Don Jr. Crashes a House Party in Jupiter
“Look who just showed up,” he says, pointing to Don Jr. exiting an SUV parked on the side road leading to the house party where 50 women are gathered in Jupiter Farms for a backyard meet and greet.
“Mom look, Don Jr.’s here.”
JULY // PALM BEACH
Returning to Palm Beach as a family, the Kraus boys plunged into another season of Summer Chaos: Campaign Trail Edition. Let me just start by saying — teenagers on the move are far more challenging than toddlers off schedule without naps.
Remember the vomit on the exit ramp upon our arrival? And the stress over RFK potentially being exposed as a fraud after news broke that he was seeking a role in Kamala’s administration?
Well, once we settled into our Airbnb, the chaos continued. Hayes got his hair trimmed, then shed tears over the result (though clearly an improvement from his dad’s past attempts). Rex, bitter over a broken leg and fresh stitches courtesy of a surfboard that popped out of the water and sliced his head open in Cabo, hobbled around complaining about how much he hates Florida because it isn’t Mexico or San Clemente. We later had to scold him for staining an armchair with an acrylic marker, and again for wearing a “Fucking Independent” T-shirt to a fancy lunch with new acquaintances — a fact we didn’t catch until we all sat down together. Meanwhile, Leon was recovering from the vomiting incident. He lay in a dark room with a cold rag on his forehead for 24 hours with the AC blasting. Once he felt better, all four boys (plus Arlo’s best friend, Finn, who is usually along for family adventures) floated around the pool on rafts between scattered thunderstorms, feasting on honey-drizzled pizza delivered to our doorstep. A couple mornings they took he bikes out for a junk food run to the liquor store. Rex, with the broken leg, managed just fine.
One night, the adults escaped to The Breakers for dirty martinis and shrimp cocktail, watching beautiful young women skillfully reel in wealthy older men in faded jeans, a la Jeffery Epstein. On another, Denise and I went out with a few faces from the Trump camp and ordered champagne and steaks, during which we were tipped off to the “best kept secret in Palm Beach.” Mouths agape, we swore secrecy before being directed to a popular club where I exhaustedly lounged on a leather couch while a dark, handsome man who claimed to be a dentist (but behaved more like a mobster) hit on Denise. On the ride back, I left my small quilted maroon Chanel purse (a sponsor gift — free, but in a color I wouldn’t choose had I paid) in the Uber, with two Vyvanse pills stuffed inside. It didn’t pain me like it should have — I’m used to losing things on the road by now — but I regretted never knowing what this other brand of Adderall might have done for a tired writer, given by someone who swears the team needs it to keep up with a 78-year-old workaholic fueled by 13-15 Diet Cokes a day. I can never determine if people are trying to give me uppers so that I write faster, or better.
And then, of course, Olivia Nuzzi showed up on her way out of town with her perfect hair, incessant vape, and well-protected secrets to gossip about Trump, his portrait artist, and his ear (which, apparently, didn’t look at all like it had been clipped by a bullet, but still managed to inject in him some notion of God).
One afternoon, we splurged on $60 worth of gourmet sandwiches that everyone devoured and requested again the following day. I took calls with Rosemary Clooney playing in the background, a few of them detailing cryptic updates about RFK’s lingering indecision: “Good news is, Kennedy isn’t lobbying camp Kamala, but he is at a major crossroads, talking seriously with Cheryl over the weekend about his next move. He has a decision to make — go all the way, or try something else.”
On a brief call the following day, RFK shot down the rumor himself, telling me the story was “bullshit,” which spared me an afternoon drafting an inflamed attack on him as a traitorous phony. Instead, I napped relieved in the sun.
Jupiter Farms
The night before the MAGA boat parade, an impromptu backyard gathering in Jupiter Farms rekindled a sense of community that only old-fashioned house parties can — simple, stripped down, entirely unpretentious. Before this trip, I wasn’t familiar with Jupiter Farms. I wondered if it was where Republicans go to milk cows and pursue raw milk endeavors.
Angela Reynolds, a local interior designer with a radiant smile whom I’d met at a Kennedy event last year, graciously offered her farmhouse home for the gathering. After extending the invite on social media, the response was overwhelming: over 100 replies poured in within an hour, forcing us to cap the guest list at 50. The address went out the next day, setting the stage for an unforgettable evening, surrounded by stables, porch swings, and a sprawling grassy lot where most of us lingered well past midnight.
Tables were laden with appetizers displayed on stainless banquet trays, surrounded by candles and fresh flowers. Guests in strappy heels and breezy floral sundresses settled comfortably in every corner of Angela’s home, mingling as if they’d known each other forever. This is the allure of Palm Beach women — they bring their A-game effortlessly. They show up and are unapologetically themselves in any setting. Their passion for politics is infectious; they dive into spirited discussions without concern for offending anyone, weaving in personal stories and snarky hot takes. They can be remarkably kind or brutally direct at the flip of a switch. They laugh easily and share small-town secrets without hesitation — all traits I adore in society women. In fact, their overall enthusiasm for storytelling has me rethinking my former dream of retiring in the English countryside to sip gin with foreign kin and ramble on about the fate of a crumbling monarchy. I thought the UK ladies were my favorite breed, but after a year of lively lunch dates surrounded by a rotating cast of well-dressed political junkies, I’m starting to rethink whether I wouldn’t rather wrap myself in Hermes and befriend ladies with Mar-a-Lago memberships.
The most thrilling twist of the evening came as we made our way outside for fresh air: Don Jr. made an impromptu appearance, showing up in a pink button-up, as men in Palm Beach tend to do.
“Jess, look who just showed up,” Mike said, nodding toward the street where Don Jr. stepped out of an SUV with his ex-wife Vanessa, daughter Kai, and Bettina Anderson in tow.
“Is that Junior Don?” Arlo asked, squinting in disbelief.
“Definitely little Don,” Finn quipped dryly, his one and only inflection.
No one knew Don was coming, so his arrival sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd scattered across Angela’s front lawn. The group watched in shock as the president’s son emerged with the swagger of a recently graduated football star entering a small-town house party, a fleet of adoring women ranging in age tracking his entrance. I’ll never forget it. It’s spontaneous, semi-surreal moments like these that will linger in my memory long after this campaign trail season ends.
Finn was quick to send his grandmother in Delaware a photo of him and Don. She cringed with horror in response, but was still happy he’s having these “experiences.”
“I don’t think this one will be making it to Facebook,” he said, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.
As Don graciously greeted all of the guests, acquiescing to their various requests for selfies, a few women whispered about why Don and Vanessa had shown up together and why they seemed so close and comfortable with one another. “Are they back together?” one asked, sipping a second glass of Chardonnay at the buffet. “This is just how the Trumps do divorce,” an older one chimed in, tipping the bottle to drain the last drop of white wine. She pointed out Trump’s amicable relationships with both of his ex-wives, instantly pulling up a wedding photo while juggling a bedazzled clutch in the crook of her arm in which he is alongside Marla Maples and Melania at Tiffany’s wedding at Mar-a-Lago, as though the photo settled the matter.
It’s true — this is how the Trumps do divorce. According to everyone I talk to, Marla Maples and Don Senior are seemingly still on good terms, perhaps better now than ever. She publicly voiced support for him earlier in July, and in my DMs prior to that, she has been nothing but complimentary. A source familiar with Trump’s inner circle mentioned that he is amused by how great Marla looks. “He’s impressed with how she’s aging,” the source said. “He mentions it occasionally, usually out of nowhere.”
And she does, indeed, look fabulous. At 59, Marla remains exquisite — not contorted by fillers, just genetically blessed. Trump, known for mocking peers with bad plastic surgery, apparently appreciates that she is aging like fine wine. Trump is a nostalgic guy; he’s also superficial. I imagine he takes pride in his past lovers looking “tremendous” past 60.
“Days before the Manhattan Court announces the quantum of sentence in hush money case, Donald Trump's ex-wife Marla Maples has come out in his support. Not only has she called him ‘innocent’, but she has also offered to help the Republican contender in his campaign for the 2024 US Presidential Election. She has also said that she is ready to serve him as his vice president. Marla Maples shares Tiffany Trump with the former president. She and Donald Trump tied the knot in 1993, but their marriage fell apart in 1997 and she got a divorce in 1999 with a $2 million settlement. But they came together and posed for pictures at Tiffany Trump’s rehearsal dinner in 2022.
Talking to the U.K. publication 'The Evening Standard', Maples said that she is open to whatever way that she can serve. She added further that everyone in the Trump family is just seeing how they can help him.
The former actor said that she has never been a fan of politics as she knows it can separate and divide people. She added that she found myself in the throes of it. Maples announced that she would not be sitting back anymore, she wants to step out more, share more and not be afraid of positive or negative outcomes that come from speaking out.”
— Economic Times
As the evening stretched on, we moved from the porch swing to the kitchen island and, eventually, to a glowing corner of the backyard where Don Jr. led the group toward a fire crackling against Jupiter’s starless night sky. It was way too hot for a campfire, but the setup was the obvious end point of our procession. We sweated it out in awe.
He cracked a joke about what a refreshing change of scenery this was, since campaign events tend to take the form of balding billionaires discussing stocks and finance in stale banquet halls. These ladies were lively and jonesing to gossip. Once we all settled around the fire, I couldn’t help but notice how much the setup accidentally resembled The Bachelor — intimate and perfectly framed, as if the evening might culminate in someone receiving a rose. Or in this case, an indictment.
Wine glasses in hand, the women nestled into wicker armchairs and crammed together into a cozy semicircle. One of the ladies slipped into the role of reporter, (there’s always one), asking what Don and his family planned on doing to “protect his father” — as if his children bear that responsibility.
Don confessed that his love for New York was pretty much dead. “You couldn’t pay me to be there,” he stressed. His trips to the city now are because of work, not play. His friends come to him, and his life in Jupiter suits his interests much better. He has a big house on the water and a boat docked out front, ready whenever the urge strikes. He appears to loathe New York with the same intensity with which his father worships it — but that could also have to do with how the city is trying its hardest to fuck his family’s stake in real estate.
Conversation naturally led to life post Butler rally. Don opened up about his father and the impact of the shooting on his family. He got the call on a boat with his daughter that day. She had requested fishing with him. We listened intently as he recounted the phone call and initial shock, explaining how Kai, his oldest daughter, had been affected by the news — a moment that eventually led to her desire to speak at the RNC. Kai told her side of the story herself. After that, I introduced her to Arlo, who was extra gentlemanly in shaking her hand.
Surprisingly, Don Jr. leads a relatively low-key life. Unlike his father, he seeks simplicity. He still owns a home in a tiny Catskills town with a population of just 600, where locals often spot him fishing alone, dressed in a Columbia shirt and cap. They describe him as “pleasant” and “down-to-earth,” which is fancy talk for “not at all like the guy who argues with strangers on Twitter.” Don off the grid is not the same as Don fired up on Rumble; he’s a blend of rugged outdoor enthusiast, business-savvy professional, and devoted family man — far more down to earth and likable than media framings suggest.
In her memoir Raising Trump, Ivana Trump recalls the moment she suggested naming their firstborn son after his father. Donald Trump initially balked at the idea. “What if he’s a loser?” he said, according to Ivana.
As a child, he spent summers in Czechoslovakia with his maternal grandparents, running wild through the countryside and camping under open skies. It was a far cry from the lavish lifestyle his father provided. Those rustic adventures instilled in him a lifelong love of the outdoors, a passion clearly inherited from his mother’s side. His Instagram feed is filled with scenes of him on the water, often flexing in front of his catch. He also drives himself to events like these sans entourage in a big black SUV.
After college, he took a detour from the family path, spending a year bartending in Aspen and honing his fishing and hunting skills — a chapter that feels like it could have been lifted from a young Ben Affleck movie. It’s a relatable footnote in his life, illustrating that he’s no stranger to hard work despite his privileged upbringing. He’s also a Wharton graduate, blending his blue-collar experiences with a top-tier education — proof that you can go from slinging drinks to trading stocks without losing all sense of self.
He worked as a dock assistant and helped renovate the family’s Seven Springs estate in Westchester County during a time when he was estranged from his father after he and Ivana’s divorce. Those close to the family mention that he resented his father for the Marla Maples affair, a rift that took time to mend.
Don Jr.'s childhood was marked by public drama, including his parents' high-profile split following Trump's affair with Marla Maples in the early 1990s. The then-12-year-old Don Jr. struggled with the separation and directed his frustration at his father. “How can you say you love us? You don’t love us! You don’t even love yourself. You just love your money,” he reportedly told Trump, as detailed in a Vanity Fair article from that period. Reflecting on this tumultuous time years later in a 2004 New York magazine interview, Don Jr. said, “Listen, it’s tough to be a 12-year-old. You’re not quite a man, but you think you are. You think you know everything. Being driven into school every day and you see the front page and it’s divorce! THE BEST SEX I EVER HAD! And you don’t even know what that means.”
Ivanka, speaking about their parents’ divorce in that same 2004 interview, noted, “Bizarrely, it also made us closer to Dad. ... Every morning before school, we’d go downstairs and give him a hug and a kiss. We didn’t take his presence for granted anymore.”
Despite these moments of connection, Ivana acknowledged on The Ray D’Arcy Show that Trump “loved the kids, but he would not really be the dad who would take them for a stroll in Central Park in the stroller or go and play soccer with them. He was always on the phone making the business.” Trump's approach to parenting aligned with this, as he once told Howard Stern in a 2005 interview, “I’ll supply funds and she’ll take care of the kids. It’s not like I’m gonna be walking the kids down Central Park. Marla used to say, ‘I can’t believe you’re not walking Tiffany down the street, you know in a carriage. Right, I’m gonna be walking down Fifth Avenue with a baby in a carriage. It just didn’t work.”
Ivanka and Don Jr. grew up in a competitive atmosphere. As Ivanka recalled in the 2004 New York magazine interview, “We were sort of bred to be competitive. Dad encourages it. I remember skiing with him and we were racing. I was ahead, and he reached his ski pole out and pulled me back.”
Don Jr. also reflected on his relationship with his father during that time. When asked if there was anything he would change about his parents, he said, “My father could be more understanding of things he doesn’t... understand. You know? If I want to go fishing rather than play golf, it’s always like, ‘Why would you go fishing all weekend? I don’t get it! It’s crazy!’”
Don has also been active in the local community, serving as a board member at the Catskill Fly Fishing Center and Museum—because what could be more entertaining than spending time with fish enthusiasts who can share everything you never wanted to know about trout? Yet, around the campfire, as he shares stories, he comes across as far more grounded than most people realize.
This revelation was unsettling to many. After sharing clips from the evening, I received several DMs from women who expressed a mix of conflict and confusion over their sudden attraction to Don—a man they’d always sworn they couldn’t stand.
“OMG. I don’t know how to process this new attraction to Don Jr. I think I hate you for it.” one wrote, paired with four cringing emojis.
My own interest in Don crashing the house party was personal, not political—I thought he, of anyone, might be the one to convince Arlo to shave the mustache. Don as good sport gave it his best shot, snapping Trump branded insults, telling Arlo he looked like a '70s pornstar and that his friends only said it was cool because they were getting all the girls. I jumped in, adding that Trump Sr. isn’t a fan of facial hair either. Don confirmed this, recalling how his father once took a Sharpie to a photo of him with a goatee and wrote “terrible” with an arrow pointing at it. But despite our combined efforts, we failed. Turns out, even the son of a president doesn’t have much sway when a mustache is attracting 23-year-olds who assume my son is their age.
As the evening wound down, we gathered in front of Angela’s house for a group photo. Someone asked if her daughter, missing from the mix, wanted to join. “No,” she said, explaining she’s a young liberal, “hiding in her room this whole time.”
“At her age, I probably would have done the same,” I said, and we all laughed.
Don Jr. and his crew left with the rest of us in their big black SUV, leaving the ladies of Jupiter Farms with plenty to indulge their friends with come brunch Sunday morning.
Shortly after our meet up, Don Jr. proudly announced on social media that Kai will be playing golf at the University of Miami.
What a gift for you as a mother to be able to provide your kids with all of these amazing experiences! Good job Mama. Winning.
What a wonderful experience!! Nothing better than a bonfire among friends.
It’s been so refreshing to hear these first hand tales, from someone who actually experienced it, not second hand gossip, trashing something so intimate! This is what the American public has been craving for the last 5 years. Honest, first hand reporting !!