“Miss Delilah!” She waves both arms over her head like she’s directing aircraft. “You’re here! Finally! I’ve been dying!”
“Ellen, honey, we talked about this.” Hazel appears in the doorway, looking beautifully frazzled in that way only mothers of multiple children can achieve. “We don’t ambush our guests.”
“It’s not an ambush. It’s a welcome committee.” Ellen is already bouncing down the porch steps. “A welcome committee of one. That’s still a committee.”
I grab the wine I brought—a rosé that seemedappropriately book-club-ish—and brace myself. “Hey, Ellen.”
“So?” She falls into step beside me as I walk toward the house. “Did he call you? Did he write a song about you? Did he write a song about the coffee? ‘She spilled her latte on my heart’—that could totally be a chorus.”
“Ellen.”
“What? It’s catchy. Kira said so.”
“Kira’s opinion doesn’t count,” comes a voice from the porch. Kira is sprawled across the porch swing in soccer shorts and a grass-stained jersey, looking like she couldn’t care less about anything happening in the general vicinity. “And I said it was dumb. Not catchy. Dumb.”
“You said it was catchy-dumb. That’s different.”
“It’s really not.”
“Girls.” Hazel holds the door open for me with an apologetic smile. “Delilah doesn’t need an interrogation before she’s even inside.”
“I wasn’t interrogating. I was inquiring.”
“Where did you learn that word?”
“Kira’s K-dramas. The detective ones.”
I slip past Hazel into the house, grateful for the rescue. The Hensley House living room opens up before me—hardwood floors, furniturearranged in a way that feels both cozy and practical. There’s a basket of toys tucked neatly beside the couch and family photos on the walls, but the surfaces are clear and the space feels ready for anything from a Tuesday night book club to a Saturday wedding.
“The others are in the kitchen,” Hazel says. “We’re doing appetizers first because Amber brought something from the restaurant and we all lost our self-control.”
“I heard that!” Amber’s voice floats from somewhere deeper in the house.
“You were supposed to!”
Ellen tugs on my sleeve. “Miss Delilah, one question. Just one. Please?”
I look down at her hopeful face. “One.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you like Mr. Rock Star? And you can use decimals.”
“That’s not how scales work, Ellen.”
“Great-Grandma Hensley uses decimals. She rated the pastor’s Easter sermon a six-point-three.”
“Ellen Marie.” Hazel points toward the stairs. “Upstairs. Now.”
“But—”
“You can come down for one cookie when we take our snack break. One. And only if you stay upstairs until then.”
Ellen weighs her options with the calculating expression of a tiny lawyer. “Can it be one of the chocolate ones?”
“If there are any left.”
“Deal.” She sticks out her hand, and Hazel shakes it solemnly. Then Ellen thunders up the stairs, pausing at the top to call down: “Miss Delilah, if you change your mind about the decimal rating, I’ll be in my room!”
The door slams.
