Page 22 of Red, White, and You

My bringing her here wasn’t simply because I missed her, but because I want her in my life. I’ve lived without air for far too long.

Getting her here was the first part of the plan. Selling the camp, I’ve now decided, is the second step, and after today’s meetings, a step I feel confident and positive about.

Brie stands by the counter, her posture slightly tense, as if she’s struggling to relax. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of vulnerability flickering within them. She’s always been guarded, even during our marriage, but here, in this moment, there’s a glimmer of something more.

Dressed in a simple black shift dress, with only mascara on her eyes, she’s a knockout. Her skin is sun-kissed, slightly pink across her cheeks and nose, with matching redness on each shoulder. Her hair is wet, waves already forming messily at her shoulders as her hair curls into its natural state. I can’t remember a time she skipped drying her hair or taking the time to style it.

Maybe Camp West is rubbing off on her.

She smiles and it takes me a split second to remember how to breathe.

“Ah, you’re here,” the cooking instructor, Chef Javier, says as he enters the kitchen. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know your beautiful wife.”

I raise my eyebrows.

Brie shrugs, then drops her gaze.

I finally convince my feet to move and stride to join her on the other side of the large demonstration island, sliding my hand into her hair and tilting her head back so I can look down into those striking golden eyes. “You look beautiful tonight, wife.”

She blushes, shaking her head as she whispers, “I told him we were no longer married, but—”

“A silly little detail,” the chef exclaims. “You’re here together, aren’t you?”

We both laugh and nod. He has a point.

“Then it is settled. Let’s get started,” he says, his accent thick with his Spanish heritage. “Tonight, we’re going to create a delectable three-course meal that will leave your taste buds dancing.”

The class begins with Chef Javier guiding us through the intricacies of each recipe. Brie listens intently, her attention focused on every word he says, while my focus is on her. She’s always had a keen eye for detail, a quality that both intrigued and frustrated me during our time together. Now, I realize it’s what has gotten her to the top of the food chain back in New York’s law community.

It’s also, likely, what got her through all these years without me.

We both had to make do. Her with intense focus, me with distraction.

When Chef Javier has finished explaining the recipes in great detail, we move onto prepping for the meals. I watch hernimble fingers as she chops vegetables with precision, her brow furrowing in concentration. She’s a perfectionist, my wife, and this cooking class is no exception.

As the evening progresses, a shift occurs. The tension in Brie’s shoulders gradually melts away, replaced by a lightness in her demeanor. Maybe it’s the gentle rhythm of the cooking process, or the shared experience of creating something together, but something magical is happening.

She’s relaxing before my eyes.

We move onto the main course—a succulent rack of lamb, cooked to perfection. Brie and I work side by side, our hands brushing against each other accidentally on purpose. A spark ignites between us each time we connect, a familiar bond that time and distance could not erase. It’s as if the past fades into the background, leaving only the present moment, brimming with possibility.

Chef Javier steps away momentarily, giving us a moment of privacy.

I seize the opportunity and lean closer to Brie, my voice a low whisper. “You remember the first time we cooked together?”

Brie’s eyes meet mine, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “How could I forget? We set off the smoke alarm, and the kitchen was a mess.”

We share a laugh, and the air feels lighter, charged with a renewed sense of familiarity. The memories flood back, washing over us like a gentle wave, transporting us to a time when our love was simple and unburdened.

If I have my way, we will find that again.

This afternoon’s meeting with my real estate agent went well, and though I know in my heart that selling the lake and moving to the city to be with my wife is the only possiblefuture I want to create, I struggle with who might buy Camp West. It’s naïve of me to think I have any say in the matter, but I want someone who will continue to run the camp, someone who sees this place for the wonderful experience it is and continues the legacy.

The most promising potential buyer this early on is a developer from Washington D.C. who wants to raze the place and build a resort—complete with golf course and time shares.

It just doesn’t sit right with me, but at the end of the day, I may not have the luxury of choice.

“Hey,” Brie says, gently touching her fingertips to my cheek. “Where are you?”

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