Chapter 18
Eighteen
Kenny stretched her arms high over her head and her legs long in front of her.
The Egyptian cotton sateen sheets felt smooth and cool on her body.
It was her fourth day waking up at Pelican Pointe and, if possible, she was more refreshed and rejuvenated than the days before.
It also marked a full week since she turned on a TV, read a newspaper, checked her email, and turned on the “out of office reply” message on Outlook.
Kenny evaluated her current headspace and was quite comfortable in the distraction-free zone.
She decided that checking in on her email or the state of the world could wait another day and poured a coffee, dragged a white bar stool onto the back deck, and enjoyed her new morning ritual of watching the early risers of Pelican Pointe start their days.
Text to Hailey: Perfect! I need fruits/veggies. Is it by Tower Beach?
Text from Hailey: Yes, ma’am! Must try key-lime pie (Emoji: cookie)
Kenny’s legs were on fire from the previous day’s four-mile run up Plantation Drive to Lawton Stables and back, so she had already planned to bike as part of Thursday’s duathlon; she didn’t have a destination in mind.
She had a special spot in her heart for farmers markets.
They reminded her of vacationing in Stone Harbor and Cape May as a kid.
Garden State farmers peddled their famous Jersey tomatoes and other produce under the beach towns’ iconic water towers on Sunday afternoons, capitalizing on the foot traffic of local churchgoers, weekend visitors who were leaving town, and out-of-state vacationers checking in for long weeks and frantically stocking rental houses with an overabundance of food for large groups of families and friends.
Kenny threw on a mesh tank top, yoga pants, and baseball hat and dabbled on bubblegum pink lip moisturizer.
She wore all black, which is slimming to any physique, but felt more confident in her appearance than she had in months.
She pulled out the brown burlap “Shop Local” bag from under the kitchen sink that she made a habit of carrying everywhere after New York banned plastic bags and started charging for paper ones, double checked that the percolator was unplugged and slid out the back door to take her first bike ride of the trip.
She wheeled the bright orange, three-speed beach cruiser out of the pavilion, down the sidewalk next to the pickleball courts, and to the parking lot so she could get adjusted.
She placed her reusable grocery bag, cross body bag, and Swell bottle in the oversized basket that hung from the handlebars and jumped on the extra wide, cushioned triangular seat.
The saddle was much more comfortable than seats on the bikes at Fly Wheel or Soul Cycle.
She’d never achieve the same kind of cardio output on a bike that had foot brakes and a tiny bell to alert other bikers and pedestrians she was coming up on the rear but she was grateful to have the bike at her disposal.
Kenny pulled out of Pelican Pointe and onto Plantation Drive, before making a left onto a long and windy Baynard Cove Road.
It was a hot, humid morning, and she welcomed getting sprayed by sprinkler systems that were watering the golf greens and landscaping beds that lined the paved bike paths.
The largely shaded lanes were protected by green shrubs and trees of all shapes and sizes, some whose roots grew so big and strong that the pressure they exerted caused cracks in the pavement.
The mini speedbumps could be viewed as a thrill or safety hazard depending on the biker riding over them.
She made a right onto South Sea Pines Drive and was awestruck by the sheer size of some of the newer construction homes.
All the houses on the plantation were large, but the height and depth of the mansions she passed dwarfed some of the older homes at the northern end of Sea Pines.
Many of the single-family homes were bigger than her prewar Manhattan brownstone that housed twenty apartments.
The two worlds seemed farther apart than a twelve-hour drive or two-hour flight.
She reached the corner of South Sea Pines Drive and Wren Drive where she saw a giant temporary sandwich board. The hand-painted piece of cardboard was eye-catching for no other reason than it was glaringly out of place and she was surprised the Sea Pines aesthetic police hadn’t removed it.
Sea Pines Farmer’s Market Every Thursday
8:00 a.m.–12:00 p.m.
BYOT (Bring Your Own Table)
No spaces are reserved. Event is rain or shine.
Kenny hopped off her three-speed and followed the arrow on the sign that led her down a narrow path to a crushed shell lot, adja cent to a large pavilion.
The pavilion bustled with vendors and shoppers.
She noticed a cluster of bicycles parked around a steel rack and wiggled the front fat tire of the cruiser into an empty slot between an adult raspberry red tricycle and a much sleeker black Cannondale road bike.
The bikes were so compact that she didn’t even need to put down the kickstand on the flashy orange bike for it to stay vertical.
Kenny grabbed her burlap bag and made her way up the long ramp to the large octagonal structure.
She quickly observed three different groups of people milling from stand to stand.
The weekly shoppers who methodically darted from one table to the next with intention, filling their baskets with produce, eggs, and baked goods.
The vacationers or first timers, like Kenny, who weaved in and out of the rows of tables to get a sense of what was available before making a purchase.
She imagined they made mental inventories of the bushels of berries and ears of sweet corn they passed, before committing to one stand.
The final group of marketgoers were either a mix of island retirees and people who didn’t have day jobs or paid undercover agents employed by whomever organized the farmers market to push the goods that were for sale.
They meandered around singing the praises of the local farmers and craftsmen and initiated conversation with anyone who would listen.
“Kelly’s hydrating face mask and Sleep No More undereye serum are going to be featured in InStyle next month. Her products are liquid gold!” Kenny overheard a Botox-injected middle-aged woman telling a tired young mother who was pushing a double stroller past the Kelly’s Organics table.
Kenny wanted to smell the soy candles at Kelly’s Organics, but speed walked past the table for fear of being cornered by the woman whose forehead didn’t move and who talked her into buying a cream she didn’t need.
The Tupperware bin of unused beauty products disguised as self-care supplies under the sink at The Dollhouse was proof that the promise of any age-defying elixir had Kenny reaching for her wallet.
She continued down a long stretch of blackberries, blueberries, apples, and peaches and suddenly craved a giant mixed fruit salad.
The vibrant colors and spacious display presented major curb appeal.
She barely came to a complete halt when she stopped at the fruit cart on the corner of West Sixty-Eighth Street every Tuesday morning and grabbed the closest bunch of bananas and bag of grapes she could reach from the top shelf.
The method to her fruit purchasing madness was that the produce on the top shelf was less handled.
Until the day she wore flats and realized that 99 percent of the Upper West Side’s population over the age of twelve was taller than her and eye level with the top shelf .
. . therefore, reaching for that exact spot.
Then she started haphazardly grabbing whatever fruit looked like it was going to fall off the overcrowded cart and onto the sidewalk.
This experience was completely different.
She inspected the apples for damaged spots, smelled the peaches for sweetness, and even taste-tested a few berries before she filled her bag.
She made her way through the entire market and circled back around to pick up Vidalia onions and a head of Parris Island Cos.
She didn’t know that romaine lettuce came in different varieties and imagined the crunchy leaves tasted the same as any other Caesar salad.
But she liked the fancy name and the farmer who explained that the heirloom green was developed by Clemson University in the 1950s and had the highest nutritional value of any lettuce, a bonus since healthy eating was high on her Hiatus of Life Conditions List.
If I had friends or knew anyone on this island, I’d invite them over for a pool side lunch and serve marinated grilled chicken breast over a bed of Parris Island Cos, Kenny thought.
The humidity and high temperatures had to be hovering around the yellowish-orange blocks on the National Weather Service’s heat index chart.
The crowds dispersed, but Kenny stuck around until she was able to find a spot at the salsa and granola stand.
The regulars, tourists, meanderers, and even other vendors beelined for the red and white checked tablecloths lined with jars of salsa and bags of granola.
All the marketgoers carried around white paper bags sealed with “The Salsa Man” sticker.
She wasn’t sure if the product was that good or if people made pity purchases after chowing down on The Salsa Man’s abundance of free samples, but she wanted to find out.
Kenny began sampling at the table with the granola.
She picked up a handful of small plastic spoons and went down the line of seven bowls filled with different combinations of nuts, oats, dried fruits, seeds, and sweeteners.
She scooped up tablespoon sized samples and popped them into her mouth, occasionally taking a swig from her Swell bottle to cleanse her palette.