Miles
The sun had barely crested over the dunes when I laced up my running shoes. Morning in Rehoboth Beach was always a kind of miracle—a soft, glowing hush that blanketed the shoreline before the tourists and their neon umbrellas invaded. The salty breeze kissed my cheeks as I stepped onto Ocean Drive, my breath already forming slow, rhythmic clouds in the cool morning air.
The road was nearly deserted, save for a few locals walking dogs or sipping coffee on their porches. I passed stately homes that looked like coastal postcards—white fences, widow’s walks, pots of cascading petunias. Everything was still and pristine.
My pace was steady, breath syncing with the cadence of my feet striking the pavement. I turned into the trailhead at Gordon’s Pond and felt the world shift. The paved road gave way to crushed gravel and marsh-lined pathways. Birds chirped overhead, the sun climbing slowly behind a veil of mist that clung to the trees like a silk shawl.
The Gordon’s Pond Trail in North Shore was my escape. Wide-open salt marshes stretched out like natural quilts, stitched together with winding boardwalks and shaded lanes. Egrets stood poised in the water, statuesque and unfazed. I passed a cyclist, then a man walking two golden retrievers, both of whom gave me a friendly bark.
As I reached the end of the trail, the beach came into view again—a shimmering expanse of waves and golden light. I paused for a moment to catch my breath and took it all in. This, I reminded myself, was why I came here.
To escape.
To reset.
To run.
By the time I jogged back up the driveway of the Ocean Drive house, the sun was full and high, and the world had begun to stir. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the edge of my sleeve, stepped inside, and immediately caught the familiar scent of fresh lemon and toasted brioche.
“You’re up early,”
my mother called from the kitchen. “Again.”
“You say that like it’s new,”
I replied.
She was perched at the quartz island in a lemon-yellow robe, sipping coffee with the poise of a woman who’d hosted fundraisers for governors and told them where to stand. Her perfectly coiffed hair was swept into a low chignon, and her reading glasses balanced on the edge of her nose as she flipped through the Wall Street Journal like it was light gossip.
“I went for a run,”
I said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
“Ocean Drive to Gordon’s Pond and back.”
“Of course you did,”
she said, peering over her glasses.
“You look positively glowy.”
“That would be sweat,”
I informed her.
“Same difference.”
I poured myself some water, the ice clinking as I swirled the glass.
“You will never believe who lives next door.”
She looked up, genuinely intrigued.
“Don’t tell me it’s the Hammonds again. I thought they moved to Boca.”
“Worse. Hudson Knight.”
Her brows lifted like sails catching wind.
“The actor? The beautiful disaster in designer sunglasses?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh, . Based on your tone, I have a hunch you’re not his greatest fan.”
“Exactly,”
I said, collapsing onto a stool across from her.
“I ran into him at Aqua last night—verbally sparred with him, actually. Then I saw him again, fully naked on the beach outside our house with some twink who probably thinks art is spelled with a dollar sign.”
She sputtered on her coffee.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
“Well, the house next door did go on the market not too long ago,”
she said, tapping her nails against the porcelain.
“But I assumed it would be purchased by someone with taste.”
“Clearly, taste wasn’t in the disclosures.”
“Did he recognize you?”
she asked.
“Oh, he knew exactly who I was. Probably from Instagram. He called me Mr. Napkin Fold and Alphabet Boy.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Alphabet Boy? Because of your labeled spice rack?”
“And probably the linen closet.”
“That bastard,”
she whispered in disbelief.
I laughed, shaking my head.
“He’s exhausting, Mother. He reeks of tequila and delusion. But he’s also dangerously charming in that chaotic, ‘I might burn your house down but bring you a bottle of champagne afterward’ kind of way.”
“Sounds like your father.”
I winced.
“Don’t say that.”
“Sorry. But what do you plan to do about it?”
“Avoid him. Completely,”
I responded.
“Good luck with that. The beach is basically a shared backyard.”
“Then I guess I’ll wear blinders.”
She sipped her coffee, amused.
“I give it until the end of the day.”
I raised my brow.
“Before what?”
“Before he crashes one of your dinner parties, causes some major disturbance, or ends up passed out on our patio furniture.”
“I need you to stop being right all the time.”
“Darling, someone in this house has to be.”
I groaned dramatically and stood.
“I’m showering. And pretending the man next door doesn’t exist.”
“Just don’t label him with your Brother P-Touch, and everything will be fine.”
I paused halfway up the stairs.
“You know about the label maker?”
She smiled behind her coffee cup.
“. I’m your mother. I know everything.”
And damn it, she really did.
But enough about Hudson Knight. I needed to freshen up and get my own day started. The smell of crisp sea air still clung to my skin when I emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel and already plotting the morning’s breakfast. I padded across the sunlit hardwood floors, hair damp and tousled, and found my mother exactly where I’d left her—perched like royalty at the kitchen island, flipping through Town & Country now and sipping her second cup of black coffee from a bone china cup.
“Any big plans for today, darling?”
she asked, glancing up, her gold bangle clinking as she set the cup down.
I paused, stretching out my arms with a dramatic yawn.
“Actually, yes. First, I’m going to make you breakfast.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You always do.”
“But this time it’ll be photogenic,”
I said, heading for the fridge.
“I want you to help me document it. I need a few shots for the blog—behind-the-scenes stuff. Something casual but styled, you know?”
“You want me to take pictures of you cooking?”
she asked to verify.
“Yes.”
I turned, closing the fridge door with my hip and holding up a carton of organic eggs and a bunch of fresh dill.
“You have a good eye. And you’re already dressed better than most food stylists I’ve worked with.”
She smirked.
“Flattery will get you everywhere. I’ll do it—on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I want one of your Bloody Marys. The one with the cucumber-lime vodka. Not that watery nonsense with too much horseradish.”
I beamed.
“Coming right up.”
I started with the rim—dragging two chilled highball glasses through a plate of celery salt and smoked paprika. Then I filled a shaker with ice, added my secret ingredient, the cucumber-lime vodka, a splash of dry vermouth, tomato juice (only the good kind, no concentrate), a dash of Worcestershire sauce, fresh lemon juice, and just the right amount of heat from horseradish and hot sauce.
“I swear,”
she said, snapping a picture as I poured, “you should bottle this stuff and sell it.”
“Don’t tempt me. I already have a waiting list in three states.”
She laughed as I garnished each glass with a celery stalk, pickled green beans, and a lemon wheel, then added a sprig of dill and a skewer of marinated olives. Presentation was everything.
“Perfection,”
she said, taking a sip.
“Still the best I’ve ever had.”
“That’s because you raised me right.”
Now, onto breakfast. I cracked the eggs into a copper bowl and whisked them with crème fra?che, chives, and a touch of truffle salt. In a separate pan, I began roasting heirloom cherry tomatoes with garlic and thyme. I laid out prosciutto on a sheet of parchment, slid it into the oven until crisp, and started in on the sourdough—thick slices, brushed with olive oil, and grilled just enough to leave charred lines like a pressed tuxedo shirt.
“Smile!”
she chirped, snapping pictures as I plated everything. The eggs were folded gently into themselves—silky and golden. The tomatoes blistered and bursting. I fanned the prosciutto out beside a curl of microgreens and added a drizzle of lemon vinaigrette.
“Okay,”
I said, stepping back, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear.
“Now for the tablescape.”
Out came the blush linen runner, my sea-glass napkin rings, and the antique flatware I had shipped in from France last year. Plates of bone white with soft scalloped edges. Pale pink cloth napkins. A vase of hydrangeas. Two coupe glasses filled with grapefruit segments and mint leaves.
By the time it was all finished, it looked like a brunch scene from a Williams-Sonoma catalog come to life—charming, sun-drenched, and effortlessly elegant.
I sat, took one final photo of the setting with my phone, and immediately uploaded it to my blog.
Caption: A serene morning unfolds in Rehoboth, where the world seems to pause just long enough to savor the details. Soft truffle-scrambled eggs, oven-roasted tomatoes, and delicately crisped prosciutto grace the plate—each element thoughtfully prepared. Beside them, Bloody Marys infused with a subtle twist offer a bold yet balanced companion. It’s in moments like these—unrushed, intentional, and quietly luxurious—that life feels exquisitely composed.
I glanced at my mother as she took her seat, placing her napkin in her lap.
“So, what are your plans for today?”
she asked.
I sipped my Bloody Mary and smiled.
“I thought I’d head down to the beach for a bit. Just relax and listen to the waves. Then maybe a dip in the pool before dinner.”
She gave me an approving nod.
“And dinner?”
“Oh, it’ll be stunning,”
I said, already picturing it.
“Grilled swordfish with citrus-herb butter, roasted fennel, complemented with a peach and burrata salad. And to drink, I was thinking of something summery. Perhaps I’ll open that bottle of rosé you brought.”
She clapped her hands lightly.
“Marvelous.”
We lingered over breakfast. The sun streamed in through the French doors. Outside, the garden shimmered, and the ocean murmured in the distance.
After we cleared the dishes, she stood and stretched.
“Well, I’m off to Kings Creek Country Club. Bridget and I have brunch with the Stanhopes. Try not to scandalize the neighbors while I’m gone.”
I gave her a mock salute.
“No promises.”
As she disappeared down the hall to change, I lingered in the kitchen, still basking in the glow of a perfect morning. For now, everything was in place, precisely as it should be.
Even if a certain bedlam demon lived next door.