Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
J.P. put his bag of take-out food on the oversized, custom-made, live-edge, walnut and blue epoxy dining table that was designed to replicate the real-life ocean scene that was visible on the other side of the glass floor to ceiling windows that spanned the length of the back of the three-story coastal-style beach home.
He opened the French doors in the center of the perfectly Windexed wall and Cliff ran out onto the second-tier deck that overlooked the pool and was high enough to see over the dunes, creating a picturesque, unobstructed view of the Atlantic.
J.P. visited Mr. Cunningham’s home hundreds of times over the years but was always struck by its grandeur.
It may have been one of the largest homes on Sea Pines, but the comfort and familiarity gave J.P.
the same sense of nostalgia and security as the two-bedroom condo on the other side of the plantation his parents rented for annual summer vacations when he and his sister were kids.
J.P. left Cliff to occupy himself on the deck while he went inside to change out of his golf clothes and into a bathing suit.
When J.P. house-sat for his boss, he always stayed in the guest bedroom on the second floor.
It was considered the least desirable room to some because it shared a wall with the main entertaining area and the exterior wall was a sliding door that opened to the deck that sprawled the length of the back of the house, offering little privacy and a lot of sunlight if you forgot to shut the blinds, but it was J.P.
’s favorite room. He liked sleeping with the blinds open and being woken up by the light streaming through the glass, with a front row seat to the sunrise over the ocean without leaving the bed.
He liked being able to sit in the hot tub outside the sliding door and stare at the stars and moon reflecting over the water until late in the night and have access to his bedroom without traipsing through other parts of the house.
Most importantly, he liked the memories.
For three summers during his college years, he stayed in this bedroom while he worked toward his dream of touring in the PGA.
If it weren’t for the opportunities J.P.
had been given over the course of those summers, he never would have enjoyed the accomplished golf career he went on to have, nor would he be in the current position he found himself in to create a prosperous and successful future.
J.P. hung his polo shirts and golf pants in the walk-in closet.
Along with Mr. Cunningham’s “no shorts rule” while an employee was on the clock or on the course, he had a strict “no wrinkle rule.” J.P.
wasn’t sure if it was a generational thing or if it went back to Mr. Cunningham’s days as a cadet at the Air Force Academy, but he was a stickler for pressed cotton.
He kept an ironing board and an industrial steamer in the men’s and women’s locker rooms at the Liberty Oaks Clubhouse and once got into a heated conversation with Miss Luana about the viability of her housekeeping teams starching and pressing the bedsheets when they turned over a room.
From cowardly observing that debate, J.P.
learned there was one person aside from Mr. Cunningham who was capable, and deserving, of having the last word—a woman of Gullah descent who was fiercely protective of her staff.
And family recipes, it was later learned when she unveiled her famous key lime pie cookies at the company potluck.
J.P. unpacked his toiletry bag in the bathroom that was connected to the bedroom and pulled out two towels from the linen closet.
He hung one on the towel bar inside the shower and draped one around his neck for when he got out of the hot tub.
If there was one thing J.P. didn’t miss about being on the tournament circuit, it was living like a vagabond.
The lifestyle required him to check in and out of hotels for weeks at a time, for the better part of a year.
He made a practice early in his career to always unpack his belongings in the closets and drawers of wherever he was staying.
He also never hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door like many business travelers.
He welcomed housekeeping entering the room every day to freshen the towel supply and neatly make up his bed.
It was these little routines that helped J.P.
keep a clear mind and forget he was a visitor away from the comfort of his surroundings.
Satisfied that his belongings were put away and organized, J.P. grabbed a Heineken from the refrigerator and the lobster roll he ordered from the restaurant at the clubhouse and opened the French door to the deck where Cliff was patiently waiting for him.
“Buddy, it’s time to wind down,” J.P. said to the dog who started at him like he was ready for an intense game of tug of war.
He placed his sandwich and the bottle on the plastic tray that was affixed to the side of the tub and then hoisted himself up and over the side, slowly lowering his legs and torso down into the bubbling, hot water.
J.P. scooted his way around the perimeter and found his favorite spot where the jets hit his shoulders, lower back and calves at all the right pressure points and rested his head back.
“Tell me Cliff, why do you gravitate toward Kenny? Over two million people visit this island every year and you don’t bother with any of them.
Most of them make a fuss over you, some even beg for your attention.
And you ignore them. I’ve noticed sometimes you’re even rude,” J.P.
questioned and chastised his four-legged friend as he stared up at the stars.
As if to defend himself, Cliff sprung up on his hind legs and rested both paws on the side of the hot tub. His tongue hung out of his mouth and his tail wagged.
J.P. sensed the dog’s head next to his own and cast his gaze to the right, looking into his eyes. “You don’t know, do you? That’s all right, boy. Me either,” he said, giving Cliff a sympathetic grin and patting him on the head.