Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
J.P. stood over the electric burner of the commercial-size copper stove that spanned half a wall in the spacious kitchen of Mr. Cunningham’s house on Marlin Manor.
He scrambled eggs and simultaneously opened the oven to check the crispiness of the bacon.
There was a giant overhead copper range hood affixed to the ceiling that he assumed had something to do with smoke, but he was still terrified of setting off the fire alarm during his culinary expedition.
Cliff eagerly ran in and out of the sliding door to the patio, from the table to the stove in anticipation of J.P.
dropping a piece of bacon for him to eat.
“Cliff, I was nervous, Buddy. I know they say you can tell a dolphin from a shark because dolphins’ dorsal fins are more rounded than sharks’, but you still get this uneasy feeling when you’re out there, totally exposed.
The fin looked rounded, but I wasn’t wearing my contacts and had no plan B if it turned out to be a shark.
Hell, I didn’t even have a plan A,” J.P.
recounted the previous day’s kayak encounter.
By the time he finished his dissertation about the anatomy of marine life, Cliff was back in the kitchen, prostrate and whimpering next to his empty water bowl.
“Shit! How long has that been empty? Did I forget to fill it yesterday or have you been extra thirsty?” J.P. rushed to fill the bowl while the dog gazed at it like he had just stumbled upon a cactus after a long hike across the desert.
He waited while Cliff aggressively and sloppily lapped up the water and then refilled the bowl before removing the tray of bacon from the oven and turning off the burner under the eggs.
At home he would eat straight from the pan, but today decided to pull out one of the fancy melamine plates from the cabinet where Mr. Cunningham neatly stored his collection of outdoor serving dishes and place settings.
J.P. thought the plates looked like slabs of tree bark that could be found among the pine needles and fallen palms that lined the walkway to the beach but assumed the earthy accent pieces came with a hefty price tag.
He sat at the sectional sofa next to the hot tub on the second-floor balcony and put down his coffee mug and plate on the table that doubled as a fire pit.
He was impressed with the feast he had prepared without disrupting the morning of the crew on duty at Fire Station Two.
The eggs were light and fluffy, the bacon had just enough crunch, and the mixed berry fruit salad looked like it should be on the cover of Eating Well magazine.
He even took the time to boil water and grind coffee beans so he could use Mr. Cunningham’s French press.
Sunday mornings were usually quiet on Sea Pines.
Most locals went to church services off the plantation and visitors were still settling into their vacation properties, making trips to the Piggly Wiggly or waiting for weekly bicycle rentals to be delivered.
But the beach was already bustling with activity this morning.
Power walkers and joggers paraded along the water’s edge on the hard, compact sand that was conducive to aerobic paces.
Crews from the beach patrol scurried up and down the dunes erecting blue umbrellas and oak beach chairs with footrests for vacationers who opted to pay for the convenience of not having to set up and break down their own beach gear.
In the distance, workers at the Beach Club arranged symmetrical rows of white, fold-up resin chairs with salmon-colored sashes and constructed a white resin trellis that was wrapped in salmon-colored flowers.
J.P. never understood the fuss around weddings, especially after hearing horror stories from his buddies whose fiancés mysteriously transformed from bragged about girlfriends of the year to unrecognizable bridezillas during the engagement period.
But he silently stood in solidarity with the ladies who convinced their poor schmucks to tie the knot on the beach.
He sipped his coffee and stared out at the ocean and then down to his plate.
He glanced back and forth a few times, reluctantly taking small bites and feeling guilty he was the only one enjoying the view and the breakfast. J.P.
had a brief notion that perhaps he was confusing guilt with loneliness but quicky popped that thought bubble.
He wasn’t alone, he was single. He was a single guy who was with people all day, every day.
Sometimes he wished people would give him space and leave him alone.
He concluded that most men—single or attached—would pay money for this quiet time on a Sunday morning.
“Here, Cliff. Want to share my bacon?” J.P. dropped a paper towel with crumbled bacons bits on it to the floor as the dog charged out of the house. “Enjoy it. After I clean up here, we’re both going for a run.”