Page 32 of The Rehoboth Retreat
But I had barely exhaled before a familiar voice pierced the silence, a melody of mock surprise and glee.
“Well, well, well—if it isn’t Rehoboth’s own Mother Teresa.”
I groaned, peeling myself off the door like I was shedding a second skin. “Please, don’t start.”
Cecilia came sweeping into the foyer like she was auditioning for a role inDynasty: Coastal Edition. Her caftan was a breezy watercolor of coral and cream, cinched slightly at the waist and paired—naturally—with oversized sunglasses, a chunky gold necklace, and a fresh blowout that somehow defied the humidity entirely. She had a highball glass in one hand and her phone in the other, likea socialite-turned-private investigator.
“I’ve done some research,” she said, arching a brow and taking a sip of what I was fairly certain was not iced tea.
“Oh no,” I muttered, taking off my sandals.
“Oh yes,” she sang. “Hudson Knight. Age forty-two, which is shocking because he looks not a day over thirty. Famous actor. Known tabloid disaster. Did you know he once got into a fistfight with a drag queen at the Beverly Hills Hotel bar?”
“Only Hudson Knight would find a way to loseandget dragged in six-inch stilettos,” I replied, heading toward the kitchen.
“There was also a yacht incident. And a steamy, naked photoshoot with snakes—literal snakes—not metaphorical ones. And apparently, he once told a reporter that he considers brunch an emotional experience, which I find highly respectable.”
“I take it you’ve spent the afternoon in a Google rabbit hole,” I ventured.
“I needed something to do while you played lifeguard,” she replied, following me like a well-dressed shadow. “After you sent me all those texts from the hospital, I just couldn’t help myself.”
I poured myself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge—cucumber, lemon, mint, the works. Something clean, crisp, refreshing. I dropped two ice cubes in and gave it a gentle swirl before turning to face her.
“You know, there was a moment where I thought he was going to cry,” I said, surprising even myself.
Cecilia blinked. “Tears? From Hudson‘Shots at Sunrise’Knight?”
I nodded. “Just a flicker. Right when the doctor told him he couldn’t go back on the beach for a week. It was like telling a toddler he couldn’t have dessert.”
She leaned dramatically against the island, hand to chest. “How tragic. Denied the sun, the surf, and the gaze of strangers.”
I chuckled and took a long sip. “Sounds like he made a career off his looks alone.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t make it off emotional maturity,” she said with a grin. “But heishandsome. I’ll give him that. The jawline, the tan, that whole reckless Malibu thing. I can see the appeal.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I could almost hear them click. “Yes, yes. He looks like a cologne ad that came to life and developed a criminal record.”
“And yet,” she said, holding up a manicured finger, “you helped him. Bandaged him. Drove him to the hospital. Sat in a waiting room with him fortwohours. If that’s not a meet-cute, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s not a meet-cute. It’s a public health hazard.”
We both laughed as I walked toward the back patio, drink in hand. The glass door slid open with a soft whoosh, and a wall of golden light spilled in. The late afternoon sun shimmered over the pool like a layer of glass, unmoved and serene. I stepped outside, letting the warmth wrap around me again, this time with the comfort of shade and a cold drink in hand.
Cecilia followed, flopping gracefully into one of the ivory-cushioned lounge chairs by the pool. I took the one beside her, letting out a slow sigh as I sank back and stretched out my legs.
The umbrella above us cast a perfectly shaped oval of shade. A soft breeze rustled the trees planted along the edge of the patio. Birds chirped in the distance. The rhythmic splash of the neighbor’s fountain offered the kind of tranquil white noise usually reserved for meditation apps and high-end spas.
And for a moment, I just breathed.
Cecilia glanced over. “So… what’s next? A romantic beachside dinner? Maybe he shows up limping and confesses he’s not as shallow as he seems?”
“I’m not writing a romance novel, Mother.”
“Well, you could be.”
I shook my head, sipping my tea. “He’s mayhem. Absolute mayhem. Like a piñata filled with glitter and prescription meds.”
“But…?”
