Page 128 of The Stranger
“Fine, whatever,” she retorts with a flick of her hand. I hear my mother clear her throat from beside me. “Is this where you live?” Abigail asks Delilah.
“This is their weekend home?” my mother answers, and I love that she saidtheir.
“Weekend home? Where do you live during the week?”
“In Spencer’s penthouse. It overlooks Sydney Harbour,” Delilah replies with a shrug. “It’s close to his office.”
“In a penthouse that overlooks Sydney Harbour,” Abigail mocks under her breath, and she’s already grating on my last nerve.
Green is not a good colour on her.
Delilah ignores her as she gently scoops up the baby and nestles him in her arms. And I loathe that these people think it’s okay to treat her so abysmally. Seeing her holding that child in her arms, though, looking down at him so lovingly, has something inside my chest cracking wide open.
She loves so freely … so openly. These people don’t deserve her.
Delilah never went to the hospital when the baby was born. She wanted to, but wasn’t sure if she’d be welcome and didn’t want to upset anyone with her presence. She sent some flowers and a gift for her nephew; she is thoughtful and caring like that.
“I have all your rooms ready,” Delilah says to her family. “I bought a brand-new cot and change table to put in your room, Abigail.”
Abigail’s face rears back like she’s been slapped. I kind of wish she had been. “You did?”
“I wanted my nephew to be comfortable.”
“That was very sweet of you, Lilah,” her mother praises.
The green-eyed monster mumbles something incoherent under her breath.
Delilah moves to stand beside me as her eyes flicker from the baby to me. “Isn’t he just the cutest little thing?”
I look down at the tiny infant’s chubby cherub face and smile. “He is,” I agree, which is surprising since he spawned from the womb of the She-Devil herself.
Delilah’s gaze moves back to her family. “Would you like me to show you to your rooms so you can freshen up? Dinner will be served on the back patio in an hour.”
“That would be lovely, Delilah. Thank you,” her mother answers.
Delilah places her lips softly against the baby’s cheek before gently placing him back in the pram. When she moves towards the staircase, I reach for the suitcase in her mother’s hand. “I’ll take that for you, Mrs St. James.”
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Spencer.”
When I hear her husband grunt behind me, I have to bite my tongue. Just the thought of sharing a meal with these people is enough to give me indigestion.
Delilah is rushing around in the kitchen like a chook with her head cut off, doing a hundred things at once. “You should’ve let me get tonight catered for,” I tell her.
She looks up from whatever she’s stirring in the pot and blows a wayward strand of hair out of her face. “I wanted to cook for everyone.”
“I know you did, sweetheart,” I say, coming up behind her and wrapping my arms around her tiny waist as I rest my chin on her shoulder. “It’s the night before your big day. You should be relaxing or getting pampered.”
“I’ll let you rub my feet later.”
“Gladly. What can I do to help?”
She hands me the spoon she’s holding. “Can youcontinue stirring the gravy while I grab the chicken out of the oven?”
“I can do that.”
“Make sure the spoon touches the bottom of the pan while you’re stirring so it doesn’t get all lumpy down the bottom.”
“I think I can manage this, Delilah.”
