Page 3 of The Rehoboth Retreat
What was there to say?
What was there to do?
I pulled intoLe Ciel, my favorite French bistro in the heart of the city. It was a place of quiet elegance, the kind of restaurant where time seemed to slow the moment you stepped through the door. As I parked my Audi in the sleek, dimly lit lot, I took a moment to breathe. The world outsidefelt like a whirlwind, and yet here, in this sanctuary, everything was still. The soft glow of hanging lights outside beckoned me forward, as if the bistro was inviting me to forget the world’s chaos beyond its walls.
The door opened with a soft chime, and I was greeted by the scent of freshly baked bread, rich butter, and the unmistakable aroma of roasting garlic. The interior ofLe Cielwas as I always remembered: intimate and warm, with dark wood paneling that contrasted beautifully with the soft golden lighting. The walls were adorned with vintage French posters and abstract art, their muted colors offering a calm contrast to the vibrancy of the kitchen. The sound of quiet conversations mingled with the clink of silverware on fine china, creating a symphony of subdued elegance. It was a world away from everything that had just shattered inside me.
“Good evening, Monsieur Miles,” said François, the maître d’, his smile genuine, though he must have noticed something was off. He always knew. He could read me like a book.
“Bonsoir, François,” I replied, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside. “A table for one tonight, please.”
“Of course. Follow me.” He led me through the dimly lit dining room, past clusters of elegantly dressed patrons enjoying their own quiet evenings. The tables were set with crisp white linen, and each one was lit by a single candle that flickered gently, casting shadows that danced across the fine dinnerware. The soft hum of a jazz piano in the background created an atmosphere that seemed designed for moments like this—moments when the world outside felt too loud, too raw, and all you wanted was something to ground you.
François seated me at my usual table, a small two-top by the window, where I could watch the occasional car drive by and lose myself in the soft glow of the streetlights. The view wasn’t much—just a quiet city street—but it was enough. It was the kind of place where you couldescape, even if only for a few hours.
He handed me the menu, but I already knew what I was going to order. I didn’t need to look.Le Cielwas a haven for French sophistication, and I had my routine—just like I had everything else in my life.
“The waiter will be with you momentarily,” he stated.
“Thank you,” I said, offering him a weak smile as I lifted the menu and began perusing.
François gave a nod, his eyes soft with understanding, before heading to the kitchen. The waiter who would be taking care of me tonight, a young man with carefully combed jet-black hair and a perfectly pressed uniform, approached the table. His eyes flicked to my face, and I saw the hesitation as if he could sense that something wasn’t quite right.
“Good evening, Monsieur. What can I get you to start?” he asked, his voice polite but with a tinge of curiosity.
“Foie gras to start,” I replied, my voice low, the words tasting heavy on my tongue. “And then the coq au vin, with extra potatoes, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Monsieur,” he said, his tone respectful. “And would you like a wine pairing for the coq au vin?”
I nodded, my thoughts briefly drifting. "Yes, a bottle of Château La Vieille Garde, please. The 2012 vintage, if you have it.”
“Excellent choice, monsieur,” the waiter said with a nod. He made a note on his pad and then left to retrieve my wine and place the order.
I sat there, staring out the window at the gently moving city lights. It was surreal, this moment of peace when everything outside felt so…shattering. My life—my perfect, polished life—had come to an abrupt halt. I had seen too much. Felt too much. And now, the only thing left to do was put it out of my mind, even if just for a little while, until reality came crashing down on me.
Soon, the wine arrived, a deep red that gleamed under the soft restaurant lighting. The waiter uncorked the bottlewith a practiced hand, allowing the rich, earthy aroma to fill the air before pouring a generous amount into my glass. The first sip was exactly what I needed—smooth, velvety, with just enough tannin to ground me in the moment. I closed my eyes for a brief second, letting the warmth of the wine spread through me, soothing the tightness in my chest.
“This is exactly what I needed,” I murmured to myself, savoring the taste. It was divine, just like everything used to be. But the joy of the moment quickly faded. The warmth in my chest had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the deep ache that now lived inside me. What had I built? What had I worked for? What did I do to lead my husband astray?
The foie gras arrived shortly after, its silky texture melting on my tongue. The rich, buttery flavor was paired with a delicate compote of figs and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar, the sweetness and acidity balancing perfectly with the richness of the dish. It was divine, of course. Everything here was. It had to be. My life had always been about perfection—about making sure every detail was in place and that nothing was out of order. But now, as I forked a piece of the foie gras into my mouth, the perfection seemed hollow. It didn’t matter how extravagant the meal was if the rest of the world felt like it was crumbling.
The waiter returned, pouring me another glass of wine and asking if everything was to my satisfaction. I nodded absently, not trusting myself to speak too much. My emotions were a mess, my thoughts swirling like the wine in my glass.
The coq au vin arrived with a flourish—tender chicken simmered in a rich, red wine sauce, the meat falling off the bone as if it had been braised for hours. The sauce was thick and velvety, the deep red hue enhanced by the slow cooking process that had reduced it to a concentrated, luxurious blend. Alongside the chicken was amedley of roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes that were buttery and silky, the kind of texture that felt like velvet against the tongue. A perfect bite.
I dug in, my mind momentarily distracted by the richness of the food, the warmth of the wine, and the luxury of the surroundings. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to pretend that everything was fine, that the life I had worked so hard to build hadn’t been shattered just hours before.
But it didn’t last.
As I finished the last bite of the coq au vin, the waiter returned to ask if I was ready for dessert.
“Crème brûlée,” I said, the words almost automatic. I needed the sweetness. I needed the comfort of something familiar.
When the crème brûlée arrived, the sugar crust on top was perfectly caramelized, a golden brown that crackled gently under the pressure of my spoon. I tapped it lightly, watching the surface break apart with the satisfyingcrackthat always made me smile. Beneath it was the smooth, velvety custard, rich and fragrant with vanilla. The bite was sweet but not too sweet, and the creaminess was just right. The coldness of the dessert contrasted elegantly with the warmth of the wine still in my glass.
I felt a twinge of something—maybe relief, maybe sorrow. But I couldn’t let myself go there.
Not yet.
