Page 12 of The Rehoboth Retreat
To Owen and our failed marriage. To this miraculous beach house, I was now vacationing in. To the curated life I had built so carefully and watched unravel like a poorly tied ribbon. My mind was wandering amok. I hated the feeling of not knowing what came next. But for now, therewas this moment—this drink, this view, this beach.
The wind picked up slightly, tousling my hair, carrying with it the scent of the sea and distant beach bonfires. I closed my eyes for a moment, grounding myself in the sound of water, the coolness of the glass in my hand, and the faint hum of cicadas behind the dunes.
And then, as if on cue, the spell broke. I stood, dusted the sand off my feet, and walked back inside.
It was time.
Time for dinner. For Blue Moon. For a night out, that would be a small step forward.
I straightened my collar in the mirror near the door, gave myself one last once-over, and stepped out into the evening—Rehoboth air warm and fragrant, like the start of somethinggood.
Miles
The Uber ride from the beach house to Blue Moon may have been short, but the transition in the atmosphere was nothing short of cinematic. Ocean Drive, with its quiet hush of ocean breezes and polished tranquility, felt like the finale of an orchestral symphony. But as we turned the corner and approached Baltimore Avenue, it was as though the curtains lifted on Act II—vibrant, pulsing, alive. This stretch of Rehoboth Beach, the town’s unapologetic gay corridor, was a joyful parade of sensory delight. Every storefront glimmered beneath golden streetlamps and colorful-lit signs. Restaurants and cocktail lounges spilled onto the sidewalks with laughter, flirtation, and a chorus of silverware chiming against porcelain.
Baltimore Avenue is, in many ways, the soul of Rehoboth after dark. Bougainvillea and beach roses coiled around white trellises, framing patios where friends sat outside restaurants and toasted Aperol Spritzes and cosmos. Music spilled from open doors—a Mariah remix here, a soulful jazz piano tune there. The scent of saltwater mingled with garlic butter and expensive cologne. There was something magical about it, this heady cocktail of summer air, drag queens passing by in glittering capes, couples walking dogs in rainbow harnesses, and the overwhelming sense that here, on this street, you could be exactly who you wanted to be.
The Uber slowed in front of Blue Moon, and I felt a small surge of joy. There it was—elegant, iconic, instantly recognizable. The front of the building wore its signature teal-blue siding proudly, the scalloped shakes giving it the look of a fanciful seaside château. It practically glowed under the light, helped along by a series of bright, buttery-yellow light fixtures and accents that rimmed the doorwaylike a marquee at a coastal opera house. Above the door, the restaurant’s stylized neon moon shimmered with a soft, dreamy glow, casting its aura over the excited patrons clustered outside for a table.
I stepped out of the car and smoothed down my linen shirt—white and crisp,perfectly tailored to complement the navy trousers I paired it with. A single gold cuff hugged my wrist, understated but deliberate. I took a steadying breath.
This was my kind of night.
Inside, the mood shifted to something exquisite. The hostess greeted me with a poised smile and a nod, clipboard in hand.
“Reservation for Miles Whitaker,” I said.
“Right this way, Mr. Whitaker,” she replied, her voice velvety and precise.
She led me past the lively bar—a haven of turquoise tile and vintage sconces—into the heart of the dining room. Everything gleamed with intention. Round tables cloaked in snow-white linens sat beneath glowing votive candles. The flickering light danced against gold-rimmed charger plates and stemware that shimmered with each turn of a head. The walls held historical scenes of Rehoboth Beach and nautical artwork—but not kitschy seashell prints. The space was warm, intimate, coastal-chic.
My table was positioned near the window, the ideal perch for a solo diner—offering a view of the glittering street outside and just enough privacy to relax without feeling cloistered. I slid into the upholstered chair and took a deep breath. The ambiance was a balm.
Within moments, a sharply dressed waiter appeared, youthful and refined with a demeanor that suggested both training and genuine warmth.
“Good evening, Mr. Whitaker. I’m Cameron, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Would you care to begin with a drink?”
I unfolded my napkin with a flourish and smiled. “Yes, I believe I’ll start with a bottle of the Pinot Gris. The Westmount vintage, if available. I’m only having a glass or two, but I do enjoy a proper presentation.”
Cameron nodded approvingly. “An excellent choice. Bright acidity with subtle notes of pear and lemon zest—a lovely partner to seafood. Shall I chill it tableside with an ice bucket?”
“Please. And could you leave the bottle?” Irequested. “I find it oddly reassuring.”
“Of course. I’ll return with that shortly.”
As he disappeared, I settled into the moment. Dining alone used to feel like an act of loneliness. Now it felt like luxury. The gentle clink of silver, the murmured laughter, the soft hum of jazz music in the background—every element coaxed me further into tranquility.
Cameron returned with a polished silver bucket and the chilled bottle of Pinot Gris nestled inside like a precious gem. He uncorked it effortlessly, letting the cork exhale with a delicate pop, and poured a modest taste into my glass. I lifted it, swirled, and brought it to my nose. The aroma was everything: stone fruit, citrus blossom, a hint of ocean breeze. I sipped.
“Beautiful,” I murmured.
He poured a proper serving and waited.
“I’ll be having the Lobster Risotto,” I said, handing him the menu. “No substitutions. I trust the chef’s instincts.”
“Very good. It comes with English peas, shaved heirloom carrots, and a tomato confit. The Pinot Gris will pair wonderfully.”
“That’s the plan.”
