There was one picture featuring Delilah—an eight-by-ten family portrait of her and Astrid around age nine on the white sofa in the living room, Isabel and Delilah’s father perched on either side of them, his blue eyes sparkling. A plain antiqued gold frame surrounded the happy scene, set on the console table near the staircase and half covered by a velvety succulent in a ceramic pot.
She felt dizzy for a moment, but that wasn’t all that unusual. She just needed a minute to get her bearings, coat herself in her usual Isabel-and-Astrid armor—sarcasm and disdain. She rolled her shoulders back, her arm tightening on Claire’s as she did so.
“You okay?” Claire asked, watching her.
“Peachy,” she said, but she didn’t let go of Claire.
And Claire didn’t let go of her.
At least, not until Astrid appeared around the corner that led into the living room, her eyes immediately narrowing in on Delilah’s and Claire’s arms. Only then did Claire untangle herself, straightening her dress and clearing her throat.
“Hey,” Claire said.
“Hey, yourself,” Astrid said back as she came closer. She was wearing a strapless ivory jumpsuit with wide legs, sleek and expensive. Ironically, it paired perfectly with Delilah’s own strapless black jumpsuit.
The angel and the devil.
If Astrid noticed, she didn’t say anything. Instead, she air-kissed Claire’s cheeks while she side-eyed her stepsister.
“You made it,” she said to Delilah.
“Miraculously,” Delilah said.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you remembered where it was.”
Delilah just tilted her head at her stepsister. “Point me toward the champagne tower?”
“There isn’t one,” Astrid said, her tone laced with venom.
“Pity.”
“Okay, so,” Claire said brightly, “everything’s set up outside?”
Astrid seemed to unclench and nodded, so Delilah let herself shift into professional mode and mentally ran through the lens she’d need for that kind of light. The champagne tower incident was therapeutic, but she wouldn’t put it past Isabel to fire her ass, and at the end of the day, she had to get paid. A fact Astrid knew full well.
Wisteria House had a huge backyard, flat and green with a pool area just below the porch and a vast space of green lawn that rolled down into the banks of Bright River. There was a dock with a couple of Adirondack chairs set up, a little skiff that Isabel strictly forbade anyone from using when they were kids, and a tire swing that hung from the huge oak whose thick branches arched over the silver-blue water.
“Any particular shots you want me to get?” Delilah asked, but before Astrid could answer, a man appeared around the corner in dark gray pants and a blue button-down, both of which had that very expensive sheen to them. He was tall and lean, his golden blond hair cut short on the side and a little longer on top. He sauntered toward them, hands in his pockets until he reached Astrid, then he hooked an arm around her waist and tugged her closer.
“There you are, babe,” he said, while Delilah watched his fingers dig into Astrid’s hips. She fought an eye roll—cishet white men and their proprietary pet names.
Astrid, though, immediately curled into his side, putting a hand on his chest. “Spencer, this is Delilah.”
His eyebrows rose. “Delilah, huh?”
“In the flesh,” Delilah said. She didn’t lift her hand to shake his. For his part, though, neither did he.
“I never thought I’d have the pleasure,” he said, but he didn’t give Delilah time to respond to that little tidbit. Instead, he turned to Astrid, hoisting her closer, and said, “I need more champagne, babe. Help a guy out?”
“Sure, of course,” Astrid said, then looked at Claire and Delilah. “Do you two want some as well?”
“God, yes,” Delilah said, but it echoed. She looked at Claire as she realized they’d both said the exact same thing at the same time. Claire laughed.
“Okay, I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Astrid said, her brow furrowed. “Coming right up.”
She click-clacked toward the kitchen while Spencer just stood there watching her go, his legs wide and his hands on his hips.
“She’s a good girl,” he said, and Delilah’s jaw clenched even tighter.
“I think you mean woman,” she said. Claire shifted, her shoulder just touching Delilah’s.
Spencer turned back to them. “Excuse me?”
“Woman.” Delilah waved to where Astrid had disappeared into the kitchen. “Astrid, your fiancée, is a woman. Nearly thirty years old, if I recall correctly.”