn’t going home with something dazzling to wear to Charlie’s but planned to ask Hailey for additional shopping suggestions the following night when she met her new friend for a drink. Kenny would still have a day and a half to put together the perfect look for her much-anticipated date night.
When she got back to Pelican Pointe, she was pleasantly surprised to find that the porch furniture for Villa #5 had been delivered. There were four black metal swivel chairs with tan waterproof cushions around a square black metal table that had a glass top. A matching black metal lounge chair with a long tan waterproof cushion accompanied the set. There wasn’t a need for the recliner on the small patio since there were so many around the perimeter of the pool that was steps away, but she wasn’t complaining. If nothing else, it’d be a good place to dry out her bathing suits and other personals she didn’t like to put in the dryer or hang over the patio wall on display for all her neighbors to see.
Thirty-Eight
Around 9:00 a.m. the sun began to break, to Kenny’s relief. Heavy rains had pummeled the island the previous twelve hours and gale force winds gusted as loudly as the thunder that rumbled during the marathon of overnight storms. Lightning illuminated the sky shades of red and purple, and with each bolt she wondered if there was a flashlight hidden somewhere inside the confines of Villa #5. She was certain that Pelican Pointe was going to lose power.
Kenny weathered a lot of storms recently, both tangible and cerebral, so was surprised that this one perturbed her as much as it did. There was something foreboding about it. That fear lasted a few minutes before her practical journalist’s mind set in and she decided that the lesson in the meteorological event was to stick with the true crime beat at WBS and not attempt to transfer to the weather team. She often envied her colleagues who traveled from continent to continent to report on penguins in Antarctica or cover the hottest-ever recorded temperatures in Australia, but this storm confirmed that she wasn’t cut out to produce any live shots from the eye of a hurricane or base of a wildfire.
She grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the kitchen sink to wipe down the furniture on the patio and assess any damage. The ground was covered in fallen pine needles, the waterproof cushions felt like they’d be saturated for a week and two of the chairs had blown over, but nothing catastrophic happened to the quaint outdoor seating area. The pool, however, looked like it needed a whole team of skimmers to clean up the debris that floated on the surface. The deck around the perimeter was in disarray. The lounge chairs and tables, always uniform, were strewn across the concrete. There were no women wading in the pool, anticipating water aerobics to begin; and there were no gentlemen huddled around the coin-operated newspaper boxes to collect copies ofThe New York TimesorThe Sea Pines Sentinel.
Despite the heavy, thick air and streaks of gloomy colors that lingered overhead, it was only a matter of time before the rest of Pelican Pointe slowly awoke and ventured outdoors. While she waited for neighboring signs of life, she swept fallen debris that dropped from the canopy and protected the exterior of Villa #5 to the top of the patio stairs with an old broom she found in the hall closet when she searched for a flashlight.
Kenny squeezed the excess water out of the chair cushions and strategically placed them around the patio in areas where they would receive direct sunlight. She had just finished drying off the arms and legs of the table set and lounge chair when she heard abuzz buzzfrom the other side of the opened glass door. She saw her phone light up next to the percolator on the counter.
FaceTime from Colby.
She normally would’ve hesitated to answer a call from Colby on a Sunday morning, for fear it was an accidental dial and unsure of the company he’d be keeping; but after hunkering down alone during the recent apocalypse, she welcomed a familiar face whether the call was intentional or not.
She picked up her right arm, tilted the phone down and cast up her gaze. She cocked her head to the right and opened her eyes wide.
“Morning, sunshine,” she chimed as she picked up the percolator with her left hand and poured a cup of coffee into one of the whale-shaped mugs from the cabinet.
“You’re alive, thank God!” Colby gasped with a sigh of genuine relief, though he still sounded half asleep.
“I am. It appears you are, too. Kind of, anyway,” Kenny said noting his tousled hair, squinted eyes and puffy face indicting he had a late night and hadn’t strayed from under his covers, yet. “What do I give this early-morning pleasure?” She shuffled back to the patio and reclined on the lounge chair.
“I love your place, doll! That yellow couch is fabulous,” he said twisting his head.
From the other side of the screen, it appeared like he was repositioning himself and the phone in the hopes that doing so would give him a better view of the interior of the villa that was now behind Kenny as she walked outside.
