Page 42 of The Rehoboth Retreat
The nerve.
I stormed up the stone path toward my front door, designer loafers clicking in a rhythm that matched my rising irritation. The hydrangeas lining the walkway were blooming wildly, as if mocking me with their chaotic beauty. I usually found their overgrown lushness charming—perfect for a summer Instagram post—but tonight,they just felt unruly, like everything else.
I reached the porch and paused. Usually, I’d take a moment here—breathe, center myself, sip a bit of sparkling water infused with cucumber and thyme. This porch was meant for unwinding, after all.
Not tonight.
I yanked open the front door, kicked off my loafers, and marched into my beach haven like a general returning from war. The air conditioning greeted me like a loyal friend, with the faint scent of sea salt, lemon polish, and the faintest trace of grilled swordfish from dinner lingering like ghosts of good intentions. The remnants of the meal still sat in the kitchen, neatly plated leftovers I had intended to donate to the local fire department tomorrow. At least someone else would get to enjoy it because now it was all completely ruined for me.
On top of the elaborate dinner, I had planned to bake tonight. Something decadent and refined. It was a white apricot galette with a brown butter crust. I had even laid out the recipe card and arranged my ingredients, just like a Food Network host preparing for a soft-focus close-up.
And then—then—I was going to take my drink, my chilled coupe of elderflower gin spritz with a sprig of lavender, and retreat to the upstairs deck with my draft outline for the next book I was planning on writing. The sea air always helped unlock the stubborn corners of my brain. Something about the rhythmic crash of waves and the mosaic night sky made ideas bloom effortlessly. I’d been ready—pen in hand, laptop charged, playlist organized (light ocean lounge music, nothing vocal). Tonight was supposed to be productive. Calming. Sacred.
But instead? Hudson Knight had turned Rehoboth Beach into his own personal episode ofThe Real Housewives of Rehoboth: Court-Ordered Detox Special.
I dragged myself up the staircase, each step a testament to how done I was. Done with Hudson. Done with the noise. Done with men who thought charm and abs gavethem a license to disrupt lives. How were they not lifting a finger and enjoying parties and free booze while I was working my ass off just to relax? Well, that would not be happening anymore. I was done with putting in effort and receiving zero reciprocation.
Nope. Not tonight. Not baking. Not writing. I wouldn’t be able to focus withUntz-untz-untzpulsing through the windows like a cardiac arrhythmia. I stepped into my bedroom, which was bathed in soft light from the bedside sconces installed with dimmable switches—perfect for mood control. I sat on the edge of the bed, hands on my knees, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
This was supposed to be my escape. My sanctuary. And now it was just a front-row seat to someone else’s circus.
I stood up, crossed to the French doors leading to my private balcony, and opened them just wide enough to hear the pandemonium pouring in from next door. Laughter, shouting, the unmistakable pop of champagne corks. A DJ announcing something about a limbo twerking contest, which made absolutely zero sense, since you’re bending in the opposite direction when doing both.
I shut the doors.
Nope.
I wasn’t doing this. If I stayed here and tried to muscle through it, I’d just stew in my own frustration, reheating every little annoyance like leftover resentment. So what if my plans were ruined? There were other places to go. Rehoboth Avenue was charming at night. And although parts of Baltimore Avenue were lively at this hour, there were some more low-key spots on the street. I could find a quiet wine bar, order a glass of Grüner Veltliner, and maybe—maybe—write some lines in my notes app for my next book between polite sips.
Decision made.
I turned toward the closet to change. Something light, something coastal-casual but elevated. If I wasn’t going to get peace at home, I would damn well manifest it elsewhere.
Hudson could have his party. He could have the music and the shirtless boys and the cocktails served by men in rope necklaces and questionable intentions. And my mother could enjoy her little social experiment all she wanted.
But me?
I was reclaimingmynight.
I put on a pale blue Oxford shirt, structured yet breathable, freshly pressed with a collar so sharp it could cut tension. Tailored white chinos, the kind that hit just above the ankle, paired with suede loafers in a muted taupe that suggested wealth and restraint. A woven leather belt, subtly monogrammed. Then I dabbed on a few generous dashes of citrus cologne—Hermès, of course. Because, standards. The finishing touch? A navy lightweight cashmere sweater draped over my shoulders with the sleeves knotted just so, as if to say: I may be unraveling, but at least I’m unraveling tastefully.
Now that I was suitably dressed for my kind of night out, I just needed to find the proper venue.
So I pulled out my phone and began scrolling. There had to be something happening tonight in town—this was Rehoboth Beach in peak season, after all. A local event. A gathering. Something that didn’t involve body glitter or fog machines.
First up:Angels and Devils Party at Aqua. Of course. I let out a dry little scoff.As if. I didn’t even own anything that could pass as a devil costume unless you counted that velvet tuxedo jacket I wore for the Winter Ball at the Met a few years ago. And the idea of pushing through a sea of gyrating twenty-somethings, with feathers and fake horns everywhere, just to sip a sticky cocktail with too much sugar and not enough class? No thank you. I wasn’t in the mood to fight for bar space or end the night with glitter in my hair.
Next.
Diego’s Nightclub: Glow Foam Party. Good God.Foam? As in, soap and bubbles and wet dance floors? Absolutely not. That sounded like a yeast infection waiting to happen. And besides, I’ve seen what happens at foam parties—people lose shoes, dignity, and sometimes whole relationships. It was far too extreme for my taste, especially tonight. I needed ambiance, not chaos.
I continued scrolling, my thumb flicking with increasing agitation until—finally—I landed on something that made me pause.
Top of the Pines Presents: An Evening with Ivory Keys— Live Piano and Lounge Cocktails.
Now that…thatsounded like me.
No glow paint. No DJs screaming into microphones. No shirtless men attempting backflips into plastic kiddie pools. Just live piano music. Dim lighting. Velvet and leather banquettes. The clink of highball and martini glasses over whispered conversation. An unobtrusive pianist named something like Gary or Claude playing jazzy renditions of Sondheim or Brubeck. But let’s be real, being in a gay bar, I’d probably be getting piano tunes from Adele and Whitney Houston, and 80s and 90s songs. But I wasn’t going to fold my cards over that minor detail. Even that sounded quite nice compared to everything else going on in town this evening.
