Page 94 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Here, I pulled out the hand-woven linen runner I’d bought last summer in Ravello—the one Cecilia said looked like a dish towel but which I maintain is rustic Italian-chic. Down the center, I arranged a series of tiny lemons I’d polished with olive oil (yes, lemons polished with olive oil, because standards), nestled between sprigs of eucalyptus and a few white pillar candles in hurricane glasses. A bowl of sea salt sat near the bread plate, along with those adorable fish-shaped knives I never get to use because I rarely serve seafood meals in New Jersey.
Every plate was set with care—white porcelain with a gold rim and folded napkins knotted with lemon-printed twine.
My hands moved with confidence, my mind blissfully blank. I wasn’t thinking about the paparazzi or Owen or the possibility that my entire brand might crash and burn. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that Hudson Knight had accidentally detonated a media grenade in my life with one smile, one laugh, and one deeply distracting kiss.
No.
I was in my element.
This—this structured disarray of mise en place, burners going at full throttle, the smell of browned butter meeting the pucker of citrus, the meditative act of wiping a smear off a plate edge with a damp cloth—thiswas where I belonged.
I leaned against the counter for a moment and let myself breathe. The late golden sun filtered through the deck windows, casting long amber streaks across the countertops. I’d survived. No, more than that—I was thriving. I had cooked my way out of a crisis before, and damn it, I’d do it again.
I wiped my brow with the back of my hand and surveyed the scene.
Lemons: glistening.
Wine glasses: polished enough to star in a Stanley Tucci Italian cooking montage.
Cake: risen beautifully and cooling on a wire rack like an angel in sponge form.
And me?
I was okay. Or at least faking it well enough that it almost felt the same.
Dinner was nearly ready. It was time to summon my guests. But not just yet.
I wanted the moment to sit, to hold it gently in my palm like a warm teacup. Before the night became conversation and laughter and—heaven help me—whatever mayhem Hudson might bring to the table, I needed to linger in this slice of stillness. I relished the idea that if I could create this kind of beauty out of bedlam… maybe I wasn’t so broken after all.
Maybe I was just getting started.
I took one last sweep of the table, running my eyes over every lemon wedge, every sprig of rosemary artfully nudged near the branzino platter, and gave a slight, satisfied nod.
Showtime.
I untied my apron with a single fluid tug—like a magician pulling off his cape before the final reveal—and draped it carefully over the back of the kitchen chair. Then I straightened the buttons of my crisp white shirt, brushed a crumb off my trousers, and headed toward the stairs.
I cleared my throat delicately at the top of the staircase, then called down the hall toward the upper deck where I knew they were lounging.
“Dinner is served. Bring your wine and your best behavior, please.”
I heard Hudson laugh, followed by the elegant clink of Cecilia setting her glass down—no doubt with dramatic flair. Moments later, their voices approached, mingled with the quiet scrape of sandals and the murmur of Hudson saying something vaguely inappropriate.
They appeared at the top of the steps like a sitcom pair—Cecilia in a caftan that looked like it belonged on the Riviera in 1972 and Hudson looking surprisingly debonair in his deep blue blazer. He was also carrying the wine bottle like a child holding a teddy bear, half full and already claiming it for the table.
“Sweetheart,” Cecilia breathed as she reached the bottom step and caught sight of the scene. “Oh my goodness.”
Hudson froze next to her, his face somewhere between awe and confusion, like he wasn’t sure whether he was about to eat dinner or pose for the cover ofBon Appétit. “Miles, what in the rich-people HGTV fantasy sequence is this?”
I let the compliment land like a kiss on the cheek. “It’s just a little something I threw together.”
Cecilia swept toward the table and ran her hand down the lemon-lined centerpiece. “This is stunning. Amalfi by way of Sussex County.”
“I’m never eating dinner on a normal plate again,” Hudson said, sliding into a chair and examining the gold-rimmed china like it was a spaceship part. “I swear, you’ve ruined me. Where’s my fish knife? Where’s my backup fish knife? I want options.”
“Sit down and drink your wine,” I sternly said, but I was grinning.
They took their seats, the setting sun catching Hudson’s hair and bathing the entire lower deck in a golden glow, like some Instagram filter calledLuxury Without Effort.
