Her Counterfeit Christmas (Christmas Wishes #3)

Chapter One

LAYLA

The definition of chaos reads: a state of utter confusion or disorder; i.e., fifty middle school choir students during the last period on the last day of school before winter break.

My students probably think my whole life is teaching, but they’re not the only ones counting down the minutes until the final bell rings. My plans for the next two weeks involve sweatpants 24/7 and celebrating the holidays with my roommates by consuming our weight in sugar cookies and homemade caramels. I can’t wait for the holiday to officially begin.

Today is an early out day, but it still feels like school will never end. When at long last the bell rings, my room clears in under a minute. The last student calls out, “Merry Christmas, Ms. Adler,” before the door shuts behind her.

Freedom. My body relaxes in the silence. I grab my belongings from my desk and lock my door. Before leaving the school, I stop by the English classroom of my roommate and best friend and stick my head inside.

“Bye, Livy. I’m off to visit Nana.”

She looks up from her desk. “Layla! We survived!” She pumps her arm above her head.

I give jazz hands, my excitement unable to remain contained. Some weeks, survival feels like a miracle.

“We’ve earned the next two weeks off,” I say. “From this moment on, we’re not allowed to mention anything that has to do with school.”

“Agreed. I have some errands to run, but I’ll see you at home later to celebrate the first night of winter break.”

“Our Christmas movie marathon awaits.”

Once outside, winter wind tugs at my hair and stings my cheeks. I huddle deeper into my coat. We’re expecting a big snow storm tomorrow afternoon, just in time for Christmas. I love winter. I love seeing Salt Lake City covered in snow.

Traffic is horrible, especially just after school ends. It takes me twenty minutes instead of ten to get to Nana’s assisted living center.

As I pull into the parking lot, my chest tightens and my head feels light. Most of the time I can live in denial about my financial situation, but every time I arrive at Brock Pine Home for the Elderly my anxiety makes an appearance.

I close my eyes and breathe through the panic.

When Nana moved to Brock Pine Home five years ago, she had a sharp memory and between Opa’s life insurance, retirement savings, and the sale of her house, she had enough money to support herself for years to come.

That was before she was in bed for weeks after she had a pacemaker put in and her memory began to fade; before a despicable human played on her generosity and compassion to scam her out of most of her money; before dementia sunk its claws into her mind. I’ve reached the point where I don’t know how I’ll pay for Nana’s care beyond next month, and the future terrifies me.

When I’m able to force down my anxiety, I fold up my fears like a to-do list I have no intention of starting and leave it on the passenger seat. I can’t allow Nana to sense any of my despair.

With a bag of yarn slung over one shoulder, a stack of sheet music in my arms, and a bundle of peppermint candy canes clasped in hand, I head inside.

The front desk attendant looks up from his computer. “Layla!”

I hand him a candy cane with a tight smile. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks.”

I’d like to ignore him completely after he let Nana slip out of the front doors last week and get herself lost for the afternoon. A lot worse could have happened than scraped knees and palms. Lucky for him, everyone gets a candy cane for Christmas, per my mom’s tradition.

The custodian smiles as I approach. “Merry Christmas, Layla.”

“You too! How’s your wife?”

“Baby’s due in two weeks.”

I give him three candy canes. “I can’t wait to see pictures. Two of these are for your wife so your baby in utero can have a taste.”

He laughs and tucks them into his shirt pocket. I knitted a blanket for his baby I haven’t wrapped yet. I make a mental note to bring it tomorrow.

As I head to the recreation room to drop off the sheet music before visiting Nana, I wish a “Merry Christmas” to everyone I pass and hand out ribbon bedecked candy canes to all. I’m almost to my destination when I hear a dog bark. I freeze. Another bark.

Is Owen here today with his dog Greta? This isn’t his week to visit. I lean against the wall and peek inside the room. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him standing twenty feet away talking to a resident. I don’t know who because I can’t look away from him. Especially not when he leans his head back and laughs.

His dark hair could use a trim and curls around the collar of his baby blue t-shirt. Over the past few months, he’s grown a beard. It shadows his jaw and highlights his sharp cheekbones. I thought he was handsome before, but facial hair takes him to the next level of gorgeous.

As usual, he’s wearing shorts in winter. The audacity of it makes me smile. As do his nicely shaped, athletic calves.

What’s even more attractive is how patient he is with the residents. He’s a big, broad-shouldered man. The type that probably excelled at college football. Instead of this frightening them, they flock to him. After his visits, they chat more about his kindness than they do about his therapy dog.

I have told no one about my massive crush on Owen, especially not my roommates. They would want to know everything and bring him up after each one of my visits to Nana. I’m not ready for that kind of long-term commitment to someone I’ve never spoken to. Instead, I secretly look forward to when he brings his therapy dog: a few hours in the afternoon every other week on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. This is his week off. Why is he here?

Greta puts her front paws on the chair’s armrest and licks the resident on the face. I’m pretty sure that isn’t appropriate behavior for a therapy dog, but the resident giggles.

If I was close to Owen’s broad chest in that snug, cotton t-shirt, I’d be giggling too. That wide grin of his is dangerous. Every time I catch sight of it my stomach swoops.

Owen scans the room, and I quickly pull back fully into the hallway so he doesn’t see me peeking.

The first time I saw him was this past summer. June twenty-first, if I want to be specific. I stumbled into the recreation room in a rush because I was late for the scheduled singalong, when a dog bark startled me, and my sheet music slipped out of my arms and onto the floor. A golden retriever stood on the other side of the room, an unusual sight here at Brock Pine Home, but not any more unusual than the man holding her leash.

Everyone in the room must have heard my gasp. Or maybe not; most of them wear hearing aids. Owen heard at least, because he turned and looked at me. His eyes widened, and his smile had enough wattage to brighten the entire room. My fingers and toes tingled with electricity.

He took a step in my direction, his eyes intense and shining with interest. I fled as fast as my thrifted Louboutin sandals allowed. Shame pumped through me for finding him breathtaking when I was dating another man. My boyfriend at the time, Spencer, was handsome and suave, but he couldn’t compete with Owen’s tough and rugged looks.

From that moment on, I’ve avoided Owen, even after Spencer and I broke up. I don’t know why except that on the inside I’m a ridiculous fangirl. If Owen were in movies, like the Christmas Hallmark ones (‘tis the season and all), every woman in America would be infatuated, just like I am.

I dare another peek inside the room. Owen looks directly at me, shooting me one of his toe-tingling smiles. I jerk back, my heart pounding. Caught.

That’s my cue to speed-walk down the hall toward Nana’s room. To do so, I have to pass in front of the open doors. Without turning my head, I look out of the corner of my eye. Yep, his attention is on me, a big old gorgeous grin on his face. Once I’m past the doors I can breathe again. I only look back twice to see if I’ve been followed by dog or man.

In this instance, everyone is not getting a candy cane.

I stuff the last of my candy canes in my coat pocket before I knock on Nana’s door. I open it to find her sitting in her chair watching an old black and white movie while she knits, her hands moving so fast the needles blur.

Her eyes sparkle at seeing me. “Layla, you’re here.”

She remembers who I am today. My shoulders relax. Sometimes she thinks I’m a staff member. Other times she believes I’m my mom. Worse was the time she thought I was breaking into her room. I never know if her confusion will make her sad or mad; either response is difficult for me to witness. On her angry days, I feel like a wadded up, used tissue. She’s always been the most even-keeled person I know, and witnessing her erratic behavior is devastating.

“I’m here.” I kiss her cheek.

“Care to watch Bringing Up Baby with me?”

“Of course.”

This is Nana’s favorite Katherine Hepburn film. She watches it regularly and still laughs at all the same parts even though she’s seen it hundreds of times. I have every line memorized, and I haven’t watched it nearly as much as she has.

Two laundry baskets sit along the wall. One for yarn, the other for completed knit items. Essentially, all she does is knit, watch movies, sleep, and eat.

I upend the bag of yarn I brought into the almost empty basket and pack up the projects she’s completed over the past few days from the full one. There are two scarves, a pair of fingerless gloves, and a teal cable-knit sweater. The Merino wool is soft and I hug the sweater to my chest. It smells like the lavender soap I bring her. It’s something I want to keep for myself, but it will end up on my website to sell because we need the money.

For as long as I can remember, Nana sold her knitted items at craft fairs. I can’t count how many weekends I spent with her, listening to music on my headphones while people flocked to her table. That ended six years ago when she decided she was too old. That doesn’t mean she stopped knitting. It was her surplus of knit items that gave us the idea of opening an online store. I sell things I make as well, mostly special-ordered items. The added income doesn’t help as much as I wish it would, but every little bit is appreciated.

Nana’s room is only big enough for her bed and Opa’s old recliner. Since she’s on the chair, I sit on the end of the bed and take my knitting from my purse. I’m working on a pair of rainbow striped knee socks since they sell well online. I’ve shipped all of our Christmas orders, and our shop is closed until the New Year so I can bulk up our inventory .

“You look beautiful this morning,” Nana says. “Did you get your haircut?”

Not in the last few months, but I always agree with whatever Nana says. It’s easier on both of us. “Yes. I’m glad you like it.”

“How is school? Is your voice coach still picking on you?”

This clues me in to what year she thinks we’re in—my sophomore year of college when I took private voice lessons. My hair was longer then. Nana’s time-shifting is another thing that’s been hard to get used to.

“She has been kind to me lately,” I say. “She’s becoming a good friend.”

In reality, she was never kind and we were never friends, but I want to minimize any distress Nana might feel.

“Good, good.”

From the hallway, the sound of a group singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” floats through the shut door. Nana’s brow wrinkles in confusion. Christmas is her favorite holiday and not so long ago she would’ve jumped up and joined them. Now, she doesn’t remember Christmas is a few days away. It’s hard on me, but it’s better for her to be ignorant of the upcoming holiday or she’ll worry about not being prepared. When she forgets why she’s worried the anxiety lingers, sometimes for days.

The song finishes, her brow smooths out, and her focus turns back to the movie. Our needles clack softly. For these short thirty minutes, I can almost believe everything is as it was two years ago, with mild memory issues and no financial problems.

The ending credits roll as my phone buzzes with the alarm I set earlier .

“Nana, I’m playing the piano in the recreation room. Do you want to come and listen?”

“Oh! How wonderful!” She claps. “I would love to come.”

I’ve been playing here for years, but I’m never sure if she remembers or if she thinks this is the first time. I thought losing my mom to cancer when I was fourteen would be the hardest thing I’d have to get through in this life, but watching Nana slowly forget me and the big, full life she’s lived is harder.

She fluffs her hair in the bathroom mirror and applies red lipstick, then we leave together. On the way, my phone buzzes with a text from my ex-boyfriend, Spencer.

SPENCER: Will you meet me tonight for dinner? I have something important I need to talk to you about.

I half-sigh, half-laugh. It’s just like Spencer to text me last minute on a Friday night and expect me to change my plans to meet him for dinner. We broke up in October for the third time. We ended our relationship on friendly terms and have met up once since then, also last minute. It’s been a few weeks since I sent him a text, and he didn’t respond.

If I didn’t already have plans to watch a movie with my roommates, I would go to dinner with him to catch up. But since I have plans, the answer is no.

I start a text, but don’t have time to finish typing because we reach the recreation room, and I have twenty rabid rock-and-roll fans waiting for me. I’m relieved to see Owen and Greta have gone.

“Any requests?” I ask the group as I settle behind the piano.

They come fast; all songs I’ve played for them dozens of times. The Beatles, Elvis, and the Beach Boys. I have most of them memorized, but they throw out a few requests I don’t know as well, and I dig out the music books.

This kind of music is the stuff I grew up listening to, and I love how Nana sings loudest of all. She remembers the words. The hour goes by quickly, but once it’s over, it’s time for dinner and no one sticks around.

I walk Nana to her regular dinner table and leave her to chat with her table mates. I’m on my way out of the building when I’m stopped by the facility manager.

“Layla, I’m glad I caught you. I have a Christmas miracle.”

She waves a hand toward her office door.

“I love Christmas miracles,” I say as I silently panic and follow her inside.

What other people view as good news doesn’t always translate to me the same way. Every service added to Nana’s care adds an additional fee. It’s why I do her laundry and clean her room every weekend myself.

I sit, feeling like I’ve been called down to the principal’s office to find out I’ve been accepted to an exclusive after-school club that I have no money to pay for.

She leans against the side of her large desk, smiling at me like I won the lottery. If only.

“We have an opening in our memory care unit. If we get Ellen’s first month’s payment and the paperwork filled out by Monday, we can have her moved in by the new year.”

Memory care unit.

This is what I’ve been hoping for. Nana needs to live somewhere more secure, with specialized staff who know how to handle her outbursts, and locked doors so she can’t wander away. Even so, my stomach drops. Memory care is more money. I may be able to scrape together the extra thousand dollars for January, but what about every month thereafter?

“That’s great.” I hope my smile looks genuine. It’s hiding my fear. No one will give me another credit card, and when I tried to get a second bank loan last month, they turned me down. I’m sunk.

We chat about this exciting opportunity until I’m able to escape from her office. I absently hand her a candy cane from my coat pocket on my way out.

My vision blurs with tears as I leave the building and walk to my car. Once in the car, I wipe my cheeks and look at myself in the rearview mirror. Raccoon eyes stare back at me.

“Everything will be okay. I don’t know how, but we’ve got this far. We can get a little further. You’re fine.”

If only I believed my pep talk.

I push the ignition, pull out of the parking space, and almost reach the exit when something wet wipes along my neck under my ear. I scream and slam on the brakes. My heart lodges in my throat. Did a kidnapper sneak into my car? And … lick me? I’ve listened to a lot of true crime, but I’ve never heard any mention of a licking obsession.

Before I can get too worked up, a head pushes between the seats. A dog head. The head of Owen’s golden retriever.

How did Greta get into my car?

I turn in the seat and scratch her ear. She licks my cheek, not looking any worse for wear, while I think I have permanent heart damage.

Only now do I notice the folded down back seat with a dog bed. My boxes of sheet music have disappeared.

I scan the rest of my car. A can of Dr. Pepper sits in the cup holder; the tan seats have black covers; the crack in my windshield is gone; the check engine light is off. On the dash is the key fob with a Nordquest Ski Resort keyring attached.

That isn’t my key. This isn’t my car. If I had to guess, it belongs to the owner of Greta.

Owen.

I scan the parking lot and see my car. A blue Honda Civic hatchback, the replica of this one, is a few spaces down from where Owen parked. I reverse and quickly drive back to where I began, but today just wants to rain distress upon my head because Owen comes out of the building before I’m able to park. He stops in his tracks when he notices his car is gone, then looks around as if he misplaced it. He’s wearing a hoodie over his t-shirt. In this weather, if he isn’t wearing a coat, he should at least have a scarf.

I know the moment he sees me because his brow lifts and his eyes widen.

I park and slowly open the door to stand. I could boil water for cocoa with how hot my cheeks burn. Why did I have to steal his car right along with his dog? Anyone other than the man I’m currently crushing on from afar and have been avoiding for months. From my pocket, I pull out a half dozen candy canes and hold them out in apology.

“I am so sorry. This is why you shouldn’t leave your key fob in the car. You’re just asking for it to be stolen.”

He laughs as he takes the candy cane bouquet from my hand. Between the sound of his laughter and the second our fingers touch, my heart races. This is the first time we’ve ever spoken, and it’s because I took his car.

“It seems I was lucky and had a thief who returns what they steal. ”

I point to my blue Honda a few spaces away. “That is mine. I was distracted. Greta let me know I’d made a mistake, but you shouldn’t leave your dog in the car alone.”

He grins. “I was only inside for a few minutes.”

“A few minutes was long enough for someone to mistake your vehicle for theirs.”

More importantly, long enough for me to make a fool of myself.

I need to stop talking because all that’s coming out of my mouth is reprimands. I reach inside the car for my purse, the bag of knitted items, and my sheet music from the passenger seat. Greta licks my neck again, which makes me feel marginally better. Some of the music is on the floor, probably from when I slammed on the brakes, and I lean in to grab it. I can’t reach it until I’m practically laying across the seat with my bum in the air.

Nice. Real nice.

By the time I make it out of the car, any dignity that remained has fled. “Sorry. Bye.”

I turn to flee, but Owen speaks before I can.

“Tough visit? You seem upset.”

Right. Raccoon eyes. Blotchy cheeks. I can see how he’d come to that conclusion.

I’d much rather talk to his dog, but it’s not like I haven’t talked to a handsome man before. I’m actually quite the conversationalist, though he probably wouldn’t believe it with the way I’ve avoided him for the past six months.

He’s only an inch or two taller than me, so I don’t even have to look up to meet his kind eyes. They’re brown, but it’s impossible to know the exact shade with the parking lot pole lights the only source of illumination .

“It was a good visit. Just … hard.”

“I’m sorry.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Owen.”

His hand is large and swallows mine. I’m glad I was too distraught to put my gloves on earlier. My whole body tingles and grows hot at the contact. Not a terrible thing, as it’s cold and growing darker by the minute. I don’t want to let go, but I find the inner strength to not embarrass myself further.

“Layla,” I say.

“It’s nice to officially meet you, Layla.” My name coming from his lips sounds like the beginnings of a love song. “Can I help you with anything?”

Can you loan me tens of thousands of dollars, interest free?

Not that I would ever say anything remotely similar out loud. Nana taught me to never talk about our financial situation, and I never have. Not with friends, not with my roommates, and definitely not with handsome acquaintances.

“No. Thank you, though.” I take a step away. “Well, good night. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.”

Be quiet now, Layla.

I turn and take a few steps toward my car, rushing but not running, when Owen calls out my name.

“Layla.”

I take stock of all my possessions, worried I lost one and hoping I don’t have to go back to retrieve it. Then Owen is standing next to me.

“I know we don’t know each other, but I’ve seen you around. I’ve been wanting to get to know you better. Would you be interested in going to dinner with me after Christmas? ”

He’s asking me on a date?

It should be an easy yes. It’s just a date. Except this is Owen, the man I have a massive crush on. It feels like there is potential for something more, and that scares me.

Faced with the possibility of a date, I realize the real reason I’ve been avoiding him: I don’t want him to know about my messy life. I like how he looks at me as if I’m beautiful and desirable. If he knew about the hundred thousand dollars I have in debt, he wouldn’t see me the same way.

At my hesitation, he says, “Maybe we could get something to eat right now if you’re not busy?”

No is on my lips, but I want to go. It’s just one date; my credit score won’t come up in casual conversation, especially not if I keep it short. My roommates won’t mind if I bail on our plans for a handsome man.

Except, after my conversation with the home manager, I’m exhausted and want to decompress at home with my roommates. My pajamas are calling, and I want to answer.

Maybe I can do both.

“I have plans tonight,” I say. His smile dims until I continue. “But I have time for fries.”

I point across the street to the fast food drive-in.

He nods, and his smile perks up. “Perfect. I’ll drive.”