Page 33 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I looked out over the pool, watching as the wind gently kissed its surface into a gentle ripple.
“But,” I finally said, “maybe even mayhem has layers.”
Cecilia raised her glass. “To layers, then.”
“To layers,” I echoed, clinking mine against hers.
We reclined in our chairs, the sun retreating slowly toward the horizon, casting everything in a soft honey glow. The kind of light that made even the loudest days feel just a little more forgiving.
And there we sat, side by side—me, mentally untangling the complications of a very unexpected neighbor, and her, likely planning what to wear should Hudson ever come by with a borrowed bottle of tequila and a wounded heart.
I wasn’t sure what the rest of this trip would bring.
But for now?
The tea was cold. The breeze was gentle. And for the first time since the bleeding foot fiasco, I felt like the day had finally—blessedly—quieted.
I had spent a total of fifteen minutes by the pool, and already I could feel the exhaustion wash over me. The pool was glistening, each ripple showcasing a cascade of diamonds dripping in the light. Despite how beautiful the day still was, I found myself retreating—iced tea in hand, sandals in the other, a tension in my neck that had only partially been soothed by the warm breeze and my mother’s relentless commentary. I needed rest. Not just the physical kind, but the kind that peeled the noise away layer by layer.
I stepped into the house, letting the door slide shut behind me with a soft click. The air conditioning greeted me like an old friend—brisk, dry, and just the right degree of judgmental. My linen shirtclung to me in a damp hug, and my body, which had carried Hudson Knight’s weight and the chaos of his existence all afternoon, finally cried uncle.
“Off to take your dramatic little nap?” came Cecilia’s voice from the direction of the kitchen, wrapped in mockery and citrus perfume.
I set my tea on the white quartz island next to her half-finished cocktail. “It’s not dramatic. It’s preventative care. Emotional triage.”
Cecilia stood at the sink, swirling a lemon wedge around the rim of her glass like she was rehearsing for a summer cocktail segment on morning television. “I’d call it self-preservation if you weren’t already halfway to sainthood for what you did this afternoon.”
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. “Let’s not canonize me just yet. I didn’t resurrect him from the dead. I just drove him to Beebe with his sole bleeding like a scene fromKill Bill.”
She turned to face me fully, leaning against the counter with that all-knowing glint in her eye. “Still. Not everyone would’ve done what you did.”
“Sure they would’ve,” I muttered, walking toward the hallway. “Unless they had common sense or boundaries.”
Cecilia clicked her tongue. “Don’t act like you weren’t a little intrigued.”
I stopped at the archway, one hand braced on the molding. “Intrigued is a strong word. Let’s go with… surprised. Caught off guard. Maybe vaguely compelled by the bizarre theatricality of it all.”
She sipped her drink and gave me the kind of maternal once-over that always made me feel like I was eight years old and had hidden contraband under my bed. “You know, Hudson’s probably sitting in that monstrosity of a house right now, leg propped up, wondering if anyone gives a damn.”
“Well, I gave a damn today,” I said, “and now I need a nap.”
“You sure you don’t want to invite him to dinner?”
I turned fully now, arms crossed. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Just asking.”
“You don’t justask. You plant seeds. You scheme.”
“I’m retired,” she said innocently.
I gave her a pointed look. “Mother.”
She sighed dramatically, swirling the ice in her glass. “I just think it would be kind. He’s injured. Alone. Probably starving. On crutches. A little emotional support might not be the worst thing.”
I walked back into the kitchen, grabbing my tea again, if only for something to hold. “He’s not a stray cat. He’s a grown man who owns silk robes and once said in an interview that he doesn’t believe in monogamy because it limits his ‘creative expression.’”
Cecilia grinned. “Yes, I did read that. Truly poetic.”
