Page 37 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Castaway Chic.Dress code: resort trash. Think mesh tanks, wide-brim hats, open shirts, and enough cologne to gag a bloodhound.
Perfect.
I sent out the invite, followed it with a playlist link, and threw in a photo of my stitched-up foot as the cover image. Caption:“Still hotter than your ex.”
I glanced around the house. There was prep to be done. Pillows to fluff. Fragile things to hide. Candles to light for ambiance, not that I could reach most of them with one good leg and a crutch. So, I texted my assistant and told her to send people out to me, pronto, to get this shit done.
I took another drink and dragged myself to the window, watching the beach like I was waiting for a parade. This was happening. This was genius. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner?
If I couldn’t have the town’s attention by waltzingaround its bars, I’d steal it by turning my house into the epicenter of summer scandal. And maybe, just maybe, I’d catch a certain neighborly, neatly folded bundle of neuroses peeking through his windows when the music started.
Not that I cared.
But if hehappenedto wander over…
Well…
I trudged back to the bar cart and poured another mezcal on the rocks. To the party. To my foot. To being ridiculous and refusing to let a few stitches slow me down.
Hudson Knight was fucking back, baby.
And tonight?
Tonight was goingto be unforgettable.
Miles
The kitchen was awash in golden light, the late afternoon sun spilling through the expansive windows in honeyed streaks that kissed the marble countertops and danced across the brushed brass hardware like it was flirting with me. I was in my element—crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to my elbows, tailored khaki shorts that hit just above the knee, and my favorite pair of Ferragamo loafers in a soft tobacco suede that looked too good to risk near grease but I wore anyway because, well, standards.
The air was fragrant—citrus, garlic, ocean salt, and just a hint of rosemary clinging to the breeze from the open patio doors. My playlist murmured softly in the background, songs that were jazzy and upbeat but elegant, a perfect match to the evening I had meticulously planned. Tonight was about indulgence. Comfort. Family. And yes, of course, aesthetic harmony.
On the stovetop, the main course sizzled in a butter-gilded pan: thick ivory slabs of swordfish, seared with a crust of lemon zest, black pepper, and smoked sea salt. Each fillet had been marinated for hours in olive oil, crushed garlic, and fresh herbs—basil, thyme, a touch of tarragon—until they were practically drunk with flavor. Next to them, a copper saucepan bubbled with a silky beurre blanc spiked with white wine, shallots, and a whisper of Dijon.
On the quartz island, a trio of appetizers gleamed under glass domes: oysters on the half shell served atop crushed ice with house-made mignonette and lemon wedges carved into intricate spirals; crab cakes so delicate they bordered on sinful, pan-fried until golden and topped with a dollop of caper aioli; and a peach and burrata salad witharugula, toasted pine nuts, and a balsamic reduction that clung to the fruit like lacquer.
The bread had been sliced and grilled earlier, rubbed with garlic, and brushed with olive oil until it crackled at the edges. A tower of grilled vegetables—zucchini, bell peppers, eggplant, and red onions—was arranged like modern art beside a chilled bowl of citrusy couscous with golden raisins and pistachios.
As everything settled into its final stage, I turned my attention to the cocktail. Something clean, coastal, and refreshing. I muddled fresh cucumber, mint, and a hint of ginger into the bottom of a shaker, added artisanal gin and a splash of elderflower liqueur, and finished it off with a squeeze of lime and a few drops of grapefruit bitters.Ice in. Shake. Shake. Shake. Strain into vintage coupe glasses I chilled in the freezer an hour ago, then garnished with a ribbon of cucumber and a delicate sprig of dill—because why not?
I carried the glasses to the upstairs deck and set them down on the table I had already begun tablescaping like my entire legacy depended on it. The dining set was teak, weathered just enough to look classic without veering into rustic. I covered it in a gauzy, cream table runner that fluttered softly in the wind, then layered on woven chargers, sea-glass plates, and oyster-shell napkin rings over crisp white linens.
Gold flatware. Crystal water goblets. And candles—dozens of them. Tapered, tea lights, and hurricanes in clear and frosted glass that would catch the dusk like bottled starlight once the sun dipped below the horizon. I added sprigs of sage and lemon leaves for scent, plus a centerpiece of white hydrangeas, blue thistle, and feathery green asparagus fern.
Beyond the rail, the ocean stretched endlessly, a canvas of pale cerulean melting into gold. Waves brushed the shore like the world’s most luxurious lullaby. Seagulls floated lazily overhead, and the air carried a whisper of saltand breeze that reminded me I was exactly where I was meant to be.
“Miles, darling,” my mother called, her voice a singsong waltz. “Shall I bring up the bread?”
“Yes, and the rosé, if you’d prefer to have that,” I responded back. “Everything else is ready.”
She soon went upstairs onto the upper deck carrying a tray like a seasoned but glamorous server at a five-star resort. Her caftan was a silky seafoam green tonight, her blonde hair pinned in an artful twist, and her lipstick was the perfect shade of coral to catch the glow of the dying sun.
I followed her, arms laden with serving trays: the swordfish, crab cakes, vegetables, oysters. We moved with a kind of orchestrated grace, our years of shared dinner rituals making us fluid and in sync.
As we took our seats, I poured sparkling water into her goblet and refreshed my cocktail. The sky blushed with that fleeting rose-gold hue that only happened right before twilight claimed the day. I looked at her. She looked at me. And for a moment, everything was exactly right.
“To swordfish and sanity,” she said, raising her glass.
“To us,” I replied.
