“But they’rethere,” Olson says, with the absolute conviction of a child who believes that the existence of a button is a moral obligation to press it.
Justin has the expression of a man watching his worst nightmare unfold in real time. Three boys,unsupervised, on a multi-million dollar yacht, pressing every button they can find.
“I’ll go check the damage,” he says.
“There’s no damage,” Lottie says. “They pressed some buttons. Everything’s fine.”
“On a yacht that costs more than —”
“More than what? Go ahead. Finish that sentence.”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He goes below deck with his wrench and his jaw and his carefully controlled disapproval, and Lottie watches him go with an expression I recognize. It’s the one where you’re irritated and intrigued in equal measure and you don’t want to examine why.
Delilah catches my eye and raises one eyebrow. I shake my head slightly. Not now. We’ll discuss it later.
Delilahand I sit on the sun deck after the tour, legs stretched out, the water glittering around us. Levi has gone to talk to Paul about security logistics. Lottie is below deck refereeing whatever the boys have gotten into. Justin is somewherein the engine room, probably communing with machinery the way Spencer men commune with anything that isn’t feelings.
“So,” Delilah says.
“So.”
“Bridal portraits. I’m thinking three looks. The ceremony dress on the bow—the shot you described. Then a more casual look on the dock. And maybe something with flowers in my studio at Petals and Promises. What do you think?”
“I think that’s perfect. The bow shot at golden hour, the dock at blue hour—that twenty minutes right after sunset when the sky goes purple. And the studio gives us controlled light for the close-ups.”
“You’re incredible at this.”
“I just see light.” I shrug. “Everybody thinks photography is about the camera. It’s about the light.”
She pulls her knees up. Wraps her arms around them. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“I’m scared. Not of the wedding. The wedding’s going to be beautiful. I’m scared of...” She trails off and looks out at the water. “My dad. He’s been gone a while now, but I keep thinking about walking down that aisle and not having him there.Mom’s here, Levi’s here, everyone I love is here. But there’s this space where he should be, and nothing fills it.”
My chest aches for her. “Delilah.”
“I’m fine. It’s just—some days the missing hits different, you know? Like I can be totally okay and then I’ll think about who’s going to walk me down the aisle, and it just...” She blinks hard. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for that.”
“I just don’t want to be sad about it. This is supposed to be happy.”
“It can be both. That’s what makes it real.”
She looks at me. Her eyes are bright and a little glassy and she’s smiling through it, which is the bravest kind of smile there is.
“Will you photograph me getting into the dress?” she asks. “For the bridal portraits. Mom and I are going to do it at the house—in her bedroom with the big mirror. She’ll zip me up, probably cry before I even have the sleeves on. I want every second of it captured.”
“I would be honored.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. We sit there for a moment, two women on the sun deck of a yacht that neither of us could ever afford, holding hands and looking atthe water.
“Okay,” she says, wiping her eyes and straightening up. “Now. About Paul.”
“We were having such a nice moment.”
“The moment was beautiful. The moment is over. Tell me about the shirt.”
