Page 23 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“Good luck with that. The beach is basically a shared backyard.”
“Then I guess I’ll wear blinders.”
She sipped her coffee, amused. “I give it until the end of the day.”
I raised my brow. “Before what?”
“Before he crashes one of your dinner parties, causes some major disturbance, or ends up passed out on our patio furniture.”
“I need you to stop being right all the time.”
“Darling, someone in this house has to be.”
I groaned dramatically and stood. “I’m showering. And pretending the man next door doesn’t exist.”
“Just don’t label him with your Brother P-Touch, and everything will be fine.”
I paused halfway up the stairs. “You know about the label maker?”
She smiled behind her coffee cup. “Miles. I’m your mother. I know everything.”
And damn it, she really did.
But enough about Hudson Knight. I needed to freshen up and get my own day started. The smell of crisp sea air still clung to my skin when I emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel and already plotting the morning’s breakfast. I padded across the sunlit hardwood floors, hair damp and tousled, and found my mother exactly where I’d left her—perched like royalty at the kitchen island, flipping throughTown & Countrynow and sipping her second cup of black coffee from a bone china cup.
“Any big plans for today, darling?” she asked, glancing up, her gold bangle clinking as she set the cup down.
I paused, stretching out my arms with a dramatic yawn. “Actually, yes. First, I’m going to make you breakfast.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You always do.”
“But this time it’ll be photogenic,” I said, heading for the fridge. “I want you to help me document it. I need a few shots for the blog—behind-the-scenes stuff. Something casual but styled, you know?”
“You want me to take pictures of you cooking?” she asked to verify.
“Yes.” I turned, closing the fridge door with my hip and holding up a carton of organic eggs and a bunch of fresh dill. “You have a good eye. And you’re already dressed better than most food stylists I’ve worked with.”
She smirked. “Flattery will get you everywhere. I’ll do it—on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I want one of your Bloody Marys. The one with the cucumber-lime vodka. Not that watery nonsense with too much horseradish.”
I beamed. “Coming right up.”
I started with the rim—dragging two chilled highballglasses through a plate of celery salt and smoked paprika. Then I filled a shaker with ice, added my secret ingredient, the cucumber-lime vodka, a splash of dry vermouth, tomato juice (only the good kind, no concentrate), a dash of Worcestershire sauce, fresh lemon juice, and just the right amount of heat from horseradish and hot sauce.
“I swear,” she said, snapping a picture as I poured, “you should bottle this stuff and sell it.”
“Don’t tempt me. I already have a waiting list in three states.”
She laughed as I garnished each glass with a celery stalk, pickled green beans, and a lemon wheel, then added a sprig of dill and a skewer of marinated olives. Presentation was everything.
“Perfection,” she said, taking a sip. “Still the best I’ve ever had.”
“That’s because you raised me right.”
Now, onto breakfast. I cracked the eggs into a copper bowl and whisked them with crème fraîche, chives, and a touch of truffle salt. In a separate pan, I began roasting heirloom cherry tomatoes with garlic and thyme. I laid out prosciutto on a sheet of parchment, slid it into the oven until crisp, and started in on the sourdough—thick slices, brushed with olive oil, and grilled just enough to leave charred lines like a pressed tuxedo shirt.
