by Kate Stewart
The bottle I’d retrieved hit my chin and I landed on my ass with a soundless thud. Large hands gripped me by my bare shoulders and I was instantly pulled back on my feet. A man dressed in a power suit stared down at me with shattered features and tortured gray eyes. Recognition of his pain was instantaneous, and I felt despair leaking from every part of him. Through thick black lashes, ready tears threatened to spill as he assessed me to make sure I was in one piece. It was a split second before he righted me on the sand and released me with a quick and barely audible, “I’m sorry,” before he rushed away. I looked down at the crushed flowers on the ground and mourned them briefly along with dashed hopes of happy new neighbors.
If that man was one of my newlyweds, I was in for a shit two weeks.
I looked around for a bride to follow the groom and came up empty.
Shit. She left him at the altar!
My phone rattled in my pocket as I made my way toward the Kemps, my eyes in the direction of the groom, chin burning. He was standing at the edge of the water, shoulders slumped, hands in his suit pockets. Even from yards away I could see his devastation.
Poor guy. What an evil woman. How could she do that to him? Why do people do that? How do they leave someone standing at the altar thinking they are about to start the rest of their life and not show?
Even though I had made it out of New York a laughing stock with my peers, I got away with only a slightly jaded heart. And even that shit hurt. I’d been in the dating neighborhood, browsed but never decided to buy. I still had plenty of years to find Mr. Forever.
When it came to me, renting was a better option, and even with that decision, I hadn’t bothered to act on it. It seemed the ideal thing to do when one goes flying off the handle, only to abandon her life and live in a new one. I was a work in progress and love could wait.
I tried to give my jilted groom privacy as I made my way to the porch of the Kemps’ house and opened the door. It was spotless and up to standard; which was a relief. I doubted the guy would give a damn about the state of the house. I threw the broken flowers in the trash and stuck one of the wine bottles in the fridge as I eyed the window. My phone rattled again just as I pulled it out of my pocket to shoot a text to Jasmine and saw she was calling.
“Hey.”
“We have a problem,” Jasmine said without a trace of humor. That tone meant we had a serious problem.
“Oh, I can assure you we do. I’m staring at a jilted groom.”
“Jilted groom?”
“My new neighbors. It looks like the bride was a no-show.”
I’d managed to land us the Kemp account last summer when they had come to stay for a weekend before heading further south. I adored Rowan and William Kemp, they were worldly wise, extremely kind, and more than happy to hand the business over. I was sure I’d pissed on someone who had managed their rental for years, but I needed the commission. I loved the house, it was warm and inviting much like mine with subtle differences in décor. So far, the house had brought in a steady commission and was rented for every week of the summer.
“No, your bride and groom are about to pull up.”
“No,” I spoke slowly. “He’s here, she’s not.”
“Tall? Late thirties, dark hair?”
I squinted in the afternoon sun. “Yeah.”
“That’s Ian Kemp. Mrs. Kemp has been calling all morning to see if he might have shown up there.”
“Ian?” I walked out onto the porch and studied his back. “I haven’t seen him since I was seven. Well, I saw him for a few seconds when I was seventeen—”
“Babe, that’s all fine and dandy, but we have a bride and groom whose ETA is now and we have no place to put them.”
“We can relocate Ian.” Even as I said the words, I knew there was no way I was walking up to that man and asking him to leave. The look in his eyes alone would haunt me for weeks. He stood statue-still as he stared at the aqua glass water.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Uh, yeah,” Jasmine said, as I took another step forward. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was sure he wanted his space. His posture confirmed as much.
“No, I mean with Ian.”
Jasmine cursed before she growled into the phone, I could hear her frantically typing in the background. “Every place else is booked. We are going to have to put them at Margulis Mansion.”
“No, you can’t! That’s a twenty-two-million-dollar rental with nine rooms!”
“We’re going to have to make up the difference. At least for the night. I’ll call and see if anyone has something we can swap.”
“Crap,” I said, staring at the back of Ian’s suit. “I needed this commission.”
Jasmine sighed. “You and me both.”
“This sucks!” I may have said it a little loud, but Ian didn’t move. Not an inch. He was searching for answers. I knew that feeling. I’d done the same thing.
“Well, hell, why not a hotel room?”
“And risk a shit review? We’re trying to build the business. These are newlyweds. Can’t do it.” Jasmine sounded pissed which was rare, but I understood it. We were going to lose a ton of commission.
“There is nothing else?”
“Nothing,” she sighed over the line, defeated.
“Okay, text me the address. As soon as they get here, I’ll divert traffic.”
“K. Call me when you get home. Fucking ship day.”
“That was yesterday, Jasmine.”
“If you can use it, so can I.”
AFTER WAVING TO THE TAXI driver like a bird trying to take flight, I threw the two newly discarded suitcases back into the taxi while I spoke rapidly to a confused bride and groom. After escorting them to their oversized mansion for two, where they repeatedly looked around with a “No shit? This is ours? No way!” I made my way back across the island to check Mrs. Osborne’s water—at her insistence—and scoured the porch for any poop before I turned two more rentals. When my workday was done, I pulled up to my house and pressed my forehead to the wheel. I had an ass full of sand, thanks to my new and unexpected neighbor.
A chuckle escaped me as I trotted down the alley to my porch where my serenity waited and paused when I saw Ian. He was still standing in the exact place I left him hours earlier. From what his mother had told me last summer, he’d been married and had a daughter. They lived in Dallas and were doing great. The Kemps had emigrated from South Africa and moved to the States. Ian had told me as much when we were kids. Smiling, I recalled the first time we met. It was just feet away from the water he was transfixed on.
Treading on the surface, I looked at my newly designated playmate. My mother saw fit to entertain our new summer neighbors with strict instructions that we get better acquainted. “You talk funny.” I stared at the brown-haired boy with bright eyes and a chipped front tooth.
“I lived in South Africa until last week,” he defended.
“Where did you move?”
“Texas. Dallas. A dreadful place surrounded by dirt. No weekend safaris. I hate it. Now—”
My giggle cut him off. “You’re so… proper.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
I jumped the wave that rolled through us to keep from getting another mouthful of water. My feet barely touched the sand and we were neck deep. The water was warm, and I could feel the sunburn on my back and arms even with the floaties my mother made me wear.
“I think I have it,” I said, lowering my mask and biting the mouthpiece.
“You don’t have it,” he challenged.
“You don’t have it,” I repeated in the worst imitation of a South African accent ever.
“Fine then. You’re on your own now.”
“Fine then,” I mocked with widening eyes through my mask. Ian laughed before he gripped my shoulders. “Don’t worry if it trickles in a little. Let the pressure of the water keep the mask to your face, even when you think it’s safe not to breathe, breathe anyway.”
The truth was I’d been out there for the better part of an hour panicking before he swam in, barking orders. I’d watched Jaws the night before with my father’s permission. It was the one time I regretted talking him into letting me get my way. I didn’t want to go anywhere near the water. No matter how many times I told myself it was just a movie, I heard the du-nuh every few seconds.
“Okay,” I said with false courage. “I’ve got it.”
He shook his head as if he knew I would choke. “All right, give it a go.”
“You sound like The Crocodile Hunter.”
“He is Australian.” He rolled his eyes. “And you sound ignorant. Now stop stalling.”
“Don’t be rude, crocky pants,” I piped.
Ian shrugged, pushing his dark hair off his forehead. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything.”
“Well then go on, miss.”
“I’m six years old. I’m not a miss.”
“You sure don’t have tits enough to be called a miss.”
His eyes sparkled with his laugh.
“Pervert alert!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.
Ian cringed. “I was just joking.”
“My father says any time a boy says a word about privates in front of me to tell.”
“I’m not a pervert. And I’m too old to be babysitting you.”
Offended but too terrified to be alone in the water, I shrieked when the next wave got the best of me. I was too far out in the surf and I knew I was about to get in trouble for it.
“I’ll have tits one day,” I promised, unable to think of anything else to say. Ian rolled his eyes as he pulled me by my floaties closer to shore. Choking, I pushed my hair out of my face. “I know you aren’t a pervert.” I smiled the way my mother did when she wanted her way. “I was just joking too.”
Ian squinted at me as if he was trying to decide if I was being truthful.
“I want to be your friend. I’m sorry, Ian. Please don’t leave me out here.”
He grabbed hold of me then and pulled me to where I could safely stand.
“It’s okay, little puffer fish.” He lined my mask up for me. “All right. You can do this. I know you can. But,” he looked behind his shoulder and then back to me, “no one said you had to.”
“I asked for the mask and flippers for my birthday. I’m gonna be seven next week. I’m not afraid.” I was lying. And he knew it.
“Are you scared of what you’ll see under, then? Give them here.” He took the mask from me and peeked underwater before he pulled up and shook his head. “Nothing to see but a few fish.”
“Okay.” Taking the mask from him, I pulled it over my eyes and nose and he became harder to see when the lens fogged up.
“No big deal.” He knuckled the top of my head and I glared at him before I went under. Within seconds, a needle nose fish swam a centimeter from my mask and I began choking as I surfaced. “Holy shit!”
“Koti!” My mother shrieked from shore. She had the ears of a Doberman.
“Sorry, Mom, there was a fish!”
She stood in a bright red bikini and I saw Ian’s eyes float her way with interest. My mother had ‘tits’ in abundance and a whole lot of everything else. Curves from head to foot, I could see Ian deduce she was the ultimate miss. Even as a retired supermodel she commanded the eyes of everyone she sauntered past. “Young lady, I better not hear that language again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I could feel the blood rush to my face. Ian shook his head and nudged his chin forward.
“Try again.”
Embarrassed, I shrugged. “I don’t want to.”
“Mad? Humiliated? Scared? That’s when you should do things anyway. It will always piss the other guy off.” He grinned at me with pencil point freckles dotting his nose. “Have fun anyway, Koti. I’ll keep a lookout for you.”
I knew a little about the boy inside the man I watched. The boy who had put together my first s’more, laughed with his whole body at the surprise in my eyes when I tasted the toasted marshmallow, a product from a fire which he, himself had built. While Ian was allowed freedoms like that, I was allowed very little sugar and spent an hour bubbling marshmallows and smashing them between graham crackers and melted chocolate. I could still remember Ian’s amused reaction as I gorged. He was a firecracker then, about to turn fourteen, but he took me under his wing that summer.
There wasn’t a trace of that boy in the man who stood in a puddle at the edge of the sea.
Life was funny like that. For a moment in time, a few weeks in the summer when we were both just a couple of naïve kids, I called Ian Kemp a friend. Earlier that day he had treated me as a stranger. It was the summers after that turned us into nothing more than a few memories.
But those few memories turned significant.
Ian Kemp had introduced me to my comfort food. He’d also given me the confidence to smile to spite my mother when she got the best of me.
And for those memories, I felt a little indebted. A little bit more familiar to the stranger on the beach.
I made my way back to my house, my gaze fixed on Ian until I was forced to unload my sand-filled panties. A hot shower and a loofah scrub down later, I poured another glass of wine from my already corked bottle and took residence on my porch chair overlooking the calm sea. In an attempt not to screw up my routine, a routine I carefully followed to the letter on most days, I lit my hurricane candles on my porch as Novo Amor’s “Faux” drifted through my speakers and out to sea.
I learned much too late, ambiance was the key for me. Music, wine, and candles created my safe haven. These little things made me feel like I was in the midst of something, instead of looking forward to something else. I had spent way too much of my life looking forward to things.
Those things rarely ever came the way I’d imagined them.
Certainties were pap smears, head colds, and flat tires. But the feeling you got wrapped up in a good book, the perfect song, surrounded by candlelight could be repeated over and over.
Endless self-made memories that no one could screw up? Yes, please.
Because when you date yourself, there is no one to disappoint you. Jasmine didn’t get it. But me and my hesitant libido understood. I’d gone through an entire year without missing men. I’d go through another if I felt like it. But it wasn’t about setting restrictions on my life. It was about the way I felt about myself.
I’d come to the island anxiety-ridden and the blue water was my prescription. I’d set goals to forget my old ones and shed my skin for a better fit. One that bled life without calculations and bred alternate possibilities. I basked in the smell of the ocean—a new necessity—and marveled at the swirl of different shades of blue that hit the slightly rocky shore.
Several healthy sips of wine later, and much to my dismay, my bottle was empty.
As wrong as it was, I glanced over at Ian who remained in the same spot on the beach and then over to the Kemp’s house, where I knew an expensive bottle was chilling in the fridge.
As the sun began to fade behind the new Armani-clad statue in the neighborhood, the ocean and surrounding mountain islands behind him, I tiptoed over to the house. In record time, I had the bottle in hand and walked out of the Kemps’ ready to step lightly back to my side of the invisible fence. I shrieked when I saw the dark cloud that waited on the other side of the door and dropped my keys on the porch between us. Ian peered down at me as I scrambled to retrieve them.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Ian, hi, do you remember me? Koti?” He remained mute with no recognition on his face. “Well, it’s good to see you. I was… just making sure the place was ready for you. I manage this property now, I don’t know if your mother mentioned it?” Ian stood silent, his hands in his pockets. He was pale, his stubble-covered face was slightly bloated. Red-rimmed eyes were a sure sign of the day he’d had, and his full lips didn’t move with a single tell.
Ian glanced at the bottle of wine with indifference befo
re he sidestepped me, plucked the key out of my hand and went through the door shutting it soundly behind him.
“Well, that was good, Koti,” I muttered, taking a step away when he sounded through the door, his South African tongue slightly faded, but much more masculine.
“It was awful, actually. Terrible liar. But then I guess that’s a thing with you women.”
“Wow, uh, geesh. I’ll replace your wine tomorrow,” I said through the closed door. “Sorry, for… sorry.”
What in the hell was I apologizing for? He’d just thrown women into a collective group and labeled them all liars, insulted an entire sex because of my slight alcoholism on a Tuesday night.
The nerve.
Stomping across the sand, my cell phone rang. Already on edge, I shrieked in surprise before I pulled it out of my pocket. I’d forgotten to turn it off after my shift and it was Jasmine’s night for after-hours calls. I blew out a breath as I looked at the lifeless house behind me while dusk set in. He hadn’t turned on a single light. Reluctantly I answered. “At Ease Property Management, this is Koti.”
“Hi, Koti, it’s Rowan Kemp.”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Kemp.”
“Koti, I insist you call me Rowan. Is Ian there? Is he still at the house?”
“Yes. He uh, showed up about six hours ago.”
“Oh, thank God, okay…” I could hear the fear in her voice. “Koti, darling, I need a huge favor,” I swore when the woman spoke to me she could make a simple sentence sound like a song lyric. Ian’s father was all-American, but his mother was where the South African roots lay.
“Sure, you know I’ll help any way I can.”
“I’m sure the rental was booked for the week, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. Actually, it’s booked almost every week for the next several months. We had to spend a small fortune relocating the guests today.”
“I’ll cover all of it, double your commission. I really need your help.”
“Okay.” I was up for anything that had me in electricity and wines that didn’t taste like syrup. Living hand to mouth had been a refreshing change when I first moved to the island, until it became a burden. Maintaining island life took work and a lot of it. “What can I do for you?”