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 was always the 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 fra?che, 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 not a 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.
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—this was 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 of Bon Appétit.
“, 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 called Luxury Without Effort.
Plates were passed, candles were lit, and the clinking of silverware joined the ambient hum of waves crashing in the background. I served each course with care, refusing help—this was my ritual, after all. It was my way of regaining control, of reminding myself that I knew who I was, even when the rest of the world tried to mislabel me.
We dined slowly. Cecilia hummed with pleasure at the branzino. Hudson moaned loud enough at the lemon cream pasta that I considered calling Beebe Medical Center for a wellness check.
“This sauce,”
he said, waving his fork like a conductor’s baton.
“If I die tonight, it’ll be because I inhaled too hard mid-bite.”
“Good,”
I said.
“Please die somewhere discreet. I just hosed the deck.”
Laughter followed, real and warm. My mother touched my hand once, briefly, and I looked up at her, feeling a sudden swell of gratitude so intense I had to blink it away.
Then, as the olive oil cake cooled and the wine bottle emptied, I reached for my phone.
It had been over an hour since I had posted something meaningful on my platforms. Something personal. I felt it was time to move past that and return to being me, posting pictures of my cooking, décor, and organization lifestyle once more. To return to the normalcy I wanted my fans and followers to recognize me for.
And now, sitting here with my mother and Hudson, in this setting that I’d concocted from scratch like a therapy session in plate form, I knew the exact caption I needed.
I angled the phone and snapped a photo—selfie-style, but elevated. Hudson leaned into the shot with one brow raised, smirking like a boy who got away with something. Cecilia smiled gracefully, her hand on mine. The golden hour hit just right. The lemons glowed. The candles flickered.
I added the caption before I could second-guess it:
Planned a fantastic dinner for my mother and a new friend… who you all may have heard of. ???? #RehobothRetreat #LemonAndLuxe #DinnerWith
It was cheeky. It was strategic. It was me.
Within minutes, the comments started pouring in:
@linen.lifestyle: THIS is how you bounce back. Classy, chic, and with branzino.
@midcenturymom: Omg is that HUDSON KNIGHT???
@coastal.chronicles: You are literal sunshine, . What a beautiful photo.
@eggwhiteonlyplease: , we never doubted you. Hudson’s lucky to be in your orbit.
@brunchwitch: Petition for you to make this dinner available as a subscription box.
I couldn’t help the slow smile that crept onto my face. The table in front of me was half-empty, plates smeared with lemon cream and tarragon butter. Wine glasses tipped with pink fingerprints. Hudson was in the middle of some ridiculous story about mispronouncing “tagliatelle”
on a talk show, and Cecilia was correcting his Italian with an alarming amount of passion.
Everything was fine.
No, everything was exactly right.
The breeze picked up slightly, fluttering the edge of the tablecloth. I took another sip of wine, let it rest on my tongue, then exhaled slowly.
Let them talk, let them guess, let the scandal swirl.
I had lemons.
I had pasta.
And for the first time in a while, I had people at the table who actually saw me.