Page 9 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Inside, the vibe is exactly what I envisioned: coastal without being kitschy, luxurious without the pretense. Creams, pale blues, gold accents. The entry opens into a vast, open-concept space that invites conversation and connection. Walnut floors gleam beneath an enormous woven jute rug. Above, an architectural chandelier catches the light like droplets of champagne suspended in motion.
This morning, I woke up at five just to double-check every detail. Because that’s who I am. A planner. A perfectionist. A borderline lunatic when it comes to aesthetics, as my mother likes to say. And she’s not entirely wrong.
But everything has to be just right. After all, every detail that I lay out will be documented and posted on my social media accounts and blogs.
I ensure my bedroom is tailored like a boutique hotel suite. Egyptian cotton sheets, cloud-soft pillow-top mattresses, custom-embroidered throw pillows with my initials.Photo Snap.My own welcome basket sits atop the bed—handwoven and filled with artisanal soaps from Lewes, small-batch candles in scents like sea salt and cedar, and hand-rolled truffles from that overpriced chocolate shop on Baltimore Avenue. I even went so far as to have a custom eye mask stitched for me. Because who wants wrinkles on vacation?Photo Snap.
The bathrooms are stocked with thick Turkish cotton towels, eucalyptus steam tablets for the showers, and, yes, the softest toilet paper that exists. A friend once joked that my guest bathrooms are better stocked than most spas. I took it as the compliment it was.Photo Snap.
And, of course, my mother is already here, quietly taking it all in.
Cecilia Hastings.
The woman, the myth, the martini-sipping marvel of the Eastern Seaboard. She arrived just an hour before me wearing a silk caftan and a wide-brimmed hat, as if we were hosting dignitaries instead of just the two of us. I gave her the second-floor suite overlooking the garden—a serene escape from the flurry of my details and plans that sheswearsshe won’t get involved in.
“Darling, I’ll just be a ghost,” she said as she air-kissed both my cheeks. “But a glamorous one, of course.”
Of course.
The kitchen is a dream—white Calacatta quartz countertops, brass fixtures, a farmhouse sink so large you could bathe in it, and a custom La Cornue range that looks like it belongs in a museum. The fridge is filled with champagne, fresh herbs, ripe fruit, and a dozen different cheeses, each labeled with a tiny flag. Tonight, I’ve kept dinner simple—reservations at Blue Moon. A soft landing for me. Tomorrow, I’ll really impress my mother and followers with a spread: grilled swordfish, heirloom tomato salad, and that lemon risotto recipe Cecilia refuses to admit she stole from me.
I recheck the reservations on my phone, fingers tapping with habitual rhythm. I don’t need to double-check. Iknoweverything’s in place. But still, I do it. It’s like breathing. A ritual of control wrapped in a bow of anticipation.
I pass through the living room again, straightening a stack of magazines on the coffee table that no one will read and fluffing a pillow that had the audacity to lean slightly to the left. It’s absurd how much joy I get from things being exactly where they should be.
By the time the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting amber streaks across the house, I feel an electric buzz in the air. A strange, fizzy anticipation. The kind that signals something is about to begin. A weekend of relaxation, memories, clinking glasses, and late-beach strolls under a canopy of stars.
It’s more than a getaway. It’s a reclamation. A chance to hit reset and to remind myself, in this curated sanctuary of elegance and calm, that life can be beautiful—painstakingly, deliberately, beautifully constructed from the wreckage.
And so, I stand in the doorway of my perfectly dressed home, cocktail in hand, lavender-scented breeze at my back, and I smile.
Let the weekend retreat begin.
Hudson
Let me just start by saying: I don’t give two shits about flowers. That may not be the poetic, metaphorical opening you were hoping for, but this is my life, not a wedding blog. Sure, I just dropped an ungodly amount of money on a 7,800-square-foot glass-and-concrete beach palace in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, but if you think I give a damn about what’s blooming in the front yard, then you clearly haven’t met me.
Apparently, the previous owners—or some landscape designer with way too much time on their hands—crafted this lush Eden out front. We’re talking about a horseshoe-shaped garden so well designed it could bring Martha Stewart to tears. Hydrangeas, those giant-ass puffball flowers, line the place in blues, pinks, purples, and white. They’re pretty, I guess. Then there are daylilies, popping off in oranges, reds, and yellows like a Crayola massacre. Delphiniums tower up like drag queens in heels, deep purple and blue, trying to steal attention from the rest. Lavender bushes are everywhere, and I’ll admit, they smell kind of nice when I stumble in from a hangover hike. Roses? Oh, they’re here too. Climbing up trellises like they own the damn place. Red, pink, yellow, white—romantic as hell if you’re into that. And don’t even get me started on the peonies. Huge, ruffled drama queens of the flower world. They droop under their own weight, and bees treat them like Studio 54.
And yet, here I am—caring zero about any of it. The only things I care about are the house looking sexy from the outside and the backyard having enough square footage to host over one hundred gay men in speedos without someone falling into a koi pond. The garden could be AstroTurf with plastic flamingos for all I care,as long as the sun hits my outdoor chaise just right for Instagram thirst traps.
The house itself? NowthatI care about.
It’s a sleek, modern monstrosity with all clean lines, floor-to-ceiling glass, and warm wood accents. Inside, it’s a rich man’s sanctuary. The front door opens into a grand foyer with this jaw-dropping staircase that curves up like it belongs in a movie about a rich bitch villain. Hardwood floors polished so shiny I can see my sins in them. Walls painted in soft beiges and muted grays, perfect for the TikTok home tour I’ll never actually film.
Off to the left, the living room is a cavern of comfort. Massive windows that gulp up the beach view, plush sofas that are so deep I once lost my phone and a bottle of lube in them a few days ago, and a fireplace so modern it looks like it was beamed in from the year 3062. Mounted TV. Art I didn’t pick. Shelves that pretend I read. It’s all part of the illusion.
The kitchen? An orgasm in marble. Thassos white countertops. Dual ovens. Every high-end appliance you can name, and some you can’t. There’s an island so big you could land a plane on it. The private chef I have over a few times a week uses it like a stage. I use it to open wine.
The dining room seats fourteen. I know because I had fourteen half-naked guys around it last Sunday for a boozy brunch that turned into a dance party by 4:00 PM. That’s the kind of hosting this house was made for.
Upstairs are five bedrooms, all with their own en-suites. The master? Don’t get me started. It’s got a bed that could comfortably sleep a polycule, a private balcony with ocean views, and a bathroom that looks like it was inspired by a Roman emperor’s wet dream. Huge soaking tub. A shower with so many heads it feels like you’re being interrogated by the FBI. Double vanities with marble tops, of course.
Then there’s the office. Poor little unused room. Big desk, built-in shelves, ocean view—total wasted potential. I had this delusion I’d work on screenplays here, maybejournal about my redemption arc. But let’s be real: my creativity’s alive and well, but my follow-through’s in a coma. So far, the only document on my laptop is a screenplay titledSaltwater Scandal, with only one lonely line of text.
But where Iactuallyspend my mornings? The second-floor sundeck. The crown jewel. It overlooks the beach like it owns it. Lounge chairs with thick-ass cushions, a big dining table, and a chill zone with rattan chairs. I sit there every morning with a drink—wine if I’m pretending to be cultured, tequila if I’m being honest—and let the salty air detox my sins. If you’ve got to hide from the media and pretend your life isn’t in shambles, this is the place to do it.
It’s been a week since I moved in. A whole seven days since I fled the city with my tail between my legs and a Google alert set for my name. I’ve been trying to blend in. Which is hard when you’re me.
