Once Delilah was gone, she sat back down at the table and took her wine from Astrid. She wanted to chug it like water, but she still needed to drive home and she already felt a bit hazy. Bourbon and Syrah probably didn’t mix very well. She couldn’t tell if her head was spinning from the liquor or Delilah.
“So . . .” Iris said as they all settled around the table again. She had a purely evil grin on her face. “Did you get the number or not?”
“Oh, shut up,” Claire said and then gulped down the wine anyway.
“What?” Astrid said, signaling Gretchen, the server who kept everyone at the tables happy, for a third glass. “Whose number?”
“No one’s,” Claire said, widening her eyes at Iris. Astrid was already pulled tight enough to snap with the wedding—not to mention that she still had no idea that her best friends despised her future husband. She certainly didn’t need to deal with the fact that, not ten minutes ago, her wicked stepsister had gotten Claire all hot and bothered with one little whisper. If ever there was a sensitive subject in Astrid’s life, it was Delilah Green. And honestly, Claire was doing her best to forget the entire interaction as well.
Luckily, Astrid seemed to be sufficiently distracted. She leaned her elbows on the table, fingers massaging her temples. “I have a headache. She’s been here for ten minutes, and I already have a headache.”
Iris reached out and squeezed Astrid’s arm. “It’s going to be fine.”
“I don’t know what I—” She took a deep breath, followed by a sip of wine. “I don’t know what my mother was thinking, asking her to be the photographer.”
“Me neither,” Iris said, and Claire shot her a look.
“She was probably thinking that she loved Delilah’s dad,” Claire said softly. “And Delilah is . . . well, she’s . . .” She widened her eyes at Iris, silently begging for help.
“She’s . . . part of the . . . family?” Iris said slowly, her intonation tilting up at the end like it was a question.
Astrid’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. She is.” Then her back went ramrod straight and she waved a hand. “At least, that’s what my mother says, and she’s the one with the checkbook. God knows Delilah wouldn’t come without some other incentive.”
“Your mother still uses a checkbook?” Iris asked, and Claire kicked her under the table.
“You know she almost bailed?” Astrid said, ignoring Iris. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for weeks now, emailing, texting, leaving voice mails. I had to call her at two in the morning her time last night just to get her to talk to me.”
“So she’s a vampire,” Iris said, tipping some ice cubes into her mouth from her glass. “Explains a lot.”
“Ris,” Claire said, shooting her yet another look.
Delilah and Astrid’s sisterhood wasn’t typical. Delilah’s mother died when she was only three years old—cervical cancer, if Claire remembered correctly—and her dad married Isabel, Astrid’s mom, when she and Astrid were eight, so they’d practically grown up together.
Astrid told them that Delilah was a quiet kid from the beginning, attached to her father like a barnacle, which Claire supposed made sense. She understood single parenting. She also understood being a young girl with only one parent to rely on—it was a precarious, desperate, somewhat panic-fueled existence. But then Delilah’s dad died suddenly of an aneurysm when the girls were ten, and there were no grandparents, no aunts and uncles, so Isabel had sole custody of Delilah.
Claire remembered the first time she ever went over to Astrid Parker’s big Georgian-style brick house to swim in the crystal-blue pool in the backyard. Delilah was a shadow, peering at them through that mass of hair around the back patio’s stone pillars. Astrid had asked her if she wanted to come play once or twice, but Delilah never did, and Iris hardly ever had very nice things to say about her. Eventually, the shadow disappeared, and that’s how it went for years, on and on. Delilah was a ghost, a wraith. Claire always tried to be nice to her—Iris was a little more teasing, but they were kids and Delilah was strange. They didn’t know how to handle strange.
Since becoming a mother, Claire had sometimes thought of Delilah. At least she thought of the awkward girl she’d been growing up. Claire’s own daughter was a quirky kid, artistic and precocious, easily lost in her own head. She wondered if that’s all Delilah was, and she simply didn’t have the right parent to help her navigate it. Isabel wasn’t exactly the most maternal of mothers, and Astrid had been just a kid herself.
Now, Astrid shook her hair out of her face and held up her glass. “It’s fine. It’ll be great.”
“It will,” Claire said, clinking her glass with Astrid’s.
Iris joined in, but she shot Claire a look and mouthed phone number before taking a sip.
Claire flipped her off.
* * *
ALL THREE WOMEN were sufficiently buzzed by the time Astrid’s phone buzzed on the table. She snatched it up to read the text, glassy eyes turning a little crazed, if Claire was being honest. She and Iris locked gazes. They knew exactly who it was. They also knew their night of drinking and best friend revelry was about to come to an end.
“I’ve got to go,” Astrid said. Iris mouthed the words right along with her. Claire fought a laugh. Because really, it wasn’t funny. “That was Spencer.”
“It’s only nine thirty,” Iris said.
“I know, but he’s tired,” Astrid said, gathering her purse.
“And?” Iris said. Claire wanted to kick her. Astrid was already stressed enough.
“And I’m tired too,” Astrid said, standing up. “See you in the morning?”
“Eleven a.m. sharp,” Iris said.
“Don’t even joke,” Astrid said.
Iris laughed, then stood up and kissed Astrid on the cheek. “Ten o’clock with bells and penis necklaces on.”
“You’re a horrible person,” Astrid said, but she was smiling.
“You love me.”
“God knows I do.” Astrid came around to hug Claire before disappearing out the door.
“Another round?” Iris asked.
“I should go too,” Claire said. “I’ve got to open up the bookstore before the brunch.”
“You know Brianne can do that.”
Claire nodded but said nothing. Brianne, her very capable manager, was doing that, but she was starting to feel itchy. Nine thirty was Ruby’s bedtime, usually. She wanted to say good night. She wanted to make sure there was a good night to say, that Josh wasn’t going to let her stay up until midnight watching crappy movies and eating bowls of sugar like he did the last time he’d been in town.