Page 38 of The Rehoboth Retreat
We clinked. We smiled. And as the first forkfuls found our lips, the chapter of the evening—this perfect, improbable, necessary pause in the madness—began.
The salty breeze drifted lazily across the upper deck as Cecilia and I sipped our cocktails and dug into the seafood feast.
We’d just finished our second round of swordfish when I had the ridiculous but on-brand impulse to do a quick live video for my blog followers. Just a little “behind-the-scenes of dinner at the beach house” moment to feed the algorithm and remind everyone that, yes, Miles Whitaker still curated a lifestyle worth envying.
I reached for my phone and opened the app, angling the camera to catch the dinner spread and the sea glimmering behind it.
“And tonight,” I purred into the camera, adjusting the angle just so it captured the ocean flickering behind me, “we’re serving fresh, pan-seared swordfish drizzled in a lemon-caper butter sauce, accompanied by grilled asparagus with shaved parmesan, old-school crab cakes with a dash of smoked paprika, chilled oysters on the half shell with a cucumber mignonette, and a peach, burrata, and arugula salad. And to drink? A fresh cucumber, mint, and ginger gin cocktail with a touch of lime juice and grapefruit bitters,” I said smoothly into the camera, my voice syrupy with practiced charm.
But just as I turned to get a better angle, the sound of blaring music suddenly shattered the evening serenity.
Bass.
Throbbing.
Relentless and deeply uninvited.
It was followed by shouts—no, hollers—voices trying to be heard over the noise. Then, a loud whistle, and what sounded suspiciously like a splash.
I immediately closed out of my live video.
“What the hell is that?” I muttered, lowering the phone.
Even Topper, curled up under the table moments ago, leaped to his feet and started barking like he was auditioning for a neighborhood watch commercial.
Cecilia raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair, tilting her cocktail glass thoughtfully. “Sounds festive.”
“Sounds like a nightmare,” I snapped, rising from my chair and walking to the edge of the deck. The moment I looked over the railing, my stomach sank.
Hudson’s house, that modern monstrosity next door, was pulsing with colored lights—neon pinks and greens like a flamingo threw up all over Miami Vice. His backyard had been completely transformed: tiki torches lined the deck, a glowing inflatable pool undulated with LED lights, and a sea of shirtless men in tiny shorts and mesh tops were moving about with cocktails and glittering plastic cups. Some were on the beach, some on the patio, some dancingon the damn outdoor furniture.
And Hudson? Of course, he was in the center of it, shirtless, grinning, barefoot but bandaged, holding court like Dionysus reincarnated—if Dionysus had stitches in his foot and an affinity for blaring Kygo remixes.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said through clenched teeth. “He’s supposed to be recovering. He’s supposed to be on crutches, wounded, helpless. I gave up my afternoon for that man.”
“Well,” Cecilia said, sipping her wine and blinking innocently. “He doesn’t look too helpless now.”
I turned around, flabbergasted. “Mother.”
“What? I mean, look at the turnout. He’s practically a gay pied piper.”
“I’m serious,” I said, pointing accusingly toward the music as if it could hear me. “This is unacceptable. This isn’t a casual gathering. This is a gay beach Coachella: Backyard Edition. The bass is shaking my glassware. This party needs to be shut down.”
Cecilia shrugged. “I mean, technically, he’s allowed to have guests.”
“There aredozensof them. There’s even a man dancing in a jockstrap near our hydrangeas.”
She set her glass down and gave me a measured look. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Well, if you’re going to storm over there like the HOA with a personal vendetta, I should at least be there to stop you from committing social homicide.”
I sighed, grabbing the hem of my linen shirt and shaking out the creases. “Fine. Yes. Come with me. You can be the good cop to my extremely irritated, thoroughly unamused, bad cop.”
“Lovely,” she said, rising with the grace of a woman who had walked red carpets and ruined men’s careers with a single arched brow. “Shall we?”
I gave Topper a reassuring pat as we made our waydown the deck stairs, his barking now just a low grumble of disapproval. The music was louder with every step, the lights from Hudson’s place now casting strange shadows across our lawn.
