Chapter 5
FIVE
DELILAH
I’m not even out of my car before Ellen appears on the Hensley House porch like she’s been waiting for hours.
Which, knowing Ellen, she probably has.
“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 seemed appropriately 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, furniture arranged 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.
Hazel exhales. “Spring break is going to be the death of me.”
“She’s…spirited.”
“She’s her great-grandmother’s clone, is what she is.” Hazel takes the wine from my hands. “Come on. Let’s get you fortified before the real interrogation begins.”
The kitchen is warm chaos.
Michelle is arranging cheese on a board like a woman who takes presentation personally.
Amber is hovering over a tray of something that smells incredible, slapping hands away from anyone who gets too close.
Jo is pouring wine with a heavy hand, and Jessica is sitting at the kitchen island looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Delilah!” Jo spots me first and waves me over. “Perfect timing. We need a tiebreaker. Is it acceptable to read a book written by someone’s fiancé when that someone is in the book club?”
“It’s not about me,” Jessica protests weakly. “It’s inspired by.”
“The hero is a grumpy author who falls for the quirky bookshop owner,” Amber says. “The bookshop is called ‘The Story Corner.’ Yours is ‘The Fiction Nook.’” Michelle adds a sprig of rosemary to her cheese board. “Corner. Nook. He basically just opened a thesaurus.”
Jessica drops her head to the counter. “I’m never going to live this down.”
“You’re engaged to a bestselling author who wrote a love story about you.” Jo slides a very full glass of wine toward her. “Some of us have worse problems.”
“Speaking of worse problems,” Amber says, turning to me with a grin that makes my stomach drop. “How’s your rock star?”
“He’s not my—”
“Michelle told us about the coffee incident.”
“There was no incident. There was a minor spillage.”
“She threw an entire latte on him,” Michelle reports cheerfully. “I had to mop.”
“It was an accident!”
“An accident that ended with you two staring into each other’s eyes while he dripped onto my floor.”
“We weren’t staring. We were...assessing the damage.”
“For thirty seconds? Without blinking?”
Jo snorts into her wine.
The doorbell rings, and Hazel goes to answer it. A moment later, Grandma Hensley sweeps into the kitchen like a queen arriving at court. She’s barely five feet tall, wearing a cardigan with embroidered cats on it, and she immediately takes command of the room.
“Ladies. I trust we’re discussing important matters?” She accepts the wine glass Jo offers and takes a delicate sip. “Like why Delilah here turned the color of a tomato the moment I walked in?”
“We were just discussing how she baptized him in coffee,” Amber supplies.
Caroline slips in behind her, smirking. She catches my eye and mouths “you’re doomed” with obvious delight. Then she settles into a chair with her wine like she’s got front row seats to the best show in town.
“Can we please talk about the book now?” Jessica asks desperately. “The book that is fiction and not at all based on real events?”
“Of course, dear.” Grandma Hensley pats her hand. “We’ll discuss your fictional love story right after Delilah tells us about her very real one.”
We migrate to the living room, and I have to admit, Hazel knows how to set a scene.
The couches are arranged in a loose circle, the front windows letting in the last of the evening light. Candles flicker on the coffee table between cheese plates and wine glasses and dog-eared copies of “Between the Lines.”
I sink into the corner of one couch, hoping proximity to the exit might save me later. Caroline sits beside me in solidarity. Everyone else arranges themselves with the practiced ease of women who’ve done this a hundred times.
“Okay.” Hazel pulls out a notebook—because of course she has discussion questions. “Let’s start with first impressions. What did everyone think?”
“I cried,” Amber announces. “Twice. The scene where he finally shows her the manuscript? Destroyed me.”
“The lighthouse scene,” Jo adds. “When he admits he’s been writing about her the whole time? I had to put the book down and take a walk.”
“It’s fiction,” Jessica mumbles into her wine.
“It’s your life, sweetie.” Michelle reaches over to squeeze her knee. “And it’s beautiful.”
We go around the circle, sharing favorite moments and lines.
I’ve read the book—twice, actually—and I understand why it’s resonating.
Scott wrote about a man so afraid of being seen that he hid behind a pen name for years.
A man who fell in love through letters before he could admit it out loud.
A man whose writer’s block wasn’t really about writing at all. It was about fear.
“So let’s talk about the block,” Hazel says, flipping to a new page in her notebook. “Nathan can’t write for months. He thinks he’s lost it forever. What do you think was really going on?”
“Fear,” Caroline offers quietly. “He was afraid that if he wrote something real, people would see the real him.”
“And reject him,” Grandma Hensley adds. “The way his father did.”
Jessica is studying her wine glass like it contains the secrets of the universe. “Scott said the hardest part was admitting the block wasn’t about craft. It was about vulnerability. He’d built so many walls that he couldn’t access his own emotions anymore.”
“That’s relatable,” Amber says. “Not the bestselling author part. But the walls part.”
Everyone murmurs agreement.
“So what finally broke through?” Hazel asks. “In the book, it’s Lily. She sees through his defenses. But what do you think really did it for Nathan?”
“Being known,” Jo says softly. “Someone finally saw the real him—not the author, not the persona—and didn’t run away.”
My chest tightens.
Michelle glances at me, then back at the group. “You know who this reminds me of? Levi.”
The room goes quiet.
“Levi Beckett?” Amber asks. “Dean’s brother? The singer?”
“He comes into the coffee shop every morning.” Michelle’s voice is casual, but I feel her watching me from the corner of her eye. “Sits in the same booth. Stares at a blank notebook for hours. He’s completely blocked.”
“That’s so sad,” Caroline says. “His early stuff was really good.”
“His early stuff was incredible,” Michelle agrees. “Raw and real and emotional. But somewhere along the way, he lost it. Same thing Scott went through.”
Jessica perks up. “I could ask Scott to talk to him. He loves mentoring other artists, and he definitely understands the block thing.”
“I suggested he talk to Scott as well. Not sure if he ever did or not,” Michelle explains.
“It’s a wonderful idea,” Hazel says. “Community helping community.”
“Speaking of community.” Grandma Hensley sets down her wine glass with deliberate care like she’s about to drop a revelation. “Delilah, dear. How exactly do you know Levi?”
Eight pairs of eyes turn to me.
I take a very long sip of wine.
“We grew up together,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around constipated. “Kind of. I spent summers here when I was young.”