Astrid tensed, her shoulder like a brick wall against Delilah’s.
“In my day, brides arrived early to every single event so as to greet their guests,” Isabel went on. She reached out and smoothed the already-smooth fabric at Astrid’s hip. “But what do I know, right? I guess I should just be grateful you didn’t meet Spencer on some website.” She said website like it was a four-letter word, which Isabel absolutely never uttered.
“Sorry, we stopped for coffee,” Astrid said, exhaling heavily.
Isabel frowned. At least, she seemed to try to frown. Delilah saw a twitch near her pink-painted mouth, but the skin there simply bounced back into perfect formation, Botox-infused soldiers ready for inspection. “Coffee? Before coming to a tearoom? Astrid, really, I’m—”
Delilah plopped her camera bag onto the nearest pristine gold-and-white table. Crystal rattled against crystal. “Where shall I set up?”
She said the words so sweetly her teeth ached. And she planned to pair them with some dagger eyes in Isabel’s general direction, but as soon as she’d made her presence known, she regretted it. When Isabel swung her Sauron gaze toward her, Delilah’s heart immediately started pounding. Her palms grew clammy, and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to curtain her hair around her face. She resisted. She was nearly thirty years old, for Christ’s sake. She was a New Yorker now, a grown-ass woman. She had a show coming up at the Whitney. She could handle a small-town society priss.
Except this small-town society priss had been her parent during the most formative years of her life, entrusted by her sweet, naive father to provide and care for his only daughter, and Delilah was still waiting for that care part to kick in.
Isabel’s eyes skated down Delilah’s tattooed arms, lingering, Delilah was almost positive, on the blooming black-and-gray wisteria that trickled down her left forearm, ending in a sun’s curling rays at her wrist. Wisteria had been her father’s favorite, the reason he’d named his home what he did, carefully planting the purple flower so that it vined over the front of the house like a guardian. When Delilah got her first tattoo five years ago, it was always going to be wisteria. Not for the house that she couldn’t wait to escape, but for her father who dreamed of a family, the life he wanted to give her.
“Delilah, darling, is that you?” Isabel said, something like a smile attempting to settle on her frozen lips. She came at Delilah with open arms, settling her hands on her stepdaughter’s shoulders as she air-kissed both sides of her face. “It’s been so long, I hardly recognized you.”
She drew out the so for what felt like a thousand years.
“It’s me” was Delilah’s brilliant retort.
“You’re looking . . . well,” Isabel said.
“Why, thank you, Mother,” Delilah said back. Isabel winced slightly. She’d never asked Delilah to call her Mom or Mother or anything other than Isabel, and Delilah knew exactly when to bring it out. “You too.”
Isabel bared her teeth, her own special version of a warm smile. “You’re coming to Monday’s dinner, yes? Tomorrow night?”
In the extremely detailed itinerary Astrid had emailed her, nestled in between Sunday’s brunch and a two-day trip to a vineyard in the Willamette Valley was a Monday night dinner at Wisteria House. Delilah was hoping to avoid Isabel’s lair during her time in Bright Falls, but the wedding itself was taking place in the backyard, not to mention the rehearsal and tomorrow’s dinner.
Still, the thought of walking into that house always made her stomach cramp.
“Yes, she’ll be there,” Astrid said when Delilah just stood there with her mouth pursed, adding a subtle elbow in Delilah’s ribs.
“With bells on,” Delilah said.
“But not literal bells,” Astrid said, her elbow digging deeper.
Delilah side-eyed her stepsister, because really? Then again, the thought of showing up with actual bells somehow attached to her person, clinging and clanging a glorious cacophony and disrupting the museum-like quiet of Isabel’s dungeon, did sound like something Delilah would be into. And with Isabel’s age-old air of entitlement and Astrid over here bossing her around like she owned her—which she sort of did for the next two weeks—Delilah could sense that familiar anxiety bubbling up again in her chest, the pressure to please just to earn a sideways glance.
And the feeling really pissed her off. Oh, there would be bells all right.
“I’m so glad,” Isabel said, then waved a hand at Delilah’s arms. “These are new.” The wisteria was just one of many tattoos. She had more flowers spiraling up her left arm; a bird arching over her right shoulder, an empty cage just underneath; a little girl holding a pair of scissors, the cut string of a kite floating off near her elbow; a tree half covered in verdant leaves, half winter bare; more birds twisting between even more trees and flowers, flying free and wild. She loved her tattoos. Each one made her feel like herself, like her own person, a feeling she only experienced after leaving Wisteria House.
“They are,” Delilah said.
Isabel’s mouth twisted—or tried to—and she nodded while continuing to scan Delilah as though for inspection. “Well, they’re lovely. And how nice to have them on full display here at Vivian’s.” She flashed her teeth in a way that indicated it wasn’t nice at all.
Delilah flashed her teeth right back. She was not going to let this woman win. She was going to be in this fun-forsaken town for fourteen days, and this time, she was going to win, goddammit.
She retrieved her camera from her bag, attached the right lens for candids, and looped the strap over her head, making sure to lift her arms nice and high and angle her body so Isabel got a full view of her side boob. She might have even . . . jiggled a little. She knew she’d hit her mark when her stepmother sucked in a breath, promptly turned on her stilettos, and marched off toward a woman Delilah assumed was the wedding coordinator, judging by her French twist, professional attire, and iPad.
“I thought you were going to keep that hidden,” Astrid said, nodding toward Delilah’s ribcage.
Delilah smirked, wrapping both hands around her camera to hide the fact that they were shaking. “Oh, come on, you knew I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to ruffle Mommy Dearest’s couture feathers, now was I?” Then she shimmied her shoulder back and forth, just once, causing her admittedly small breasts to undulate under her blouse.
Astrid’s mouth twitched, and for a split second, Delilah could’ve sworn her stepsister nearly smiled, but then the front door opened and the smile was gone, replaced by her usual worry-brow, that tight set to her lips that made her look exactly like Isabel. She rolled her eyes at Delilah and then headed toward the women now spilling into the room in a flurry of tea dresses and lace.