by J. P. Hansen
An elderly gentleman smiled as Brooke handed him the toll, actually saying, “Thank you, ma’am.” Only in the south. Brooke noticed the clock—4:49 p.m. The trip had taken longer than usual, but there was still time to work up an appetite for a steamed seafood medley at Steamer’s. Opting for the back way, she avoided the congested rotary where the brooding tourists wasted valuable happy hour time.
Pulling into the Shipyard security gate, a youthful black man in uniform stood upright, peered at her resident sticker on her windshield, then saluted and smiled. Brooke waved and smiled as her ringtone sounded—Melissa again. Brooke hit ignore; she could deceive her better from inside the villa.
Brooke realized she had never been alone on Hilton Head, and she looked forward to the private time. Driving along the shaded road, scenic Shipyard Golf Course on her left, and a waterway that joined two lagoons on her right, she searched for Tanner’s picture and whispered, “I wish you were here.”
Just past the golf course, a family on separate bikes had paused, pointing into the pond at an alligator’s eerie eyes and back half of his tail, moving like a rusty grandfather clock. She almost yelled “be careful.” Ever since she was a little girl, she had been scared of the prehistoric predators. And all spiders for that matter. Brooke didn’t even like Charlotte’s Web.
She drove around the rotary, an island of beauty with all the colorful flowers and palm trees mixed with oaks. Turning onto Shipyard Drive which led to the ocean, Brooke smiled. Her weariness from the drive shifted into spring-like anticipation.
Pulling into Beachwalk’s curvy lot, she spotted her villa. It looked the same as always. Once inside, Brooke adjusted the air conditioning to cooler, then opened her bags and fished out her running gear. Seconds later, Brooke was running on the winding asphalt path that weaved around trees, leading to the beach just ahead.
Passing the majestic residents’ beach house, she hiked up the wooden walkway. It ramped around outdoor showers crammed with families moving around like a human ant farm—washing sand off their feet and beach toys. Beyond the wooden staging area, the tall grass in the rolling dunes waved with the gentle ocean breeze. With the tide out, the expansive beach was ideal for a run.
Brooke stripped her running shoes, then kicked sand as she loped along the late-day sun. Running with the shoreline created a serenity that invigorated Brooke. Most families had returned to their vacation nests, but remnants of their day remained scattered—sandcastles eroded from wind and water. Brooke stopped at the usual spot by their tree as her heart raced.
Though the trees had matured, the area hadn’t changed in all the years. Picturing her first kiss like it was yesterday, she wrote “Brooke & Tanner” in the sand, then encased it with a heart. She gazed at her handiwork as tears plunked like the first droplets of rainfall. A curious seagull hovered nearby like a kite, using the wind for stability.
Brooke eyed the bird, then waved her hands in the air, signaling she had no food to offer. After a few seconds, the gull peeled away with the wind at its back, reminding Brooke it was time to return. She glanced once more at their tree, then their names in the sand, then began running back to her own nest. With the breeze and the sun behind her, Brooke recalled the wild horses she chased as a little girl.
Back at her villa, she showered with cool water to temper her overheated body. After toweling off, she slipped on a new sundress. Brooke glanced in the mirror, and smiled at the rosy coloring in her face. A natural beauty, she required scant makeup: a touch of lipstick, swipe of mascara, and good to go. Since leaving Pharmical, Brooke wore her hair down, providing a seductive frame to her chiseled high cheekbones. Brooke vacillated about eating alone, but her seafood platter cravings cast the deciding vote. Checking once more in the mirror, she said, “I hope I don’t look like a total loser.”
Steamer’s was crowded with families clad in colorful Hilton Head attire. Reminiscent of the 80s, people still dressed preppy. Brooke loved how the little girls mirrored their moms in sundresses and sandals and young boys wore collared shirts and khaki shorts, as if coming off the golf course with their dads.
A friendly hostess in a lavender shirt with the Steamer’s logo approached Brooke, and said, “A table outside is open, if you don’t mind being near the musician. He starts in, like, fifteen minutes.”
Brooke’s eyes brightened, “Actually, that’s perfect. I prefer to sit near him.” The cute college-aged girl lifted one menu without asking the embarrassing question. She led Brooke to a small table set for two, then removed the place setting across from her. Brooke almost asked her to leave it.
While placing her napkin across her lap, a cute young man who couldn’t be old enough to drink, smiled, then said, “Welcome to Steamer’s. My name’s Josh, I’ll be your server. Can I start you off with one of our famous frozen drinks?”
Brooke thought, Man, do I feel old, then said, “I’ll have a Sea Breeze.”
“Excellent. Would you like an appetizer?”
Not so fast, aren’t you going to ask me for my ID? Do I look that old? So much for southern hospitality. “No thanks, I’d like the steamed seafood medley and that’s too much food.”
“Maybe for a little girl like you, but not for me.” Brooke laughed, thinking, okay, he’s rebounding.
Josh returned after a few minutes, handling her drink the drink as if it was a magic potion. Brooke gulped the Sea Breeze and sighed. It tasted superb and the alcohol immediately warmed her. She thought, these things are dangerous. No more than two—I remember the last time I drank too much.
When the food arrived, her eyes widened and mouth watered. She ordered a second drink, this time a Cape Codder—the logic being, the new concoction would slow her down. It didn’t. The food tasted as fabulous as the libations, just how she remembered—succulent scallops, a delicious whitefish she guessed was grouper, buttery clams, mussels, oysters, crab claws, and plenty of the island’s specialty: shrimp. The Cape Codder disappeared first, but she finished most of her feast, savoring every bite.
She recognized the musician as he started setting up. After placing his guitar on a stand, his eyes met Brooke’s. He smiled and winked. She couldn’t recall his name but definitely remembered his dimples and lanky frame—a Kevin Bacon lookalike. Well, it’s been over a year, and he still remembers my face.
As her third drink arrived, he started singing, “In my mind, I’m going to Carolina…” as if he read Brooke’s mind. She was going to request it, but he saved her a trip up to his stage. Unlike so many singers, he didn’t try to sound like James Taylor. He had his own style, which Brooke appreciated. He tapped a foot pedal once in awhile to record himself, then harmonized his own voice on later choruses. Brooke wondered what it would be like to have a man serenade her on the beach. She frowned as she spotted a shiny new ring on his finger.
It figures. But, I’m happy for him. Though he can sing, he’s not my type.
Brooke listened to a few more songs, then decided to leave drink number three half empty and call it a night. She hated to be at the beach with a hangover. Driving along the eerily dark and curvy road, Brooke flipped on her brights. As if designed by sea turtles, the nature-friendly, driver-unfriendly trip home could be treacherous. Tanner had always driven at night, and once again, she missed him.
Aside from inconvenient lighting, she appreciated how Hilton Head had developed without disrupting natural beauty. No neon signs or flamboyant buildings—even McDonald’s had a brick front and upscale roof, sans the golden arches.
Safely back in her comfy bed, she flipped off the lamp and inhaled the silent darkness. Closing her eyes, the word meaning popped up, spinning her brain’s wheels.
An earsplitting knock on the door shook Brooke out of a deep sleep. She glanced at the clock—8:27 a.m. Who could that possibly be? Nobody knows I’m here…
Brooke jumped up, and slipped down the tightly carpeted stairs, landing one foot from the door. Another three knocks reverberated. “Who is it?” She wished she had a
peephole.
“Beach Bike Rentals, ma’am.”
Brooke inspected her panties and skimpy night shirt, and said, “I, um, just got out of the shower. Can you just leave the combination under the mat?” Please don’t tell me you need a signature.
After a long pause, in a deep southern drawl, “Sure thing. Have a nice day.”
Brooke stretched, then returned back upstairs, giggling. She eyed her cozy queen bed, but thought, now that I’m awake I may as well go for a ride before high tide. Brooke pulled on her shorts and sports bra and pedaled to the beach.
Hilton Head Island boasts thirteen miles of uninterrupted beach and Brooke considered covering it all before Noon. With the already sizzling sun on her back, she started from Shipyard and rode along the shoreline to the end point in Sea Pines. Aside from a few fishermen casting from the shore, and the occasional runners, power-walkers, and riders, the journey provided ample reflection time. Beyond the beauty, Hilton Head offered mystique. A warm inviting attitude matched the summer temperatures, like a visit to grandma’s house.
Brooke passed a tandem bike, a sweaty twenty-something man pumped furiously while his girlfriend reclined lazily, gazing at the mansions. Brooke smiled, then slowed, nearing the spot she knew by heart. Skidding on the firm sand, she balanced a stop with both feet. Brooke surveyed the area, picturing her words in the sand buried under the incoming tide like a sunken treasure.
Closing her eyes, this time her visit felt less intense but the memories were vivid. She said what she wanted to say, then popped her eyes open, this time without tears. She spotted another old tree. It seemed like everywhere she looked, Tanner’s shadow hovered like the seagulls. Brooke’s stomach twinged—time to eat. She pedaled up the inland path toward another memory lane.
The Friday morning breakfast crowd was light for Skillet’s. Brooke figured it would be a different story Saturday and Sunday, with new hordes of vacationers, opting to eat out rather than waste their first days grocery shopping. Brooke usually ordered a fruit plate, but wafting bacon taunted her. The run and bike ride had left her dehydrated. The alcohol last night didn’t help. She craved blueberry pancakes—and naughty bacon. She started with coffee, remembering that Starbucks was nearby.
I won’t be going anywhere near that place.
The sinful blueberry pancakes tasted sensational, but filled her like quick dry cement. The standoffish, wrinkly waitress lifted Brooke’s empty plate, and actually asked her, “Would you care for dessert?”
Brooke widened her eyes further than her stomach and shook her head. She can’t be serious. Brooke had buyer’s remorse. Why does all food that smells good make me feel lousy? Good thing I’m not that far from my place or I’d need a wheelbarrow.
With sluggish legs, Brooke pedaled as if heading into a wind tunnel. I thought carbohydrates provided energy. People now lined the beach, both on sand and in the water, and she was forced her to ride even more slowly. The tide had risen, making navigating tricky. Kids darted in and out of the water like deer across a road—without looking. Boogie-boarders and body-surfers caught larger-than-normal waves. Paddle boards slapped and kites soared. The beach resembled a playground at recess, with numerous side games, laughter, and chatter.
The temperature felt perfect and rain was forecast for tomorrow. She slipped into her new bikini that felt quite a bit looser at the store, then dug out her bag from the owner’s closet, and tossed in the usual beach items. Strolling to the residents’ beach house, she grabbed her umbrella and recliner from her locker. The sand felt blistering even in flip flops.
After swirling the umbrella as deep into the sand as she could, Brooke spread out on her towel and listened to the sounds—waves streaming, seagulls squawking, kids laughing, adults gabbing under closely cropped rental umbrellas. Ah, Hilton Head. With nothing to do but relax. And, relax she did, falling fast asleep despite the cacophony surrounding her.
When Brooke awakened, the tide had drifted a football field away. She shook her head, flinging sand from her wavy locks. Brooke darted across the scorching dry sand until reaching the moist and comforting packed sand. Waves rolled in lazier patterns than before. Brooke plunged into the tepid salty ocean, immersing herself under a wave, then emerging invigorated. She loved this time of day. The frenetic beach activity relaxed into the serenity that she longed for.
Brooke’s stomach growled. I can’t be hungry already. She considered calling Janine, a sorority sister from college who summered on Hilton Head before moving here fulltime after graduation. She was fun, but on the wild side. Brooke was never that close with her since she hit on Tanner sophomore year. She denied it, invoking the booze excuse, but Tanner came clean. Ironically, Janine helped strengthen Brooke’s trust in him. I wonder if she ever married. When did I last see her? I was probably with Tanner. I don’t think she knows he’s gone.
Brooke dialed her friend’s cell number. It had been at least four years—Tanner range—and she braced herself as she pressed send. Janine sounded excited to hear from Brooke, but was preoccupied by island traffic. The conversation flowed with small talk mode until the inevitable question torpedoed: “What are you and Tanner doing tonight?”
“Uh, I’m sorry Janine, Tanner died three and a half years ago.”
Silence, then, “Oh my God, what happened?”
I guess she didn’t know—so much for the grapevine. “He had a rare form of leukemia.”
“I am so sorry…I don’t know what to say…you guys seemed so…”
Brooke didn’t need Janine to sink any further. She said, “Are you still in Forest Beach?”
“Good memory. Oh my gosh Brooke, I’m stunned.”
“I’m here for a few days and it would be great to see you. Do you have any plans tonight?”
“I do. I have a dinner date, but it’s not much. I’m not sure about this guy. Hey, you can join us if you want? Bail me out if needed.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that Janine. You go out. I’ve got some stuff I need to do tonight anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here a few more days. Maybe tomorrow if you’re free?”
Pause, “Saturday? Actually, I have another date…”
“Ooooh, sounds serious.” Brooke grinned.
“No, different guy. Not sure about him either.” Hearty laughter.
“Some things never change,” Brooke thought female Dixie-dawg, “I’ll call you Sunday or Monday, unless you hook up with bachelor number three and four.”
Giggles, “It’s good to see you still have that sense of humor. It’s good to hear from you Brooke. See you soon.”
Hanging up, Brooke sighed, thinking she’s another person I wouldn’t trade places with in a million years.
Brooke sat in silence for a moment, then picked up her phone and dialed Melissa. She was relieved to hear voicemail. “Hey Melissa, it’s me. Sorry I keep missing you…I’m thinking of going to my Daddy’s for a few days,” Brooke’s eyes fluttered as she fibbed to her friend, “Hope you’re doing well. I’ll call you when I return. Love you.” Pressing end, Brooke hoped Melissa wouldn’t call back immediately. She brought her journal out to her deck, then settled, seeking inspiration from the calm pond. No alligators or spiders within sight, Brooke exhaled. A crane stood stock still at water’s edge near a turtle sunning himself. A squirrel jumped from a huge oak branch to a smaller one beneath it, causing a few leaves to descend like cottonwood flakes to the pine needles below. Brooke’s forehead beaded up; she wondered if humidity bothered them. Or the frost of winter. Nature seemed to adjust to change without effort, something Brooke envied.
Hunger pangs clicked inside Brooke’s stomach like an alarm clock, reminding her to shower. After one full day without a watch, Brooke was on Hilton Head time—adapting like nature. While showering, Brooke forgot what day it was…Saturday? Though she pondered returning to Steamer’s, she didn’t want to look like a stalker—or a total loser.
Struggling to untangle her hair from
the torments of the sand and wind, Brooke frowned. I can’t go out like this on Saturday. She craved Italian, but didn’t feel like sitting solo at a candle lit table. And, pizza delivery wasn’t what she had in mind. Then, looking at the floor, her T-shirt strewn on top of the unmade bed flashed like an advertisement—Salty Dog. Great outdoor pizza. Perfect.
Grateful for her insider island knowledge, she drove the back way to South Beach. Ever since grade school math with Sister Rulerpain, Brooke prided herself on applying the shortest solution. Unlike long division, this methodology proved useful in traffic. On Hilton Head, like in life, there were usually at least two ways to go.
The Salty Dog Café offered the ideal setting. Against the backdrop of the Marina, the Cape Cod style buildings resembled honeycombs with all the bustling tourists dining, shopping, and jostling for seats around the tiki hut outdoor bar. The expansive wooden deck—cut around the palm trees, of course—served as a main meeting area to eat, drink, and be merry. Brooke rounded the corner and winced at the parking options. She remembered her secret spot, then pulled onto the grass, under a majestic oak. A minivan followed and parked right behind her.
Once outside her air conditioned Lexus, the muggy air assaulted her skin. She decided to grab a cool drink and adjust in the shade, before her sundress clung to her like a one-piece swimsuit. Ambling toward the circular bar, she heard the guitar guy singing. She spotted an opening at the bar, and wedged on a stool beside a cute couple who glowed like honeymooners. Like the night before, this performer had talent. He was playing a spirited rendition of Rocky Top, as a table of orange-clad adults acted like kids, while their unattended children bounced around on the makeshift dance floor. She figured she’d wait to request her songs.
After missing her chance with one of the three scrambling bartenders, the taller one made eye contact with Brooke, and she panicked. Keeping her eyes fixed, she pointed at the young girl’s drink beside her, and said, “I’ll have one of those.”