Page 93 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Below us, the horizon glowed a dusty peach, and a seagull screamed overhead like someone had insulted its mother. Miles was in the kitchen, restoring balance to his universe one blanched green bean at a time. Meanwhile, Cecilia and I were drinking and gossiping like two spoiled aunts at a destination funeral.
I leaned back in the chair and gave a long sigh. “So… this is good, then? Him going all Ratatouille down there?”
“Oh, this is wonderful,” she said, eyes twinkling. “It means he’s come through the worst of it. When he goes silent, that’s when I worry. When he starts cooking, prepping, and pretending he’s hosting a royal banquet—then I know my Miles is back.”
I chuckled and took a sip. “He really is a whole different breed.”
Cecilia glanced sideways at me, her red lips curled in that sharp little smile that said she was about to serve truth on a silver platter. “And yet you haven’t run for the hills.”
I shrugged, swirling the ice in my drink. “I like complicated.”
“Oh, darling,” she said, leaning forward just slightly. “Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s high-maintenance and emotionally bulletproof until he isn’t. A master of control, order, and the perfect dinner party. But he’s also brilliant. Loyal. Devastatingly intuitive. And underneath all that? He’s soft. Softer than he’ll ever let most people see.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I got that.”
“But…” she began. “He has certainly let you see it. And he’s only known you for a weekend…”
There was a beat of silence between us. Not awkward. Just…understanding.
I raised my glass again. “To Frenzy Mode.”
Cecilia clinked hers against mine and added with a wink, “To the poor fool who tries to interrupt him mid-risotto.”
We both laughed, genuinely this time.
And for a moment, up on that deck, watching the sea shimmer in the distance and feeling the hum of something calm settling into the air, I forgot about the scandal. The headlines. The noise.
Downstairs, a perfectionist was reclaiming his peace with garlic and thyme.
Up here, I had a front-row seat to a masterclass in resilience—and the woman who raised it.
I leaned back, let the salty breeze ruffle my hair, and took another sip.
Let this weekend commence… preferably with fewer scandals, more carbs, and maybe—just maybe—one night where nobody cries into a sateen napkin.
Miles
The show must go on.
I didn’t whisper it like one of my daily mantras—I declared it silently in my head, as if the universe owed me one for every single upheaval of the past forty-eight hours. I stood in the kitchen barefoot, the cool marble tile grounding me, my apron tied with military precision around my waist. The kitchen smelled of lemon zest, garlic confit, and determination. Topper sat perched by the wine fridge, tail occasionally thumping the cabinets, watching me with the solemnity of a sous chef who had seen some things.
I had a job to do.
Dinner tonight would not be phoned in. No emotional spirals, no social media doomscrolling, no pacing around like a Florence Pugh character in emotional freefall. No. Tonight would proceed as planned. It would be restorative. It would be lemon-forward.
I had organized the menu in my head hours earlier, back when I was still wallowing in my bedroom, mentally peeling the wallpaper. But as soon as I emerged, I knew: food was the way forward. Food wasalwaysthe way forward.
Tonight’s theme:La Dolce Vita: A Taste of the Amalfi Coast.
First up, a hand-rolled pappardelle with Meyer lemon cream sauce and ribbons of basil. Not lemon juice—Meyer lemon zest emulsified with a touch of crème fraîche, mascarpone, and a sliver of Calabrian chili paste, whisked until it achieved the consistency of silk and sunshine. I grated the Parmigiano-Reggiano into a snowy hill beside me, a little more aggressive than usual.
Therapy.
For protein, pan-seared branzino filets—deboned with tweezers because I’m nota savage—stuffed with rosemary, thyme, and thin slices of lemon, tied gently with kitchen twine like a love letter. I drizzled them in olive oil from a small tin and slid them into the oven, already preheated to a devout 425°F.
For dessert? An olive oil lemon cake. Rustic, homey, and deeply comforting. I separated the eggs, beating the yolks with sugar until they were pale and ribbony, and folded them into almond flour and the lightest hint of orange blossom water. If there’s one thing I believe in more than forgiveness, it’s a perfectly domed cake crumb.
And while everything cooked, I set the outdoor table on the lower deck. Or rather, I created an Amalfi table experience.
