Chapter Four
LENA
I walked through the front door of the house only to change my clothes and walk back out less than ten minutes later.
I hopped on my beach cruiser and pedaled north toward Coligny Square along the canopied bike paths that traversed the forests and golf courses dominating the southern half of the island.
Coligny was on the opposite end of Sea Pines from my grandma’s house, but the shopping center hosted the only hot yoga studio on the island.
I told myself the forty-minute ride was worth it, that I needed to step onto my mat.
But as the heat of the practice room permeated my body and I moved through my flow, pretense departed as quickly as sweat.
Stripped bare, I stood at the top of my space left only with the truth—I was avoiding the house and with it my future.
I progressed through my vinyasa, flowing from one pose to the next while acknowledging my current state of mind—I didn’t want to make any decisions. Decisions meant committing to a path that moved past my failed marriage, past my grandma’s death, and into an uncertain future. Alone.
I had to choose a direction. I had to transition to the next pose. But staying stagnant and dwelling in the space between lives—between poses—seemed much easier than admitting I stood at a crossroads.
That’s why I came to my mat. The challenges I faced in my practice mirrored the hard lessons and truths I needed to learn in life.
So, I stood in my emotional discomfort just as I stood in my physical discomfort.
I admitted I wasn’t ready to move on, and for now, avoidance was the sum total of my plan. And that was okay.
And avoidance was also how I found myself standing at the entrance of Shelter Cove later that night.
After yoga, I’d fully intended on spending a peaceful night at home with my journal and a book, but the deafening silence of the empty house gnawed at my attention.
I’d barely jotted down a few words before I snapped the journal shut and tossed it onto the coffee table.
I needed to get out of that house and out of my head.
I needed distraction. Something to lighten the mood.
I got in my car and headed out of Sea Pines toward the northern half of the island.
As I drove, two swimmers emerging from the ocean in short, tight swim trunks flashed across my mind’s eye, and the silken words of the man who’d approached me resounded in my thoughts.
I blinked away the memory and turned up the radio, beating my thumb against the steering wheel in time to the music in a vain attempt to deafen the voice.
Going to Shelter Cove had absolutely nothing to do with those chiseled bodies from the beach. Nothing at all. I’d sworn off men with playboy personas, and the moment Elias had introduced himself to me, klaxons rang like I was on the bridge of the Enterprise. Red Alert!
I knew the type; I’d married one. Been there.
Done that. Have the t-shirt and want to burn it in a trash fire.
The asshole left with half our savings after I paid off all his student loans, bought him a car, and added him as joint owner of the yoga studio.
My yoga studio. The yoga studio I built from nothing.
Student by student. Class by class. None of which was as important to him as the twenty-something I’d found standing in our kitchen in her underwear after returning home early from a visit to the island.
Never again. Never again would I trust a smooth-talking, good-looking man. At least not with my heart.
King Neptune held his trident aloft, ready to smite the visitors milling about the bar and in front of the stage, bronze arms glinting under the lights strung between palmettos in front of the Shelter Cove marina.
Music wafted through the damp night air, and the strange but familiar combination of magnolia and low tide filled my nostrils.
I scanned the crowd as I walked to the bar.
Who was I kidding? I’d been drawn here tonight and not just by the need for distraction.
There was something about Elias, something about his voice.
He hadn’t said much on the beach, but even now, the hypnotic quality of his words reverberated through my head, quietly shouting for my attention.
I brushed the hair out of my face and blinked hard, trying to jar his voice out of my brain. I came tonight to distract myself with music. No hot swimmers with sultry voices necessary.
The golf tournament usually coincided with Easter break—around mid-April—and brought all manner of tourists to the island.
This year was no different, and Shelter Cove was packed.
Sitting at the bar, I ordered a brandy and diet and tapped my foot to the young Joni Mitchell performing on stage.
Kids chased after each other while others waited patiently in line to get their faces painted.
Couples shared drinks. Families gathered around picnic tables.
Men and women in their twenties gathered in groups laughing and drinking.
The scene put an exclamation point at the end of my life’s sentence—You are alone!—each smiling couple, each doting parent, and each needy child a reminder of everything I didn’t have. I clenched my teeth and tried to breathe through the heaviness resettling itself atop my shoulders.
Screw it. I grabbed my drink and gulped half of it down. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea.
The singer finished, and the few people paying attention politely clapped. I spun on my stool to face the stage and nearly choked on my drink. There he was. The swimmer. Elias.
He sauntered onto the stage and up to the mic with an easy stride, carrying an acoustic guitar by its neck.
He wore a white linen shirt over khaki shorts, sleeves casually pushed up to his elbows, the loose fabric unbuttoned enough to reveal the top of his strong, tanned chest. His angular face showcased a Hollywood smile—straight white teeth behind a crooked bend to a wide mouth.
His hair had been wet when I’d seen him on the beach, but now sandy-blond, sun-bleached waves hung over his ears and forehead like he’d stepped off the set of a surfing movie.
Gods, he was gorgeous. How had I not noticed before?
Probably because you weren’t a half brandy-and-diet deep.
Right.
He slung the guitar strap across his muscled body and sat down, propping up his Birkenstock-clad feet on the bottom rung of the stool, and rested the guitar on his knee. He adjusted the mic and scanned the crowd.
By chance or by fate, our eyes locked, and his toothy grin widened. He winked, and an unexpected thrill tingled my spine, making me both excited and uncomfortable.
He finished his survey of the audience and leaned into the mic. “I’m Elias. Thanks for coming out.” His silken voice danced across my skin like a sensual caress. “This one’s called ‘Feel Us Shaking’ by The Samples.”
He cleared his throat, shifted his weight, and began plucking the guitar strings with ease, sliding the familiar opening notes into the din that filled the warm spring night.
I inhaled sharply, my jaw dropping in surprised wonder as each word of the first phrase reached my hungry ears.
His tenor floated over the guitar chords, the tone and timbre of his voice carrying a powerful yet ethereal quality that seemed intertwined with the island’s magical atmosphere.
I wanted to bathe in the lush notes. The soothing texture of the song harmonized with my soul, a balm for my broken spirit.
I wasn’t the only one captivated by Elias. Heads turned, gazes fixed, laughter and conversations quieted, the audience held prisoner by the dulcet notes of the man’s mesmerizing voice.
The scene evoked memories of the local legends my grandma used to tell me about when I was a child: mythical creatures inhabited Hilton Head, enchanting unsuspecting victims with their song.
Of course, the old stories were just that—old stories—but as Elias continued to sing, I felt entranced, drawn to him by his music.
I quickly finished my drink, unsettled by his magnetism and needing the brandy to steady my nerves.
I returned my focus to the stage, the melody pulling on my attention until I yielded to its relentless demands. I swayed in time to the beat, and thoughts of the house and my uncertain future fled, replaced by Elias’s voice.
He captured my eyes again, and the thrill of his attention broadened its wings across my chest. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or the fact I’d finished my drink, but his eyes shone such a bright blue they appeared to glow.
And in that moment, our eyes connecting us across the distance, the world fell away, and he sang only to me.
Diamond waves through sunglass days go by
So beautiful to be here and alive
Though I’ve built sometimes so hard did I survive?
Feel us shaking
His mouth turned up at the corners as he held my eyes through the phrase. Then he blinked and broke our connection, releasing me. He dropped his head and continued to strum his guitar.
A bow-wave of emotion swept away the flutter in my chest, replacing it with a lump that traveled into my throat.
I swallowed hard to keep it down. The intent in his eyes combined with his bright smile…
The meaning behind the words he sang with his seductive voice…
They cracked open my shielded, shattered heart.
I hadn’t felt anything other than disappointment and loss for so long, I’d lost sight of a simple truth: it was beautiful to be here and alive.
I closed my eyes, relaxed my shoulders, and with a clear head, opened my heart to the music. Within moments, the vise grip strangling my soul started to release. Contentment bordering on happiness rose like the swell of the ocean, and I smiled for the first time since my grandma died.
The song ended, and a palpable hush fell over the cove.
The audience sat in motionless silence for a heartbeat, then erupted with applause, loud whoops, and whistling.
Elias stood amid the outpouring of praise, his blue eyes sparkling under the string of lights, and joyful pride spread across his handsome features.
He lifted his guitar in one hand, waved to the audience with the other, and descended the steps into a standing ovation.
A group of women in their twenties rushed the stage. I couldn’t hear much above the wild applause, but from their squeals and flailing arms, I knew they were gushing. One woman lightly touched his shoulder, and another sidled up, consuming the space next to him. I snorted and rolled my eyes.
The urge to unabashedly gush was strong, but I had no doubt his playboy tendencies matched his rakish good looks and seductive voice.
No need for me to join the party; he already had plenty of fangirls throwing themselves at him.
I signaled the bartender for my check and tossed my credit card onto the bar.
While I waited, an uncanny pull tugged at my chest, urging me to go to him, talk to him, tell him he had a glorious voice, and beg him to sing to me again. But I broke free of its clutches. The scars of my past reminded me he was the same make and model as my ex-husband and set me free.
Besides, forty-one-year-old women didn’t fangirl.
I signed the receipt, and as I got up to leave, noticed a lightness in my step as if a few weights had been removed from the emotional barbell I’d been carrying across my shoulders.
A sliver of hope shined through my darkness.
If nothing else, Elias’s song reminded me that as dire as things seemed, I was alive, and life held beautiful potential.