Chapter 30
Thirty
Kenny changed out of the cotton pants and tank she slept in into another set of cotton pants and tank that some post-COVID retail marketing genius dubbed loungewear versus sleepwear, thereby making it appropriate to be seen in public in such attire, and poured a cup of coffee from the percolator.
She slid on her flip-flops and decided to take a walk around the grounds of Pelican Pointe.
She was struck by the quiet and stillness of the complex.
The water aerobics women didn’t occupy the pool, the pickleball courts were free of picklers, and there were no children teetering on the edge of the koi fish and carp ponds that Kenny was now all too aware may or may not be infested with alligators.
If she hadn’t done a clean sweep of the property, she would have thought she missed the memo for an enticing welcome brunch that many resorts host as a thank you to guests, all while really trying to hook them into a tour and four-hour spiel about the latest timeshare opportunities.
Kenny rolled up her pant legs and walked down two steps in the pool.
Part of her wished she was wearing a bathing suit so she could completely submerge and spring into laps or lazily float, while the other part of her was completely content where she was.
She sat down on the pool’s edge, extended her legs straight in front of her so they were resting on the water’s surface, and laid back on her forearms, gazing up at the sun.
It was against her Conditions List, but she longed for a Post-it and pen.
She had a whole day ahead of her with no plans or obligations; a clean slate, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.
She trained her brain to lean on Post-its to prioritize her life, to keep her on point and in focus, weigh pros and cons of any situation.
Her Post-its had Post-its. The square, sticky pads made Kenny’s life productive and manageable.
But her will was stronger than her reliance on any piece of tangible paper list and she decided to mentally go down the list of possible activities she had saved for such a day.
Bike ride to the Stoney-Baynard Ruins (Note: the tabby remnants of the Plantation built by Revolutionary War hero Jack Stoney are haunted. You hate horror films and despise Halloween.)
Visit the Sea Pines Shell Ring in the Forest Preserve (Note: the small shell ring built 4,800 years ago by Indian Moundbuilders, around the time of the Great Pyramids of Egypt, is located inside the Forest Preserve.
Forests are filled with wildlife, you will be chased and eaten alive by an alligator.)
Take a day trip to Savannah on The Spirit of Harbour Town (Note: The ship departs at 9:00 a.m. and it’s already 10:30 a.m.)
Go on a dolphin sightseeing tour (Note: Had that experience during kayak “research” trip.)
Watch the sunset from the top of the Harbour Town Lighthouse (Note: the sun sets at 7:34 p.m. You just ate breakfast.)
Brainstorm plot lines and characters for the next “book club bestseller” (Note: What does book club bestseller mean? Who makes up these genres, anyway?)
Kenny felt the rays of sun beaming stronger on her skin and knew that if she didn’t put on a hat or sunscreen, her face would be sufficiently burned within the hour.
She took the last sip of coffee and one by one struck a mental line through everything she jotted down on her cerebral Post-it.
The only bullet she didn’t have a justifiable reason for crossing out was the last one.
She biked to South Beach Marina, the New England style waterfront village at the southernmost tip of Sea Pines and set up shop at one of the outdoor plastic tables at the Salty Dog Café.
When she was deep in the trenches writing Armchair Detective, she spent countless hours at the plastic tables with the iconic lime green umbrellas at Pier i on Riverside Boulevard, overlooking the Hudson River on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
The causal vibe, the views of the water, and inspiration that could be drawn from people-watching were much the same.
She ordered a lemonade, and the server brought her a basket of popcorn from the vintage popcorn cart on the side of the octagonal bar.
She closed her eyes for a moment and briefly felt like she was back in New York, pen in hand and ready to write.
Only this time, she had no idea where to start.
Kenny scribbled Luck is when preparation meets opportunity on the top of her college-ruled, spiral bound notebook.
She wasn’t sure where she first heard the quote, but it was something that stuck with her over the years.
It could have been something a sage, edgy Jesuit at Fordham prophesized in passing or it could have been advice of a freelance cameraman from Timbuktu who WBS hired to film an interview in a small, one stop-sign town.
Regardless, she thought of the quote often.
She detested the idea of applying these wise words to her current literary standoff with Muffin Evans, but deep down knew that half of the equation to her becoming a published author was already completed.
Muffin had given her the opportunity. It was up to Kenny to rely on her decade of writing experience to round out the rest of the equation.
She sat for nearly an hour with a serious case of writer’s block.
She watched two small, shark-fishing charter boats leave port and saw the sixty-three-foot Salty Dog catamaran afternoon happy hour cruise sail in.
She observed the line at the ice cream shop start to wrap around the deck and watched as parents clenched their breaths and children’s hands while climbing the metal spiral staircase next to Land’s End Tavern to reach the Salty Dog T-Shirt Factory.
She heard the repeated, clipped “Hello” and “Goodbye” of the throaty-voiced, rainbow colored macaw and parrots that happily resided in the oak trees of the marina’s open aviary and took pleasure in surprising the unsuspecting passerby with their presence.
She got occasional wafts of fish and saltwater that blew in from the marina, but it was mostly masked by the smell of the platters of fried hushpuppies and gator bites that were delivered to midafternoon snackers at neighboring tables.
She knew she should be able to draw inspiration from any of these people or scenes, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on any of it.
She had The Canterbury Tales of the Deep South at her fingertips and there had to be more than one protagonist and antagonist among them.
All the people who descended upon the South Beach Marina at the same time on a sunny, Sunday afternoon had stories, backgrounds, and secrets.
Kenny had questions, and possibly assumptions, about most of them but quickly realized that the storytelling of a news producer was starkly different than that of a fiction writer.
“Can I refill your basket of popcorn, Miss?” a young, freckle-faced girl with auburn hair and large, round circular glasses asked Kenny with a smile.
“Sure, that’d be great. And can you please bring me a menu?”
Kenny was satisfied with the popcorn but thought that she should order something of more substance if she was going to be occupying the server’s table.
She also wanted to ward off the table stalkers who lingered around the seating area, ready to pounce as soon as they saw take-out containers, or a check delivered to a party who was nearing the end of a meal.
Kenny knew the type well as she was a seasoned table stalker who practiced her craft often during warm weather months at the Central Park Boathouse and outdoor bar at Tavern on the Green.
Before she lifted her gaze to assess how many people had already observed her sitting alone at an empty table and were prepared for a standoff with other hungry diners for the coveted spot out of the way of foot traffic and unobstructed views of the water, the young girl was back with the menu and basket of popcorn,
“Here ya go, ma’am. It’s a picture-perfect day out here, isn’t it?” The girl looked admiringly toward the boats on the water.
“It sure is,” Kenny replied. “You must love coming to work with this view.”
“I do. I’m from Kansas, and we don’t have anything like this where I grew up.”
“Are you here seasonally?” Kenny asked the young lady who didn’t look like she was more than seventeen years old.
“Yep. I’m doing an internship at one of the resorts during the week and pick up a few hours here on the weekends.
My boyfriend has the same internship and helps the captains on some of the deep-sea fishing charter boats to pick up extra cash.
We squeeze in a few hours each week to sit on the beach or go sight-seeing.
” She beamed and nodded to the lines of boats adorned with nets and fishing poles at the end of the dock.
This girl should be writing the next beach read, Kenny thought.
Young and in love at the beach; getting college credits to entertain already-happy vacationers; making money at a seemingly stress-free job with tips that presumably grow higher with each round of beer buckets and frozen drinks; and spending any free time exploring paradise.
Kenny pondered using this girl’s life as a catalyst for a storyline of her book.
“Wow. What an awesome experience. I regret that I never took a summer or semester to work in a beach town.” Kenny wondered if she had taken that chance, where the path would have led.
“It’s the chance of a lifetime! I go back to the intern apartment every night and journal about my day and the people I meet.
I don’t want to forget any of it. Maybe someday I’ll even write a book about this summer,” the excitable server announced.
“Are you ready to order? The kitchen is getting backed up, and I don’t want you waiting all day for lunch! ”
Ironic. I guess that plotline is off the table.
“I’ll have the Ceasar salad and a side of the Bow Wow shrimp,” Kenny said, although she wasn’t particularly hungry for either and was certainly in no rush.
“Coming right up. Enjoy this table, it’s the best one in the house.” The girl winked and spun on her heels to greet the table behind Kenny and take drink orders.
For years, Marilyn encouraged Kenny to journal or write letters to herself—or others—about what she was experiencing; but Kenny chalked up the practice to busy work and shelved the idea on the same mental rack as self-care, overrated and unnecessary.
She also equated the dozens of filled notebooks in the drawers of her workspace at the office to some version of journaling.
In her mind, those overly detailed reporter’s notebooks were a precise account of her daily life.
Practically, a diary. The notes were primarily work-related, but work was primarily her life, so to keep a separate journal would be redundant and time consuming in a life that was already strapped for time.
However, Kenny was intrigued by what she heard directly and indirectly from the summer intern.
If a college student from Kansas could pull enough fodder from three months of her life to write a book, then Kenny suddenly became confident that she could cull something from her decades-long career in the news business that would satisfy Muffin Evans and the easy-read audience that she was plotting to commandeer.
It was time to put the Clinton White debacle and Armchair Detective rejection in the rearview mirror.
Kenny picked up the black ballpoint, bold tip pen and began writing. What started off as an exercise in making bulleted lists turned into structured sentences that morphed into short paragraphs and resulted in a mini story of her experiences.
Before I Got Scooped
I’ve met presidents, politicians, celebrities, movie stars, professional athletes, and had high tea with a dame.
I’ve interviewed killers, criminals, convicts, men on death row .
. . and the wrongfully accused and convicted.
Survivors, victims, those who felt they had no voice—and their loved ones—confided in me, sharing deeply personal, emotional, tragic, and resilient stories.
I’ve spoken to medical heroes, scientific heroes, law enforcement heroes, religious heroes, and everyday heroes.
I’ve filmed in sugar cane fields, gun ranges, and morgues; at crime scenes, movie premieres, and water parks; on red carpets, horse farms, fashion shows, urban superhero conventions, under Niagara Falls (over Niagara Falls), and in feet of snow on Alex Trebek’s college campus; in houses of worship, prisons, police stations, theaters, airports, and hospitals.
I’ve reported on the biggest courtroom dramas of the decade, spending more time in courthouses than many trial attorneys.
I’ve covered mass shootings, terror attacks, natural disasters, plane crashes, inaugurations, elections, and a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic.
I’ve logged more air miles, checked into more hotels, and driven more rental cars than I could ever count.
I’ve landed the big interviews, lost the big interviews, and cried over both.
I’ve scooped stories, my stories have been scooped, and I’m learning that life goes on.
Kenny put the pen behind her ear and leaned back in the plastic chair to read what she wrote and noticed two arms reaching over her table.
“Look at that! You like writing, too? My creativity runs wild down here,” the server said and set down the salad and appetizer plates on the table away from Kenny’s notebook. “Enjoy! I’ll be back in a few minutes to see if you need anything.”