Chapter 15
Fifteen
“Today, I’m most definitely seeing purple,” Kenny laughed as she gazed at the lilac and lavender floral wall-papered ceiling.
She felt almost regal tucked beneath the fluffy white comforter, atop the elevated bed frame and extra deep mattress and box spring, surrounded by orchid and violet silk throw pillows of every shape and size.
The blinds in the streak-free Pella French Doors were open, allowing the morning sun to stream though.
Without moving much, she had a clear view to the pool deck, which meant the women doing water aerobics had a clear view of her Princess and the Pea situation, too.
Note to self: Must shut blinds.
Kenny tumbled out of bed and into her slippers.
She had no idea what time it was. Her phone was still on the charger in the kitchen from the night before.
After the Instacart delivery, she had scrambled some eggs, took a long, hot shower in the spa-like bathroom, and quite literally fell asleep while she was moisturizing her legs on the folded down sheets.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror and the person staring back at her looked like she had either been asleep for a hundred years or hadn’t slept for nearly as many.
In this case, Kenny’s puffy face and the lines around her eyes were the result of a long, hard, face-in-the-pillow sleep.
While her appearance said otherwise, she was refreshed and energized.
She plugged in the percolator that was already prepared from the decaf pot she planned to drink after her shower and before bed the night before.
She didn’t need the caffeine to function today.
She just wanted that “first sip of coffee in the morning at the beach” sensation.
She pulled a navy blue, oversized whale-shaped coffee mug out of the cabinet, and tidied up around the kitchen while she waited for her beverage to brew.
Kenny opened the sliding door at the far end of the living space and dragged one of the white leather bar stools onto the deck that overlooked the pool since the patio furniture was still on backorder.
Cupping her whale mug, she propped her feet up on the banister and sipped her coffee as she scanned the surroundings.
It was a little before 7:00 a.m. and Pelican Pointe was awake with activity.
This wasn’t the “city that never sleeps” kind of activity, where people fired on the same, overextended cylinders whether it was four in the morning or four in the afternoon.
This was a quiet, serene, peaceful activity, spearheaded by people leisurely leaning into the day ahead.
Four older gentlemen staked out the pickleball court while women around the same age waded back and forth in the pool, lifting aquatic foam dumbbells up and down over their heads.
A dad sat on a wooden bench next to one of the landscaping ponds adjacent to the pool, reading a newspaper while his three kids crouched alongside counting the orange and white koi fish.
A mother and two teen girls ate muffins at one of the bistro tables under the pavilion.
Within a half hour, all the neighbors had scattered, and Kenny took the last gulp of her coffee.
She had every intention of going for a run, but since waking up to older women doing their water aerobics, she couldn’t stop thinking about jumping in the pool.
She hadn’t done a lap in years, but she had always been an excellent swimmer.
She loved the water, and the sport came easy to her.
There weren’t too many indoor pools in Manhattan, so her favorite form of exercise fell by the wayside.
The one red, racerback Speedo she owned also deteriorated with time, and sagged and stretched out in all the wrong places.
But she didn’t know anyone at Pelican Pointe, nor did she plan on getting to know anyone, so she slipped into the dry-rotted suit, wrapped herself in a beach towel from the linen closet, and walked down the back steps of the patio to the pool deck.
Kenny bent her left knee and gingerly dragged her right big toe over the surface of the water.
The temperature was warm but not hot like she was expecting.
She tossed her towel on the chaise lounge closest to the steps of the concrete pool and dipped in one foot, and then the other, holding onto the railing with her right hand and swinging her goggles by the strap in her left.
She slowly descended into the pool and acclimated her body—ankles, knees, waist, and bellybutton—with each step.
The water sent a quick jolt through her body when it touched certain parts of her overheated skin.
She finally hit the bottom of the shallow end of the lap pool and before squatting to submerge her shoulders, she tied her hair up in a ponytail and pulled the goggles over her eyes.
She dipped her face to make sure the lenses weren’t leaking and then held her breath and slipped under the water.
With that one swift movement, she felt like she was nine years old and had just jumped into her uncle’s pool for the first time of the season.
It was a feeling of pure happiness. She backed up to the to the wall, took a mini head dive with her arms extended in front of her, and pushed off with her feet.
With each circular arm motion, she powered forward through the water, taking a breath after every third stroke.
Kenny could hear her childhood swim coach in her partially submerged ears.
One. Two. Three. Breathe. One, Two. Three.
Breathe. It wasn’t until this moment that she realized everyone in her life had been telling her to breathe.
As she glided through the water, her gaze slightly forward, slightly down, and breathing side to side, she became fully present.
She noticed the tiny blue square tiles at the bottom of the pool that designated lap lanes and the bigger tiles on the side of the pool that denoted the changes in depth.
She noticed cracks in the concrete walls and weighted diving rings scattered below that were probably dropped in by the kids who were feeding the fish earlier.
She noticed acorns that had fallen to the bottom of the pool from the oak trees that hung over it and the dragonflies that were buzzing around the surface.
Her inside heated up and her breathing became heavy.
She was putting in a solid workout. There was no method for her swimming, she concocted her own individual medley, jumping from stroke to stroke at random.
Not the specific order of butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle that such a race was swam.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Kenny saw movement around the pool deck and decided to call it quits for the day.
She didn’t want to be known as the new tenant in Villa #5 who hogged the pool.
And she certainly didn’t want anyone watching her swim.
She removed the goggles from her head and pulled the scrunchie from her tangled hair.
She bobbed up and down in the shallow end three quick times and on the fourth lingered under water for a little while longer, throwing her head back before coming up for air so her shoulder length hair stayed slick off her face and rested down her back.
She stepped out of the pool and patted her arms and legs dry.
She draped the royal blue and white striped terry cloth towel over her shoulders and twisted and rang her hair out like a soaked sponge.
She took the long way around the pool back toward her patio steps to check out the amenities under the pavilion.
The right side of the square structure housed two gas grills separated by a built-in prep station that was stocked with stainless steel BBQ utensils, cleaners, and aluminum foil.
The back wall was lined with piles of wood that were protected by yellow caution tape and a sign that read “Construction Area: Wet Bar Coming in Fall.” The left side had a built-in counter height ledge with a row of stools facing the pickleball court and a variety of high- and low-top tables, occupying the space in the middle.
In the front right corner, there was a marker-stained magnetic white board on a wobbly wooden easel that looked like it had been plucked straight from a kindergarten classroom on the last day of a long school year.
Community News was sprawled across the top in purple cursive handwriting and one lonely sheet of white computer paper with black Times New Roman font stuck to it.
What: Beach Yoga
Where: Sea Pines Beach Club (Beach Marker #38)
When: Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday @ 9:00 a.m.
Bring a towel, water, and $5!
While the advertisement left much to be desired, beach yoga sounded delightful.
Kenny hadn’t practiced with Yogi Marah since last Wednesday’s meltdown and, mentally and physically, she felt the absence.
Her body was still crammed and compact from sitting in the car for so many hours over the weekend, and she was slightly concerned how her unused muscles were going to react to the rigorous swim workout she put them through.
It was already 8:15 a.m. and Kenny’s phone told her that the Sea Pines Beach Club was a twenty-minute walk from Pelican Pointe, but she could cut that time almost in half, being the city slicker she was.
She could qualify for competitive speedwalking at the Olympic level after so many years of commuting through the streets of Manhattan in stilettos.
If she wore sneakers, she’d likely place in the event.
She sprinted up the back steps to the villa and started taking down the straps of her bathing suit as she shut the door behind her and charged toward the bedroom.
She slipped into a pair of black leggings; they weren’t her fat pair, but the skinny ones were still too tight, and pulled a black sports bra and maroon Rams tank over her head.
She tied her wet hair up into a knot with the silk blue scrunchy and quickly dabbed SPF 50 on her face.
Although it was already September, Kenny hadn’t seen much sun and knew the rays reflecting off the ocean water would be powerful.
She filled her water bottle, grabbed a dry towel, and shuffled out the door.