One Year Later
The first rule of cooking on camera near the ocean is that the wind is not your friend. The second rule is that if you pretend the wind is your friend, everyone watching will believe you meant for the cilantro to fly dramatically across the prep table like edible confetti. I smile into the camera as a burst of sea breeze lifts loose red curls around my face.
“Beachside cooking,” I say, pinning the cilantro down with two fingers, “is all about flexibility. Also, occasionally chasing your garnish.”
The small crowd gathered around the outdoor filming area laughs.
A year ago, a crowd would have felt like exposure. Phones lifted in my direction would have made my skin tighten. A stranger saying my name would have sent me searching for exits, shadows, and hidden intentions.
Now I stand beneath the striped awning outside Sandbar & Sips, with the marina glittering behind me and High Tide Pavilion visible down the boardwalk. The spotlight on me here, along with the sun on my shoulders, does not have me flinching in fear. Fear no longer gets to make every decision.
The producer behind camera two gives me the wrap-it-up signal for this segment, which is rude because I am about to introduce my favorite part.
I ignore him with the serene confidence of a woman who owns the show.
“Now,” I say, reaching for the platter beside me, “these are chili-lime shrimp tostada bites with mango, avocado, and a little smoked sea salt. They’re crisp, bright, messy in the best possible way, and exactly what I want to eat while standing barefoot somewhere I probably should not be standing barefoot.”
Camera three moves closer.
Behind it, my publicist Talia mouths perfect.
I smile wider.
This special is not live, thank God, but it is being recorded for a summer streaming feature I never would have agreed to last year. Kara Stone’s Coastal Table. Three episodes. Three beach towns. Sunbreak Harbor first.
After Vanessa’s sentencing three weeks ago, reporters waited outside the courthouse with microphones and careful faces. The hearing was quieter than I expected and harder than I had prepared for. Vanessa cried. Her lawyer spoke. Mine did too.The judge used words like pattern, escalation, violation, and danger.
I did not forgive her that day. I also did not fall apart. Both things felt like progress. And now, today, I am here. Not in hiding or locked behind fear.
Here, filming beside the water, feeding people, reclaiming the kind of public life I once thought I might have to shrink to survive.
“Pair these with something cold,” I tell the camera. “Which brings us to our first cocktail.”
A small cheer rises from the crowd.
“See?” I say. “These are my people.”
More laughter.
The bartender from Sandbar & Sips steps in beside me, grinning like a man who knows his life is about to improve dramatically from screen time. We introduce two drinks for the episode. First, a blackberry basil rum spritz with lime, crushed ice, and enough sparkle to make the glass look happy. Then a spicy pineapple-cucumber cooler with jalapeño, mint, and a salted rim that makes Talia close her eyes after tasting it.
Both have mocktail versions because everyone deserves a beautiful drink, with or without alcohol. That’s something I care about more now. I like to make choice feel generous instead of limiting.
I talk through the flavors, the balance, the way heat and sweetness need each other if neither wants to become boring. The bartender shakes and the crowd claps.
The cameras move while the sun keeps shining. And through it all, I feel him.
Cole stands just beyond the production crew, under the edge of a palm’s shade, arms crossed, sunglasses on, looking like a man who could ruin someone’s bad idea before the thought fully formed.
But he is not here as my bodyguard. Not officially.
Sloane’s team has the event covered because Talia insisted and because Cole still knows exactly how many exits any place has before he finishes entering it. Some things do not change. But today, Cole is not wearing an earpiece. He is not being paid to stand between me and the world.
He is here because he loves me.
Because he stayed through the statements, the lawyers, the headlines, all my nightmares, and the strange grief that came in waves long after Vanessa was taken away. He stayed through quiet Tuesdays and chaotic Thursdays. Through recipe testing that destroyed my kitchen and one truly regrettable phase where I tried to perfect a smoked peach barbecue sauce.
He stayed when there was no crisis. That is how I learned he meant it. Cole does not love loudly. His love feels like a strong foundation — a fort that cannot be breached.
