Chapter Two
OWEN
Layla leaves to drop her things in her car while I wait. For a second she disappears from view, and I half expect her to speed away, leaving me alone in the parking lot with my disappointment. But then she pops up and walks in my direction.
I can’t believe this moment is happening. I have maybe an hour to make a good impression so that she’ll want to see me again. I’ve admired this woman from afar for months now. She’s gorgeous: long legs, long blonde hair, full lips, bright blue eyes. It’s what initially captured my interest, but she’s so much more than beautiful.
She’s kind and chats with everyone at Brock Pine, even staff. They all love her here. As Greta and I have visited with the residents, they’ve all talked about her and shown me items she’s knitted for them. Envy is not something I usually feel, but I’m jealous that out of everyone associated with Brock Pine, I seem to be the only one she avoids.
I’ve had to resort to subterfuge by hiding out in the hallway to listen to her sing-along. Her voice is clear and rings out above all the other voices. Her musical talent is awe-inspiring.
Someone might construe my actions as creepy, but I appreciate the music too, not just the musician.
I’ve tried to talk to her, but every time I take a step forward to introduce myself, she turns in the opposite direction. It’s been a hit to my self-esteem, but I’ve noticed how she watches me and I’ve bided my time, hoping my chance would come.
Now it finally has. She can take Greta for a joy ride anytime she wants, if this is the outcome.
Layla meets me at the passenger side of my car. The black make-up around her eyes is gone and her lips show the hint of a smile that was absent minutes before. There’s a slight tremor in my hand as I open the passenger door for her.
Once Layla is seated, Greta sticks her head between the seats and licks her cheek.
I lean down and meet Greta’s eyes. “Greta, no.” She’s always been a face licker, and I’m never not embarrassed when she does her thing.
Layla laughs. It’s a laugh I’ve become familiar with over the last six months, and I can’t get enough of it.
“It’s okay,” Layla says. “Greta and I became best friends on our quick trip around the parking lot. She’s a sweetie. Aren’t you a sweet girl? Yes, you are.” She scratches Greta’s ears .
Greta is a great wingman. I’ll need to give her an extra treat tonight.
I shut the door and walk in front of the car. Do not screw this up. I slip into the driver’s seat and drop the half dozen candy canes into the cup holder next to my empty Dr. Pepper.
Layla glances at me for barely a second before turning her attention back to Greta. “How did you get into therapy dog work?”
I back up the car and ponder her question. Therapy dog work? “Greta isn’t a therapy dog. She belonged to my former neighbor, but when he moved to Brock Pine he couldn’t keep her.”
Layla tilts her head and studies me. An adorable wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. “You’re not a professional therapy dog handler?”
I look away before I do something stupid, like take her hand. For months, I’ve wanted to ask her out, and now she’s right here .
“No.” I’m proud of myself for sounding unaffected by her proximity. “I started visiting Norman, my neighbor, with Greta after he moved in. Greta’s so friendly, the activity coordinator asked if I would mind taking her to visit other residents. It’s become our thing.”
I find a break in the traffic and speed across four lanes to the parking lot of the drive-in. I find an empty stall and park. This place has been here forever, and it’s rundown and old school. We have to wait for someone to come out and take our order. I hope they don’t rush.
“I know Norman, and he’s never mentioned you before.” There’s a teasing tone to her accusation .
“Do you think I’m lying?” I say with a laugh.
“I’ve talked to Norman about Greta, though he didn’t tell me she was once his.” She purses her lips. “He talks about his nephew Clark like he wants to set me up on a date with him, but Norman has said nothing about you .”
Norman has tried to set me up on a date with Layla? I had no idea. I clap my chest like I’m Tarzan. “I’m Clark. It’s my last name. Owen Clark.”
She studies my profile as if she’s memorizing my face so she’ll know exactly what to tell the police sketch artist when I get arrested for lying about knowing Norman.
“Clark is Norman’s nephew, not his neighbor.”
“He calls me his nephew because he only has nieces.” I hold up my hand and twist two fingers around each other. “Norman and I are close, like family.”
She smirks like I’m cute for making up this elaborate lie. I pull out my phone and call the man, putting it on speaker.
“Clark!” Norman says. His voice rumbles like he smokes five packs a day. It’s only one. “I just saw you. What do you want?”
Classic Norman. “I’m here with Layla, and she thinks I’m lying about being your neighbor.”
“You finally got up the courage to do something about your infatuation, eh?”
This was obviously a mistake. Layla’s heard enough to know I’m not lying, and I use my thumb to take it off speaker. Or at least, I try to, but the phone slips from my hand and falls to my feet.
“Maybe now you’ll stop talking about how beautiful she is when I’d much rather watch Seinfeld .” His voice is muffled, but definitely still audible .
I reach for my phone, but it’s by the pedals and my fingers brush against the corner, pushing it further. I can’t get my shoulder far enough under the steering wheel to grab it.
“Layla, Clark has smelly feet. Don’t let him take his shoes off. I might call him my nephew, but we are not related by blood. My feet smell like daisies.”
Unlike Greta, Norman is a terrible wingman. Using my foot, I knock the phone closer to my hand and finally pick it up. When I sit upright, Layla’s cheeks are a bright pink, but she’s also laughing. She looks happy to hear what Norman is saying, so maybe I can still redeem this night.
“Thanks for that, Norman.” I hope he catches my sarcasm. “Good night.”
“Merry Christmas, Clark. See you in the new year.”
“After this, I wouldn’t count on it,” I say, but he’s already ended the call. I glance at Layla. “Do you believe me now?”
“I sure do.” Her lingering laughter makes her words uneven. “Why do you only visit Brock Pine Home every other week?”
A change of topic is a great idea. Whether it’s because she’s embarrassed or she’s kind enough to save me from my embarrassment, I appreciate it. I also notice that she’s inadvertently admitted to knowing my schedule. All is not lost.
“I spend one week in Salt Lake City and the other in Elko, Nevada.”
She scrunches her nose adorably. “Isn’t that a long drive?”
“Four hours tops. I grew up in Nevada. My mom and brother live there. ”
Her eyes light up. “I’ve always wanted a sibling. I’m an only child.”
“He’s eighteen years younger than me, so I was out of the house by the time he was born.”
She settles in the corner between the door and seat back so she faces me. “Were you upset when he ruined your single child status?”
“Not at all. I love being a big brother.”
She studies me for a few seconds. “I bet he loves having you as a big brother. So, if you’re not a therapy dog handler, what do you do that allows you to live in two different states and spend afternoons at Brock Pine Home?”
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. That can be a tricky question to answer, but I’ll keep it vague. “I started a manufacturing company a few years ago with a friend. Our headquarters were here and I grew to love Utah. I sold my half of the business not too long ago, and now I’m trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.” Before she can ask me what kind of company I sold, I continue. “Until I figure that out, I own and manage a landscaping business.”
“Mmm. This isn’t your normal week to visit.”
It sounds like an accusation, but I’m glad for the change in my regular schedule because I’m here with her now. I’m not so happy about why my schedule changed.
“No, it’s not. I was up in Elko this week, but my mom, brother, and I drove here yesterday because we fly out of the Salt Lake airport tomorrow to visit family for the week.”
“Is Greta going with you?” She turns in her seat and pets Greta’s head. If she were a cat she’d be purring.
“No. She likes the car but hates flying. I’m dropping her off at a friend’s house tonight. I’ll miss her.” I rub Greta’s chin just the way she likes. Greta’s in puppy heaven with both of us giving her attention. “I’ve only had her since May, but she’s family now.”
Greta goes for a lick attack and gets my lips before I pull back. I don’t even mind because Layla laughs.
The server taps on the window, and I lower it.
“What would you like tonight?” he asks.
I glance at Layla. “Just fries? Or would you like something more?”
I want her to order an extra-large meal so we have more time to talk, but she shakes her head. I stifle my disappointment.
“Just a large fry with lots of ketchup. I can get it.” She opens her purse, but I wave away her offer to pay.
“My treat.” I turn to the server. “Two large fries, please.” I hand him my card and he heads back inside. “What is it you do for work?”
“I’m a middle school choir teacher.”
I love that she’s a teacher. “My dad was a teacher. Math.”
She grimaces. “Not a subject I’m proficient in.”
“But you enjoy teaching?”
“I love teaching choir.” Her eyes shine with happiness. “Especially the students who are there to learn and not just to fill in an arts requirement. My tryout choir, Vocal Jammers, is amazing this year. They sound like high school students.” She sighs and sinks further into the seat. “Though I am thrilled to have a two-week break. Middle schoolers take a lot out of me.”
Talking about work is kind of a downer anyway. “Do you have fun plans for Christmas?”
“My roommates and I don’t have family nearby to spend Christmas with this year, so we’re spending it together.” She pauses. “I’m excited, but sad. It will be a different kind of Christmas. My grandpa was from Germany, and we have a bunch of traditions that won’t happen. With my nana’s memory issues, my celebration with her will be complicated.”
I didn’t expect talking about Christmas to make her sad, and I try to lighten her expression.
“Do your traditions include hiding a pickle ornament? I had a college roommate who said it was a German thing.”
She laughs as she leans her head against the headrest and looks past me, her eyes distant as if she’s remembering the past. “The first Christmas my grandparents were married, my nana found a glass pickle ornament at some store that claimed it was a German tradition to hide the pickle on the tree on Christmas Eve. Whoever found it first had good luck the following year. She brought the pickle home but Opa had never heard of such a silly thing and swore it wasn’t German. Nana didn’t care. Every Christmas Eve, she hid the pickle, and every year while I searched the tree, he sat in the corner looking grumpy. Yet he’s the one who always gave me an extra gift for finding it.”
Her grandparents sound quite different from mine—approachable and warm.
“Are you going to hide the Christmas pickle this year with your roommates?”
She shrugs, a smile dancing across her lips. “I hadn’t planned on it, but I should. It would be nice to have some serious competition. It’s difficult to find a green pickle in a green tree, but when I’m the only one looking, there’s no sense of urgency. ”
Our fries arrive with a dozen little tubs of ketchup on a tray. He took Layla seriously when she asked for lots of ketchup, but this is overkill.
I put the tray on the console between us. The second it’s down, Greta tries to reach it, her nose quivering like she’s tracking prey.
I raise my elbow to keep her back. “Sorry. I meant to give her a bone before the fries arrived and got distracted.”
Easy to do when Layla’s talking to me. I could listen to her for hours. It isn’t just her singing voice that’s lyrical. Except now I need to get into the glove compartment to grab Greta’s bone. A little awkward to get that close to Layla’s legs during our first conversation.
I point. “Will you grab the marrow bone from the glove compartment?”
“Oh, sure.”
Greta forgets all about the fries when Layla gives her the bone. She takes it to the back of the car and hunches over it like she’s afraid I’ll steal it back.
Layla takes a fry and scoops the ketchup like it’s salsa. Odd. To each their own, I guess.
“What else do you do for Christmas?” I ask. “I’m not familiar with German traditions.”
“We celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve, not Christmas day. On Christmas Eve, we decorated the tree with candles, bird ornaments, and glass balls Opa brought from Germany. I spent the rest of the day looking for the pickle Nana hid. Dinner was always blutwurst sausages, hard rolls, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes with curry gravy over everything. Then we read the nativity from the Bible, sang Christmas songs, and opened our presents. ”
She dips her next fry and licks the ketchup off her fingers. It draws my attention to her lips. I make myself look away.
“You open gifts on Christmas Eve?” I clarify. “Isn’t that a letdown for Christmas day?”
She laughs. “Never. It was weird to me as a kid when I found out my friends at school waited until Christmas morning for their gifts.”
“Then what did you do on Christmas day?”
“Stay in our pajamas, watch movies, and make stollen, which is the best holiday cake.” She sighs and slowly chews her ketchup with a side of fry. “I haven’t had proper stollen since my nana moved to Brock Pine Home. I can never get the texture quite right.” Then she turns to look at me. “Sorry, I love Christmas and could keep going for hours. How do you celebrate?”
“The normal stuff. Presents Christmas morning ,” I say pointedly. “When my brother was a kid, our dad dressed up like Santa on Christmas Eve and brought us one gift we could open that night.”
“Didn’t Santa visit when you were a kid?” she asks.
“Santa freaked me out until I was at least twelve. My parents knew to avoid him.”
Her smile grows. I’ve always loved how happy Layla is when I’ve seen her at Brock Pine. She has an infectious joy about her.
“The tree goes up on Thanksgiving weekend,” I continue. “We drive through neighborhoods to check out Christmas lights. My mom loves caroling to the neighbors. Me, not so much. ”
She puts a hand to her chest and pretends to be offended. “Caroling is one of the best parts of Christmas.”
“Your objection is noted, but not sustained.”
“I thought you were a businessman. You sound like a lawyer.”
That sobers me for a second, but I brush it away. I may sound like a lawyer, but I’m not one.
I go on. “On Christmas Eve we make cookies for Santa and then watch movies until late. When my brother was eleven, he became obsessed with The Lord of the Rings, so for the last three years we’ve watched all three movies, the extended editions, all day. My brother and I start the first one at eight in the morning and our mom drops in for her favorite parts.”
Talking about how Christmas should be this year makes me angry. It was only five days ago that Grandmother called and informed me and my mom we were having Christmas with her. We’ve been fine not visiting for Christmas for over thirty years. That shouldn’t change now. Mom disagreed.
“A Lord of the Rings marathon sounds amazing. I wonder if I could persuade my roommates to do that this year.” She thinks for a few seconds, then shakes her head. “No, Meg only watches Christmas movies during December, and Livy and I follow her lead. I doubt I can convince her the gifts from Galadriel to the fellowship are for Christmas.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Every additional minute I spend with Layla, the more I like her.
The only fries left are the little ones that hide out at the bottom of the bag and have all the soft insides fried out of them. I love the crunchy fries, but notice Layla doesn’t eat them. She wipes her fingers and lays her napkin on top of her half-dozen empty ketchup cups.
I’m afraid she’ll want me to take her back to her car. I must keep the conversation going so she’ll stay.
“Only eleven more days of December. Do you have any wishes for the new year?”
Her eyebrows raise. “Wishes? What about resolutions?”
“I don’t believe in starting anything on January first. Too much pressure. If something matters to me, I’ll start a goal in the middle of a month. Wishes for the new year is something my mom does. It’s like sending out an intention, but more fun. Our wishes are rarely serious.”
“What’s your wish?” she asks.
I take my time before answering. Until an hour ago, my new year wish would have been a chance to talk to Layla, but I’ve already been granted that one. Though the wish is meant to be inconsequential, I find myself telling Layla an important one.
“I want to figure out what to do with my life. I don’t like not having a plan.”
Her joyful expression dims. “Not having a plan is the worst.”
“You?”
She gives a heavy sigh. “I wish Nana’s dementia would stop progressing.”
“That sounds like a serious wish,” I say. I don’t mind. Talking about her nana might be just what she needs right now.
“But it’s not a wish that will come true.” She focuses her attention on her hands in her lap. “Her memory will keep getting worse and each month I’ll have a little less of her. She started a new medication that will hopefully slow it down, but it might not. It’s expensive enough that it better do something.” She looks up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”
“You didn’t. I’m sorry that you’re going through this.”
“Thank you.” She takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. “For the next week, I will not worry about anything. I plan to celebrate the heck out of Christmas. I just wish I had family to celebrate with, you know? My mom and Opa have passed. I’m losing Nana bit by bit. My roommates are great, but it’ll be more of a girls’ party. Christmas has always meant family to me.”
If I were staying here, I’d invite her over to spend Christmas Eve watching The Lord of the Rings . My mom would spoil her. Brady would love having someone new to lecture on how the books differ from Peter Jackson’s scripts. I’d love to give Layla happy family Christmas memories this year.
Another reason to resent Grandmother’s insistence that my family visit her for the coming week.
LAYLA
I’ve definitely killed the good vibes we were sharing. I can’t really blame myself. Owen is easy to talk to. I’d probably share my entire life story with him if I stayed in his car long enough. Which is why I need to end this sort-of-date and get going.
I should have said my wish was something like obedient students, a raise, or the check engine light in my car to disappear.
When Owen’s hand cups my shoulder, I almost jump out of my skin. I catch a whiff of his spicy cologne. His touch is warm and gentle. It’s the softest touch I’ve received in a long time and tears spring to my eyes for the second time tonight. Get a grip, girl. I blink them away.
“My dad died eight years ago,” he says softly. “Some days I’m doing fine, then out of nowhere I’ll think of something he said or did, and it’s like I’ve lost him all over again. The holidays are the hardest.”
I meet his eyes. He gets my grief. Having an empathetic ear is something I didn’t know I needed until right now. It hits me again just how handsome he is. I love the beard. It makes him look older, wiser. Kissable. Okay, that is an inappropriate thought. I look back at my hands.
“Talking about moms and wishes,” I say. “My mom and I had this thing we’d do every time we caught eleven-eleven on a clock. We called it the wishing minute, and we’d repeat our wish as many times as we could until eleven-twelve. I haven’t thought about our wishing minute in a long time.”
“My mom would love that.”
My phone chimes in my purse. Normally, I’d ignore a text, but I need a distraction from Owen. His hand is so comforting. In another minute, I might lean over the center console and snuggle into his chest.
“Sorry,” I say. “It might be my roommates. Just a second.”
His hand drops from my shoulder, and I shiver.
It’s not Meg or Livy. It’s Spencer again. I forgot to text him back earlier to say I wouldn’t meet him for dinner.
SPENCER: Meet me at L’oie Bleue. Our table is reserved for 7 p.m. I like you in the blue dress with the open back.
Spencer is great in some ways, but completely oblivious in others. I move to slip my phone back in my purse, when I’m hit by a profound thought: Spencer is wealthy.
I can ask him for a loan. Banks have turned me down. As have Visa and Mastercard. But Spencer’s generous. He might say yes.
It’s a crazy idea, but it’s the only one I have.
I type out a quick text.
LAYLA: See you there.
I don’t want to go. I’d much rather stay here than have a fancy dinner with Spencer. But Nana. She comes first.
“I’m sorry, Owen. I need to be somewhere. It’s important.”
His expression turns from disappointed to worried in a nanosecond. “Is everything okay?”
“It will be. Thank you so much for the fries.”
Owen leaves the tray outside and turns on his ignition. Lucky me, there’s a break in traffic as soon as he reaches the curb, and we’re across the street and next to my car in less than thirty seconds.
He puts the car in park. “Could I get your number? I’ll be back in Utah next Saturday, and I’d love to take you out on an actual date.”
I can’t recall an hour that I’ve enjoyed as much as this one, but I’m still hesitant to let him into my life. Even if Spencer gives me a loan, it doesn’t solve my money problems. My fear of Owen finding out what a mess I am hasn’t disappeared. If anything, it’s grown. He might not know what to do with his life, but he owns a business. His car isn’t overdue for a visit at the mechanics. He’s put together; I’m a disaster.
I glance at Greta, who is gnawing on her bone at the back of the car, then smile goodbye at Owen.
“I’ll see you around. Merry Christmas.”
I’m out of his car and into mine in record time. It’s like tearing off a bandage: a quick goodbye is better than a lingering one. Besides, if I’m going to make it to L’oie Bleue by seven, I need to speed back to my apartment to get ready.