Chapter 20
Twenty
Cliff darted up the wide brick staircase and ran back and forth until he found the rolled-up copy of The Wall Street Journal that was underneath a teak Adirondack chair on the wrap around porch at the Liberty Oaks Clubhouse.
He scooped it up between his teeth and stood at attention at the front door while he waited for J.P.
to park his bike and drop off the golf bag at the cart garage.
“Good boy,” J.P. exclaimed like he was cheering on a toddler who went to the bathroom on a training potty for the first time.
J.P. pushed down on the brass lever handle and before the door was cracked the slightest, Cliff barreled through and ran down the long hallway, slid on the hardwood floor as he rounded the corner at the end of the corridor, and dropped the paper at Mr. Cunningham’s feet.
“You really outdid yourself with training this mutt, kid,” the jolly old man yelled to J.P. who popped his head in the doorway in time to catch Mr. Cunningham slip Cliff treats that he swore he never gave until after lunchtime.
“Busted! I knew you were sneaking him morning treats,” J.P. accused.
“Cool your horses, he’s a growing boy. Who could afford to put on a few pounds, I might add,” Mr. Cunningham said as he took the newspaper out of the plastic sleeve.
“He doesn’t eat lunch on the days he has morning treats.
I know this from experience. When my grandfather would sneak me midmorning Tastykakes, I wouldn’t eat lunch either.
He and I denied our secret to his grave.
At his funeral, my mom pulled me aside and said she knew we lied to her all those years.
She suspected the days I wasn’t hungry for lunch were the days he filled me with junk food.
You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Mr. C. ” J.P. laughed.
“Let me ask you this, Jonathan,” Mr. Cunningham asked, trying to sound serious. “If your mother called out your grandfather, the way you just called me out, would he have stopped giving you Tastykakes?”
“Absolutely not, that was our thing,” J.P. conceded knowing where the conversation was headed.
Mr. Cunningham always had the last word. But the baffling, albeit frustrating, thing was that he usually deserved it.
“That’s what I thought. I didn’t have the privilege of knowing your grandfather, but my instincts tell me he was a wise man.” Mr. Cunningham winked and dropped another Milk-Bone biscuit to the ground. “I bet you were a tall, lanky kid. You probably needed the extra weight, too.”
Cliff was curled up on the overstuffed deep blue velvet couch next to Mr. Cunningham who motioned for J.P. to sit in one of the wingback chairs on the other side of the coffee table.
“Have a seat, you’ve got time before your first clinic. How are things looking at Pelican Pointe? I had a meeting with the contractor yesterday. Villas #10 and #11, the ten-sleepers, should be ready for occupancy in the next two weeks. That’s a whole month ahead of schedule,” Mr. Cunningham said.
“That’s great. Did you loop in marketing and reservations? They should start advertising and really talk up the renovated kitchens and new appliances. I read in Conde Naste Traveler that vacation rentals for the holidays are on the uptick. Thanksgiving is right around the corner.”
“I’m impressed, Jonathan. Looks like there might be a hotelier underneath all of that after all,” Mr. Cunningham said waving his index finger up and down pointing to J.P.’s tailored charcoal gray golf pants and white heathered polo.
“Let’s not push it, Mr. C. I was reading Traveler because the floating green at Coeur d’Alene was the cover story.
Imagine how many balls those divers fish out of the water each season?
” J.P. laughed, trying to change the course of the conversation, regretting that he let it slip he read the magazine and paid attention to industry trends.
Over the past seven years, J.P. worked as the head golf pro at Liberty Oaks Golf Course.
He was the sought-after instructor at the acclaimed course for beginners, seasoned golfers, and every level of player in between.
His many years on the PGA tour circuit helped elevate the course’s popularity among professionals, amateurs and talented youth who had potential to grow and maybe one day compete in the ambitious sport.
His congenial personality set a tone of camaraderie that was evident in the clubhouse and on the greens.
J.P. effortlessly ran the course with little direction or distraction; and Mr. Cunningham often, and not so subtly, suggested that his managerial skills and style would easily transfer to bigger business models.
“Just like this golf course, Low Country Hospitality and my philanthropies aren’t going to run themselves when I die. Or worse, retire.” Mr. Cunningham laughed at his own joke.
“Since I don’t see either of those two scenarios happening any time soon, I think all of your business ventures are just fine with you at the helm.” J.P. nervously took a swig from the water bottle he was holding.
J.P. always got uncomfortable when Mr. Cunningham nonchalantly talked about death, retirement, or J.P.
taking on a larger role in his mentor’s operations.
J.P. considered himself an expert at golf and people.
In his mind, the two went hand in hand and were the reason why the golf course enjoyed such success under his direction.
He enjoyed the latitude and freedom Mr. Cunningham afforded him in running the prized greens, but the thought of taking on a larger role in Mr. Cunningham’s vast organizations terrified him.
J.P. had Mr. Cunningham on a pedestal and didn’t imagine anyone was capable of climbing the podium he stood atop.
“Anyway, Pelican Pointe looked great when I stopped by to drop off the bikes and beach chairs. The exterior of all the units has been powered washed, the grill area is being kept clean, and the landscaping is under control. Do we need to post Alligator Safety signage around the koi ponds?” J.P. asked.
“I’ll place the order today. They should’ve been up. We don’t need the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources hassling us. Two enough?”
“That should be fine,” J.P. agreed. “Also, I asked Jose to keep an extra eye on the chlorine levels in the pool. I noticed one of the renters may have been having a reaction,” he continued.
“Trade magazines and paying attention to visitors. How about that?” Mr. Cunningham nodded and smiled.
“I wouldn’t say I was paying attention to any visitors. It was a mere observation. I mean,” J.P. stuttered not realizing he was smiling like a goof and uncontrollably tapping his right foot.
“Looks like I struck a nerve! Who is she?” Mr. Cunningham let out a belly laugh.
“Who’s who?” J.P. coolly questioned, making a conscience effort to still his foot and make a serious face.
“The girl. I’ve seen it before Jonathan. Some woman has gotten into that usually cool, calm, and collected head of yours. I may be elderly but I’m not an idiot.” The older gentleman pulled his glasses down to the brim of his nose and peered over the lenses like he was staring through J.P.’s soul.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Old Man.” J.P. rolled his eyes. “Remind me why I open myself up to this harassment every morning.”
“Because I cut your checks,” Mr. Cunningham said matter-of-factly and slid his glasses back up to his eyes.
Last word, J.P thought.
“Let’s go, Cliff. This man is looking to stir trouble for us,” J.P. joked as he sprung to his feet and made his way to the door.
“Don’t forget I’m driving down to Georgia tonight to check out that chain of family-owned resorts on Jekyll Island.
I think I’ll spend a few days exploring the area and assess if it’s worth the investment.
Why don’t you and Cliff stay at the house?
I’m having work done in the master suite on the first floor and hate to have workers coming and going when I’m out of state,” Mr. Cunningham said.
J.P. saluted with his right hand. “You got it, boss.”