Chapter 13 - Three Afternoons a Week
Delia said no.
Then yes.
Then no again.
Anton waited.
At Bayou Grace, Frank listened while polishing glasses.
“Three afternoons a week.”
“Right.”
“Paid.”
“Obviously.”
“Childcare?”
“Not exactly. Continuity support.”
Frank nodded thoughtfully.
“That sounds like rich-people terminology for childcare.”
“That's what I said.”
“What did he say?”
“That a specialist recommended it.”
“Do you want to?”
Delia stopped.
That was the problem.
“Yes.”
Frank shrugged.
“Then do it.”
“I have a job.”
“You have shifts.”
“That is a job.”
“You hate half the shifts.”
“That's irrelevant.”
Frank put down the glass.
“Delia.”
“What?”
“You've worked here six months.”
“Yes.”
“You cover everybody.”
“Yes.”
“You never take vacation.”
“I can't afford vacation.”
“You volunteered for Christmas.”
“The tips were good.”
“You also spend half your tips buying soup for Mrs. Landry when she forgets her wallet.”
“She doesn't forget.”
“I know.”
Delia frowned.
“What is your point?”
“My point is you're allowed to want something.”
She looked away.
“I don't know what this is.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don't want to become an employee who lives in Anton's house.”
“Then don't.”
“I don't want the kids thinking I disappeared again.”
“Then don't.”
“I don't want Anton thinking—”
Frank smiled.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Anton.”
“Shut up.”
“I said one word.”
“Too many.”
Frank laughed.
“You like him.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Does he like you?”
Delia thought about Anton saying, I won't pretend I don't see you.
“Yes.”
Frank whistled.
“This is better than television.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
She accepted three afternoons.
With conditions.
Written contract.
Set hours.
No gifts.
No chauffeur unless safety required.
No interfering with Bayou Grace shifts.
No press.
No assumption that childcare meant romance.
Anton read the list.
“Number six is oddly specific.”
“It needs to be.”
“I haven't assumed anything.”
“Good.”
“Would you like me to sign in blood?”
Delia stared.
He blinked.
“Bad family joke.”
“Very.”
Anton signed normally.
The first weeks were surprisingly ordinary.
Delia arrived at one.
The triplets ate.
Played.
Napped.
She and Erin coordinated routines.
Anton usually worked.
When he came home early, he sat on the nursery floor.
By the third week the children were using fifteen recognizable words.
By the fourth, Lucia had developed a passionate attachment to the word “no.”
“Bath?”
“No.”
“Food?”
“No.”
“Do you want Delia?”
“Yes.”
Anton looked betrayed.
Delia laughed.
One afternoon Anton found her in the kitchen teaching Matteo to clap.
He stood watching.
Delia looked up.
“Stop lurking.”
“I live here.”
“Then lurk more naturally.”
He approached.
“You look tired.”
“I worked breakfast shift.”
“Quit.”
Delia stared.
He immediately corrected:
“That came out wrong.”
“Very.”
“I meant you could reduce hours.”
“With what money?”
Anton made a helpless gesture.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face offered to pay my rent.”
“I can control words. Apparently not my face.”
Delia smiled.
“I like working.”
“I know.”
“And I don't want my entire life attached to your family.”
“I know.”
He sounded sincere.
That evening Delia returned to the diner.
A woman in designer clothes sat at the counter.
“Delia Marsh?”
Delia sighed.
“Depends.”
The woman smiled.
“I'm Margaret Hale.”
No recognition.
“I chair the Crescent Children's Foundation.”
“Okay.”
“We're hosting a fundraiser. We'd like you to speak about neonatal volunteer support.”
Delia blinked.
“Me?”
“Your press statement moved people.”
“I am a waitress.”
Margaret smiled.
“That's why.”
Delia nearly declined.
Then she thought about the messages from grieving parents.
About Samuel.
About seventeen nights in Room 417.
“I'll think about it.”
The fundraiser was held two weeks later at a historic hotel.
Delia wore a dark green dress she already owned.
Anton attended separately.
That had been Delia's idea.
“I am not walking in on your arm like some society reveal.”
“Understood.”
“You're smiling.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I respect strategic thinking.”
“You're impossible.”
She arrived alone.
The room glittered.
Old New Orleans money.
New money.
Politicians.
Doctors.
Donors.
Delia immediately felt every inch of her body.
Not because anyone said anything.
Because rooms had taught her to anticipate judgment before it arrived.
Then it did.
Two women near the bar spoke quietly.
Not quietly enough.
“So that's her?”
“Yes.”
“I expected…”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
They looked at Delia.
One whispered something.
Both laughed.
Delia kept walking.
Years ago she would have left.
Tonight she didn't.
She delivered her speech.
Not long.
Not polished.
She spoke about how premature infants sometimes spent hours without family because parents worked, had other children, lived far away or were recovering medically.
She spoke about volunteers.
About kindness without ownership.
About how holding a child for one hour could matter without making you part of that child's family.
At the end she said:
“Sometimes love is simply staying until someone else can come back.”
The room stood.
Applause filled the hall.
Delia looked toward the back.
Anton stood there.
He wasn't clapping dramatically.
He was just watching her.
Seeing her.
Afterward, one of the women from the bar approached.
“Your speech was lovely.”
Delia smiled.
“Thank you.”
“My friends and I were discussing how unexpected your story is.”
There it was.
“Unexpected how?”
The woman flushed.
“Oh, I didn't mean—”
“Then don't.”
Anton appeared several feet away.
Delia gave him a look.
Stay out of it.
He stopped.
The woman apologized.
Delia accepted.
No rescue required.
Later on the balcony, Anton handed her sparkling water.
“You handled that better than I would have.”
“You would have bought the hotel and banned her.”
“Possibly.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned against the railing.
“You were good tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“You looked—”
“Careful.”
“Confident.”
Delia smiled.
“Acceptable.”
Silence settled.
Then Anton said, “I like you.”
Delia nearly choked.
“That was subtle.”
“I've been accused of lacking subtlety.”
“You run a shipping empire.”
“Correct.”
“I assumed you'd have a presentation.”
“Would you prefer charts?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
“I like you too.”
Anton smiled.
“That's inconvenient.”
“Extremely.”
Neither moved closer.
Not yet.
Inside, Donovan appeared at the balcony door.
His expression ended the moment.
“Anton.”
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
Delia sighed.
“Of course.”
Donovan held up his phone.
“Vittorio's attorney released Isabella's private diary pages to the press.”
Anton went white.
“Which pages?”
“Several.”
“Why?”
“To prove Isabella distrusted you.”
Delia watched anger return.
Then Donovan continued.
“One page mentions Delia.”
Delia's stomach dropped.
“What does it say?”
Donovan looked at her.
“Isabella wrote that she hoped someday Anton would meet someone who wasn't afraid of him.”
Delia blinked.
“That could be anybody.”
“There is a second sentence.”
Anton closed his eyes.
Donovan read:
Maybe someone like the woman from the grief workshop—the one who laughed when I spilled coffee on her and told me rich people apologize too much.
Delia stared at Anton.
Anton stared back.
Somewhere inside the ballroom, phones were already beginning to buzz.
May you like
And by morning, the entire city would be asking whether a dead woman had somehow chosen her husband's future before either of them knew it existed.
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