Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
“Cliff! Cliff, get over here. Now.” J.P. said in a stern whisper.
The defiant dog stared his owner straight in the face, eyes wide and teeth clutching a bright yellow tennis ball. His grin reminiscent of a cheshire cat.
J.P. squatted a few feet from the corner of the bright pink square beach blanket where Cliff had plopped down.
He impatiently tapped the long-handled ball launcher toy on the sand in front of him, hoping the puppy would return the ball so he could lob it down the beach and the two would be on their way before the unsuspecting beach-napper was abruptly awoken from her slumber.
He couldn’t help but think that maybe Mr. Cunningham was correct about bribing and rewarding Cliff with treats.
He wished he had a pocket full of them now.
While J.P. quietly attempted to reel in his intrusive pet, he understood why the dog chose that exact spot on the vast beach to settle.
The sleeping sunbather that Cliff was lying next to looked content, at peace, in a happy place.
She appeared to be in a bubble of calmness.
The slightest smile of her lower lip, the only part of her face peeking out from underneath a strategically placed wide-brimmed straw hat protecting her from the sun, would make any passerby wonder what she was dreaming about.
Her legs were stretched in front of her with feet splayed to the sides.
Her arms rested on her hip bones and the bright Barbie pink nail polish on her fingers drew attention to a sunburned stomach that probably should’ve been covered like her face.
The waves crept closer and closer to the beach blanket with each current and J.P.
assumed the woman had been in a deep sleep for a considerable amount of time.
Surrounding beach goers had already moved their coolers, chairs, and sand toys closer to the dunes in anticipation of the 3:47 p.m. high tide.
J.P. was about to strike the ball launcher on the sand again when a large wave made it all the way to his ankles, startling him and causing him to instinctively jump to his feet.
When J.P. leapt, Cliff dropped the ball from his mouth and let out an alarmed howl.
The sunbather sprung from her torso like a jack in the box and the straw hat slid to her knees which she instinctively pulled up and into her chest.
“Kenny!” J.P. blurted out in a voice that wasn’t as suave as usual. “I didn’t realize that was you. I’m so sorry to startle you. Again,” he stammered, looking bewildered.
He sensed her insecurity as she jumped to her feet and pulled a light blue Salty Dog racer back tank over her head, covering up her half-naked body. He hoped his clumsiness wasn’t the cause of her unease.
“Hi, J.P.,” she sheepishly smiled, still in a sleepy haze. “And hello there, Cliff,” she said directing her gaze toward the dog.
J.P. couldn’t help but notice that Kenny’s eyes were smiling as much as her mouth.
“We rescued you from high tide just in time,” he smirked as he regained his composure and grabbed a corner of the beach mat. “Let’s move this back. It’d take hours to dry if it got crushed by waves.”
“Thanks,” Kenny beamed as she picked up the opposite corner and tugged the beach mat closer to the dunes. “What time is it? I must’ve been sleeping longer than I thought,” she giggled.
“It’s almost four o’clock, Sleeping Beauty,” J.P. answered.
“Oh, here we go,” Kenny exaggerated an eye roll.
“And I guess your role in this is the knight in shining armor who saves the damsel in distress from the aggressive late afternoon whitecaps, just before they swallow her whole.” She sarcastically motioned to the gently rolling waves lapping on the sand.
“You’re welcome,” J.P. grinned ear to ear.
He sensed the sarcasm was an attempt to mask anything she might say to come out as blatantly flirty.
“I really don’t know how you’d survive these few weeks down here without me,” J.P. said while he slipped out of his REEF sandals and sat down on the mat. “Mind if I sit for a minute?” an already reclined J.P. asked in a way that didn’t warrant a response.
“Of course, have a seat,” Kenny said as she unzipped her insulated Bogg bag and pulled out two sparkling waters. “Why are you in those long, dark pants? It must be ninety degrees,” she exclaimed as she sat down next to J.P. and handed him a Pellegrino.
“Tell me about it. The big guy won’t budge when it comes to the dress code. Even in the middle of July, he’s a stickler.” J.P. rolled his eyes as he pulled up the bottom of his pant legs. “Cheers!” He lifted the bottle, twisted off the cap and took a gulp.
“The big guy being Mr. Cunningham?” Kenny asked, assuming she already knew the answer.
“Yeah. Mr. C doesn’t have too many quirks, but he insists on long pants. He thinks they bring a level of ‘professionalism and old-fashioned class that shorts don’t,’” J.P. said using air quotes and deepening his voice as if to mimic the old man.
“Respectable. I mean you look great; it just seems like an odd uniform choice for someone who’s running around in the heat all day.”
J.P. caught Kenny’s eye just as she accidentally doled out an innocent compliment and suddenly felt vulnerable himself.
“I should do more running. Or at least walking and lifting. I’ve been relying too much on carts these days. I need to keep this in check.” He straightened his back and tapped the midsection of his polo shirt.
J.P. instantly regretted that one swift move. He hoped Kenny didn’t perceive him as a meathead or a guy whose main concern was six pack abs and a tight ass.
“Carts? What kind of carts?”
“Golf carts. What kind of cart did you think I meant.” J.P. laughed. “What other kind of carts are there?”
“I wasn’t sure what you meant. There are utility carts, hand carts, valet carts,” Kenny rattled off while striking her fingers.
J.P. cracked a smile, realizing that Kenny had no idea who he was.
Although J.P. preferred to keep a low profile, he was a local celebrity around Hilton Head.
He was considered the best golf instructor in the southeast region and could’ve chosen to instruct at any course in the country after retiring from his professional golf career.
If people inside the golf community didn’t recognize his face, they knew his name.
If people outside of the golf community didn’t know his name, they recognized his face because of his picture on the Liberty Oaks Golf Course ads that were everywhere from church bulletins and weekly coupon circulars to real estate brochures and flyers in The Sea Pines Sentinel.
To Kenny, he was nothing more than a billionaire’s gopher. And J.P. was fine with that.
“Yes, golf carts are my preferred cart. When I’m not delivering beach chairs and bicycles to Mr. Cunningham’s rental properties, I give golf lessons at Liberty Oaks,” J.P. said, downplaying his position at the esteemed course that was on par with Augusta and Pebble Beach.
“Why do you know so much about carts? What is it that you do?” He playfully nudged Kenny’s left arm with his right elbow. “Are you an heir to Home Depot?”
“I’m a news producer at WBS.” She laughed, returning the slightest nudge. “Which means I know a little bit about a lot of things. Some of which are ridiculous, like my unusual knowledge of carts.”
“I bet that’s an awesome job. Maybe not whatever story you did about different methods of transporting objects, but it sounds like most days wouldn’t be boring. Do you have a certain beat?”
“It’s a pretty cool job. Most days. It’s never boring, although some days I wish it were.
I’ve reported on everything from presidential campaigns to potty training but have covered the world of true crime and murder mysteries for a while now.
” She repeated the generic canned answer she’d given countless times before when people asked about her career.
“I know so much about carts thanks to my camera and sound crews who lug enormous amounts of audio and visual equipment wherever they go and are always looking for the fastest, quickest, and easiest ways to move the gear. We, the producers, ask them to film and shoot interviews in impossible locations—like on top of the New Years Eve ball in Times Square or on a tightrope over the Grand Canyon.” Kenny laughed.
“Sometimes watching these guys wrangle their equipment to wherever we want them to be is more impressive than the story we’re filming. ”
“That’s very cool. I geek out when shows share behind the scenes footage of that kind of stuff. And I must admit Inside Edition is a guilty pleasure of mine, so I’m pretty tuned into the true crime zeitgeist.”
“Inside Edition?” Kenny flailed her arms in the air. “I didn’t see that coming. You strike me as the type of person whose television only turns to ESPN. Why Inside Edition? You don’t fit the infotainment demographic.”
“Comical. Embarrassing. I know.” J.P. laughed, uneasy that he let this stranger in on such a ridiculous indulgence.
“A few summers ago, I had a rather well-off, high maintenance client. She and her husband had their yacht parked at Harbour Town for the summer. The husband decided his housewife needed a hobby, to get her off the houseboat, and ‘gifted’ her hours of golf lessons almost every day for three months. She, however, had no desire to learn golf and preferred to spend our lesson time talking about her husband’s illicit affairs and what was broadcast on Inside Edition the previous night.
They eventually sailed back down to Palm Beach, but I kept watching.
The content is good fodder for small talk during lessons when there’s an awkward silence. ”
“Look at that. Inside Editon impacting the lives of one frustrated golf instructor and scorned lover at a time, with their hard-hitting journalism,” Kenny joked.