Page 4 of Kayak Girl

“Atta boy!” Weston ruffled my hair as if I was a child.

I shooed him away while removing my shirt. “Would you mind taking my shirt and keys to your car? I parked way out by the entrance.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I had to dig deep to ignore the yellow van. The gentleman in me wanted to help her load up her kayak. But Weston would have a conniption, so I headed straight for the trash can. I tossed the remains of my lunch and returned to the shore. A swim was for the best. It would clear my head.

A few minutes later, Weston caught up to me and pushed me sideways. “Race you to the water,” he said.

I laughed and followed Weston. As I plunged into the cool embrace of the water, a nagging reminder hovered at the back of my mind, refusing to be drowned out by the rush of the race. Kayley had left a smudge on my soul, a stain I’d been scrubbing at for what felt like forever.

Nope. I couldn’t chance messing up again.

Chapter 5

ELLE

It took me an eternity, or so it felt, to reverse my van out of the narrow parking bay. I probably should have parked somewhere on the field behind Central Beach, but I was too eager to take advantage of slack tide, and the walk to the shore would have stolen precious time. Oh well.

I crawled through the rest of the parking lot in first gear and then, as I approached the exit, I pumped the gas, willing my van up the incline. Gripping the stubborn steering wheel, I used both hands on one side and pulled down to make the sharp turn. I was almost free of this claustrophobic lot, but then the sound of metal scraping and glass shattering reached my ears, and I winced.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I was certain that I’d cleared the black Jeep perched on the corner. But my conscience would not let me leave without checking for damage. I parked my van on the curb and walked up to the Jeep in slow motion. It had a big yellow smudge and a smashed taillight. No question I’d caused the noise. Argh. My bank account couldn’t afford this.

I covered my eyes and turned around to face Mabel. Spreading my fingers apart, I peeked at my oversized baby. “Oh, no!” My taillight was in pieces, and my bumper dangled off one side of the van like a loose tooth. I was going so slow. How was this even possible? Was I ever going to catch a break on this trip?

The whole reason I needed this working vacation was because I was drowning in responsibility. This crash just shoved me deeper under water. My chest hurt as I tried to take a deep breath. I hugged myself to remind my brain that I wasn’t actually drowning.

After giving myself a mini pep talk, I waited for the owner of the Jeep to return to their car so I could apologize and sort out the insurance details. While I waited, I used a cloth and some WD-40 (my go to fix for everything car related) to rub off the yellow smear. Might as well make it look less gory.

Thirty minutes later, there was no sign of the Jeep’s owner. In fact, no one seemed to focus on the happenings in the parking lot. The café was flooded with tourists, and the ocean, like a magnet, drew everyone away from their cars. Not wanting to hit-and-run, I left a note. I almost left my phone number, but then I considered the awkward phone call and left my email address instead. Here was hoping the Jeep’s owner would see my note under their windshield wiper and wouldn’t be too mad.

I jumped back in Mabel. As I drove along the coastal road, a sense of apprehension tugged at my heart. Hilton Head Island seemed to promise an idyllic experience, but my mind was a whirlwind of concerns. I tried to focus on the things I could control. I’d have to get Mabel fixed and sort things out with the Jeep’s owner, but that was Monday’s problem. Today was about setting up camp, and finding access to Wi-Fi so that I could catch up on my copywriting work.

In a matter of minutes, I arrived at the beach campgrounds, the place I would call home for the next few days. I parked my van next to a row of rustling palms. As I stepped out onto the soft, golden sand, my gaze was drawn to a quaint wooden hut adorned with the words ‘Reception’ in cheerful, beachy colors. I approached the hut. The wooden boards creaked beneath my sandals as I ascended the steps. Before I could knock, a woman emerged.

“Hi, I’m Brenda, the campground receptionist. How can I help you?” she asked with a warm smile.

“Um, hi. I’m Elle. I emailed you guys about reserving a campsite.”

“Oh yes. I’ve been expecting you,” she said and just stood there on the porch smiling at me.

I guessed Brenda to be about sixty, but her makeup included many of the trends I had seen teenagers use on TikTok. Her lips were adorned with bold, bright lipstick that demanded attention, and her eyelids shimmered with metallic eyeshadow that was nothing short of jarring.

“Nice makeup,” I said, trying to hide my fascination with her bold choices.

“Thanks, honey. I’m training to be a makeup artist, and I like to practice on myself every day,” Brenda replied with a chuckle. “Dave, my husband, says I put too much on. It could be because I can’t see without my glasses, but I’ll get there.”

I mustered a smile. I instantly liked Brenda. She seemed friendly, and I hoped it meant this campground would have better customer service than the last few places I’d stayed. I was about to ask about my reserved stand when she spoke up.

“You look like you’ve had a wild day, hon?”

“You have no idea,” I replied, shaking my head.

“Well, try me. I’ve got time,” she said, leaning in. “What’s got you so worked up?”

I sighed. “I crashed into someone’s car earlier. Left a note and all, but I have minimal liability cover and super high deductibles,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “And I’m concerned my savings won’t cover the cost of it all. It’s just one more thing to worry about.”

She looked at me with sympathy radiating from her eyes. “Oh, you poor thing! Look at that bumper. I’ll ask Dave to recommend a mechanic. Let’s get you settled. I bet you need a cup of tea.”

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