Page 64 of The Rehoboth Retreat
I nodded. “Exactly.”
We worked in silence for a moment. The faucet gurgled. Hudson tapped his ring against a glass absentmindedly. Cecilia hummed something that sounded suspiciously like a French café song.
“You ever think about just… not going back?” Hudson asked.
I turned, tilting my head. “To Jersey?”
“To whatever ‘real life’ is for you.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Rinsed another plate.
“Yes,” I said finally. “All the time.”
Hudson nodded slowly, like he already knew the answer. He dried another glass and didn’t push any further.
We went back to our chore dance—me rinsing, Hudson drying, Cecilia pretending to supervise—and I realized that somehow, without even trying, the three of us had created the kind of morning I didn’t know I needed. One where breakfast wasn’t just food, and cleanup wasn’t just dishes. It was a ritual. It was care. It was something that looked suspiciously like peace.
And I didn’t want it to end.
Soon, the final spoon clinked into the dishwasher with a sense of finality, and I wiped my damp hands on a crisp linen dish towel that I’d folded into quarters. The kitchen sparkled—just as it should. Every surface was gleaming, every pan scrubbed within an inch of its copper-bottomed life, and the glasses were back in the respective cabinets, arranged by size, hue, and angle like an interior design shoot forVeranda.
“Well,” I exhaled, placing the towel just so on the countertop. “That concludes brunch service.”
“Five stars,” Hudson said, leaning back against the counter. “Would dine again. Especially if it comes with post-meal elbow grease and sparkling conversation.”
I smiled faintly. “You’re only saying that because I didn’t make you clean the egg pan.”
Cecilia chimed in with a wry hum. “He tried, darling. I intercepted it. No one should be subjected to Miles’s wrath if they dare ruin the seasoning on his copperware.”
Hudson raised his hands. “Noted. Don’t touch the sacred pans. Understood.”
There was a pause. The kind that comes after a satisfying meal and a shared task. The kind where everyone is full, a little buzzed from mimosas, and not quite ready to return to real life.
“Well,” I said, stretching slightly. “I have quite the schedule today. I planned another beachside afternoon with monogrammed towels and chilled rosé, of course. Then, I made dinner reservations at La Fable. And after that…”
“Cancel it,” Hudson interrupted.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Cancel it all.” He stepped forward, arms crossed, but not in a combative way, more like someone with a mischievous plan tucked under their sleeve. “You’ve been scheduling the hell out of this weekend. But I’ve got something better in mind.”
I squinted at him. “You want me to cancel my entire carefully planned itinerary so we can do… what, exactly?”
He grinned, and damn him, it was one of those cocky, lopsided grins that somehow made your instincts flareandmelt at the same time. “That’s part of the fun. You don’t get to know. But I promise it doesn’t involve caviar bumps or table linens.”
My arms instinctively folded. “I don’t like surprises.”
“I’m aware,” he said. “Which is why this will be good for you. Stretch that control muscle a little. Or… I guess,un-stretchit?”
I didn’t reply right away. Instead, I looked over at my mother, who had perched herself on the corner of the breakfast nook, sipping the last of her mimosa and swirling the contents like a queen playing with time. She looked at me over the rim of her glass with a faint arch of her brow.
Not a word. Not a sound. Just that brow, high and knowing.
Her words from last night floated up like bubbles in a champagne glass:“Go off-script for once, darling. You might surprise yourself.”
I sighed, a breath longer than it needed to be.
“You know what?” I said. “Why not?”
