Chapter Five
LAYLA
A sleek, black car waits for me outside my apartment building at eight the next morning. As soon as I come out of the door, the driver walks forward and takes my two suitcases. He adjusts his grip as his shoulders shift forward. He raises his eyebrows as he packs them into the trunk.
I struggled to know what to pack, which meant I over packed and brought something for every occasion I could imagine.
When the driver opens my door, I slip inside, then startle when I see Spencer staring at the computer on his lap. I expected to meet him at the airport and had prepared myself for the stress of him arriving late.
He takes a second away from his laptop to kiss me on the cheek. “I’m glad to see your roommates didn’t talk you out of coming with me.”
“No. ”
It’s not that my roommates didn’t want to talk me out of it, just that I didn’t give them much of a chance.
The driver pulls out of the parking lot, and I look back at my apartment building. The lights on our Christmas tree shine through our third-floor window in the gloomy, cloud-covered morning.
Last night when I got home, Meg was in the living room. I gave her the abbreviated version of the proposal, making it sound romantic, then escaped to my room. This morning I woke Livy, and while she was half asleep broke the news and fled. I even made up a wedding date so they’d take me seriously. The size of the ring did the rest. I wasn’t able to convince them I love Spencer. They’re too smart for that, considering they’ve been with me through all three times Spencer and I dated. I understand their confusion. They don’t know about my financial woes or the extent of Spencer’s wealth.
I turn my attention back to Spencer as his fingers clack along the keys of his computer.
“I thought you weren’t taking your case with you to Maine,” I say.
Did I really expect anything different from a workaholic for the next week? Yes, I did. It’s a reminder that I need to keep my expectations realistic for our relationship going forward. His work is his priority, not me. I’m marrying so I’ll have the money to take care of Nana. If I don’t expect anything more from him, I’ll never be disappointed.
“Our key witness backed out of our case,” he says. “It was the phone call I didn’t take during dinner last night. This morning we were given additional evidence by the prosecution that doesn’t look good for our client. We had an airtight case, but now it’s falling apart, and we have less than a month to put it back together. The judge won’t give us another continuance.”
I close my eyes and center myself. “Will you be working on the case all week?”
At his silence, I open my eyes to find he’s studying me. “You have to understand, I don’t have a choice. This case is important. I won’t fail my client.”
“I understand, but that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am.” He goes back to his computer, typing while also talking. I’m not sure how he’s able to do both at the same time. “I was thinking last night that it might be better if I propose on Christmas Day instead of arriving as already engaged. Is that okay with you?”
I don’t care either way, so I take off the ring and hold it out to him. My hand feels lighter. My heart feels heavier. Christmas in Maine isn’t sounding so appealing anymore.
He takes the ring box from his suit jacket and slips the ring inside. The lid snaps closed.
He goes back to his computer. “Because I’ll be up late and early working on this case, you’ll have your own room. I don’t want to disturb you.”
That’s the first welcome news since I entered the car. I’m not ready to share living space yet.
“What about gifts for your family?” My enthusiasm for Maine might have tanked, but it’s still Christmas. “I brought a few shawls Nana knit years ago. We can give them to your grandma and aunts. I brought wool to knit everyone else something. What do you think? Mittens? A scarf? A tea cozy?”
He lays his hand on my wrist but is still reading from the computer screen. “Layla, my family doesn’t appreciate homemade gifts. The presents I brought will be from the both of us.”
“I want to give them something. You should see the shawls. They’re like gossamer. The ones we sold online fetched hundreds of dollars.”
“Layla.” He turns his head to face me, his voice is sharp and his brow creased. “It doesn’t matter. They won’t want anything knitted. Besides, you don’t want to spend your holiday making stuff.”
His words hurt. My knitting isn’t stuff. I create usable items. He dismissed me and Nana in just a few sentences.
I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that this is a new life I’ve begun as Spencer’s fiancée. Or, secret fiancée until Christmas. It’s a change in perspective I need to make.
We’re silent until we arrive at the airport. The driver opens our doors and pulls our luggage from the trunk. Spencer’s smile deflates as the driver places my two wheeled suitcases next to his on the curb.
“Those are yours?” he asks.
“Of course.” Who else would have bags in the back of the car? “What’s the problem?”
He huffs out a breath. “Layla, I think you’re perfect the way you are, but my family has exacting standards. We’ll have to buy you new luggage when we arrive in Boston.”
There’s an insult hidden within the information drop, but I ignore it. “Boston, Massachusetts? I thought we were going to Maine.”
“We have an hour’s drive from the Boston airport to the cabin in York.”
Now I’m really confused. “The cabin is in New York?”
“No, York , Maine , not New York,” he says, enunciating each word. “York is about four hours from New York.” He studies me from toes to nose. “I don’t want my family to look down on you. We’ll need to buy you new clothes in Boston, too.”
Right now, I’m wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, but they’re Alo Yoga. I may have bought them from my favorite consignment shop, but that doesn’t mean they’re from the dollar bin at Walmart. I’m not stupid. I came prepared to impress his family.
“I have a dress in my carry-on to change into before I meet your grandma.”
He lays his hands on my shoulders and leans close. “You always look amazing, Layla, but I need you to trust me on this. You don’t know my family yet, and I want them to have the best impression of you. I know you can’t afford a new wardrobe, so it will be my Christmas gift to you.”
Spencer is a pro at sandwiching his criticisms within compliments, but it doesn’t sting any less.
I think of Nana yesterday in the recreation room, smiling as she sang along to “Blue Suede Shoes.” This is for her. She needs to be in memory care, not evicted from Brock Pine Home altogether.
If it’s so important to Spencer that his family doesn’t look down on me because my clothes are a few years out of date, then so be it .
“Okay.”
He kisses my cheek, his breath minty and warm. “Thank you for understanding.”
Spencer takes my hand and leads me inside the airport. An attendant has our luggage on a cart and follows behind. I’m discombobulated by how quickly we’re whisked through security, given a ride on a golf cart, and deposited at our gate.
Just as we arrive, they call first class and in minutes we’re down the jet bridge. Once we’re on the plane, instead of heading toward the right, we turn left into the first-class area. A flight attendant leads us directly to our seats. Or … cushy recliners that turn into beds? Pods? I’m not sure what to call them, but the moment I sit down I sigh at the comfort. I’ve only flown a few times, but never like this. When I stretch my legs out, and my toes don’t touch the seat in front of me.
Next to my pod is a bag full of what I assume are complimentary items: ear plugs, an eye mask, lotion, socks, European chocolate, snacks, and gum. The rich definitely live differently than normal folk.
The moment Spencer sits down, he’s on the phone talking to a colleague about the disaster of their upcoming case. As frustrated as he must feel at these last-minute complications, there’s a thrill in his voice. He lives for impossible situations because he loves being the one to figure out how to come out on top. It sounds exhausting to me.
As the other ten first-class seats fill in, I wave away the offered wine and grab my earbuds and knitting needles. When I couldn’t sleep last night, I finished my sock. Now I’m working on a baby blanket. As I cast on, I realize I don’t need to run my shop like a desperate woman any longer. Spencer is giving me something precious: peace.
I don’t want to knit another baby blanket. I stare at my needles for a long time as I try to decide what I do want to knit.
A hot pad. The first thing Nana taught me how to make and I haven’t made one since I was a kid. The sweet feeling the memory brings has me smiling. I have wool in my suitcase. When I’m finished knitting the hot pad, I’ll felt it to make it thick and durable.
I put the blanket away as we prepare for take-off. By the time the pilot comes on and says we’re at cruising altitude, I’m half asleep. While Spencer types away at his laptop, I slip on the eye mask. With the seat reclined, this is more comfortable than my bed.
I sleep for the full four-hour flight. Without the worry over money, it’s the best sleep I’ve had in over a year.
It’s dark by the time we leave Boston to drive the hour to York. The moment we enter the rental, Spencer hooks his phone into the Bluetooth and talks to his colleague back in Salt Lake.
I don’t mind at all. We spent all afternoon shopping together, and it was surprisingly fun. He has an eye for fashion that I’ve never witnessed before. He took a few calls and answered some texts, but mostly, I had his attention as we went from store to store and picked out clothing for me to try on. Since I was a teenager, I’ve loved high fashion, but I’ve never been able to afford any designer clothing except pieces I find at consignment stores. Marrying into wealth has its perks.
In the trunk next to Spencer’s luggage lie two new teal suitcases. I allowed Spencer to donate my old ones, but we mailed my clothes home. Those items took me years to curate. They’re quality, even if they aren’t the highest fashion and are a few years out of date.
My phone buzzes with another text from Meg asking how things are going. It’s the seventh one she’s sent since this morning. Surprisingly, Livy hasn’t joined in—I’m grateful for small favors. I need to put a stop to their worry, or they’ll text me nonstop for the next week wanting details.
LAYLA: We’ve arrived in Maine. I won’t have a lot of time to keep you updated, but know that everything is wonderful. Please stop worrying. I’m very happy.
It’s the truth; I am happy. I smile at the memory of all the compliments Spencer showered on me when I came out of the dressing rooms in outfits with heart-stopping price tags. He really is a sweet man.
Meg responds almost immediately.
MEG: If this is a hostage situation, send a frowny face emoji.
I roll my eyes and send a smiley face instead.
LAYLA: Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you next week.
I silence our group chat. They’ll just have to believe me because I can only tell them so many times.
Spencer’s call ends, and the car is silent. He doesn’t enjoy listening to the radio. I catch myself humming and stop. He hates my humming. Talking it is.
“Tell me about your family?” I ask. “I’ve only heard you mention your grandpa and dad.” And his dad’s girlfriend Ginger, but he isn’t a fan, so I don’t mention her. For all I know, his dad and Ginger have broken up since the last time Spencer and I dated.
“Besides Grandmother, Father, and Ginger ,” there’s a small lip curl at her name, “My aunt Ellory and her husband Gerald will be at the cabin. They work in the New York office. Ellory’s daughter Tori recently got divorced, and she has her daughter, who I think is around four years old. I’ve never met my aunt Marianne, but she’ll be there too. She married someone of little consequence and Grandfather disowned her. The husband died years ago, but their son came out every summer to Maine and spent a few months with me and Tori. He has a younger brother.”
My mouth falls open. “You’ve never met your aunt? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“No. My cousin fell out of favor with Grandfather when he quit the firm. I figure the whole family is the same. No big loss.”
His attitude toward his Aunt Marianne and cousins is unbelievably callous.
“I can’t imagine not knowing my aunt if I had one,” I say with a lightness and humor I don’t feel. “If I had any family outside of Nana, I’d hold on to them like a barnacle. They’d never be able to pry me off.”
Spencer glances over for a second before turning his attention back to the road. “I think it would depend on whether your aunt was worth knowing.”
“True, but you’ve never met her, so how do you know she’s not worth knowing?”
He shrugs. “I trust Grandfather. If he were still alive, she wouldn’t be spending Christmas with us, and that’s enough for me. ”
His words sound final. Time to drop the subject.
Including me and Spencer, I count twelve people staying for Christmas. That must be some cabin to fit us all.
“That’s everyone who will be there at Christmas?”
“Grandfather keeps a caretaker on staff at all times, and there are locals who work in the kitchen and clean the house while we’re visiting.”
Ah, to live like the wealthy and never have to cook or clean up after yourself. It takes a second, but I realize that will be my life as soon as Spencer and I marry. Not such a bad thing.
His phone rings, and he takes another call.
For the rest of the drive, I watch the scenery the headlights illuminate. I catch a few glimpses between the trees of what must be the ocean, but it’s too dark to tell. There’s no snow, which is disappointing. It doesn’t feel like Christmas without snow.
In my head, I sing through Sarah McLachlan’s Wintersong Christmas album. I’m careful not to let any sound pass my lips. It’s difficult. The car is one of my favorite singing venues.
Spencer exits the freeway and navigates down dark streets lined with bare trees. His headlights create shadows that make me feel as if we’ve entered a haunted forest. I don’t see any houses and very few cars pass us.
We eventually turn down a long drive lined with more trees. It opens up onto a large gravel driveway that ends in front of a mansion.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The Maine cabin.”
When he told me we were staying in a cabin, I expected a large, rustic structure. The “cabin” we’re parked in front of looks like a gargantuan castle nestled in a forest. If this is his grandmother’s cabin, what kind of place does she live when not on vacation?
Spencer opens my car door, but I don’t move. I’m not sure my legs have the ability to keep me upright. His focus is on his phone, and he doesn’t notice my lack of movement. When my initial surprise fades, I stand and he shuts the door behind me. I lean against the car and take everything in.
In the middle of the circle driveway is a fountain with a statue of a woman draped in a robe, one shoulder bare. With it being winter, there’s no water, but I imagine it’s even more beautiful when there is. Ten feet away is parked a fiery red Aston Martin. Two Ferraris. A black Lamborghini. The Cadillac Spencer rented at the airport looks like it belongs on a shady used car lot in comparison.
I’m out of my depth. I suspected I didn’t know what I was getting into last night when Spencer mentioned generational wealth. Then again, this afternoon when he spent tens of thousands of dollars on my new wardrobe to impress his family. Now I know for certain.
Spencer’s grandfather exiled his own daughter because he didn’t like the man she married. What will this family do if they don’t like me?
He was right to buy me clothes. The dress I originally picked to meet his grandma would not impress his family. Hopefully, the Loro Piana midi sweater dress and Mackage wool wrap coat he bought does.
I pull my new Boudron shoulder bag in front of me as if it will protect me from whatever waits inside. It’s my favorite purchase from today. Made from soft leather, it’s dyed a light blue with five small, round, silver buttons on the front, each with a gold B in the center. It’s an unmistakable brand, and I’ve seen these bags all over the entertainment magazines and social media the last few years. It’s surreal to own one.
Spencer slips his phone into his pocket and takes my hand. I stumble, and he catches me with a hand to my upper arm.
“Are you okay?”
He’s calm. He’s always calm, and it goes a long way to calming me. Everything will be fine. They’re just people, and I enjoy meeting new people. Feeling well dressed gives me a needed boost of confidence. I’ve got this.
“Too much sitting,” I say as an explanation.
I follow him a few steps before I remember our bags in the trunk. “We forgot our suitcases.”
I turn, but Spencer tugs my hand and keeps moving forward.
“Miles will grab them and put them in our rooms.”
“Who is Miles?” I ask.
“The caretaker of the house.”
Another sign of wealth—an employee to do simple things like carry luggage inside. I’d rather bring it in myself, but I quiet that voice and follow Spencer. I’m entering another world, and I need to follow the rules. Rules I don’t know and will have to learn as I go. Nausea rises in my throat.
The right side of the huge double doors open as we climb the front stairs, and an older man, maybe in his early fifties, with thick salt-and-pepper hair comes out onto the porch, a wide smile on his face. He wears slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a black tie.
“Spencer! I’m glad you’ve made it. I thought you were going to arrive hours ago.”
They shake hands.
“We stopped in Boston for the afternoon. Layla, this is Miles. Miles, this is my girlfriend Layla.”
Miles doesn’t shake my hand, but nods his head. “It is wonderful to have you here this week. Welcome.” He turns back to Spencer. “The family is gathering in the sitting room before dinner.”
Spencer hands Miles the car key while we pass into the house. Miles shuts the door behind us. Spencer helps me with my wrap, and I shiver. It’s not cold, but without the thick wool, I feel vulnerable.
While he hangs our coats in the closet, I try not to be intimidated by the foyer and fail. The ceiling vaults to the second floor. A wide staircase splits half way and goes up opposite sides to the landing above.
A huge Persian rug with bright reds and blues covers the floor. It’s at least twenty by fifteen feet. On the ceiling is a painting of people reaching toward heaven and angels. It’s the sort of thing I expect to see in a medieval cathedral, not a cabin in coastal Maine.
Between the ceiling, the marble floor, the bright chandelier, and the artwork that hangs on the walls, I feel like I’ve entered a museum. Statues bracket each doorway off of the foyer. Lions sit at the base of the stairs. I’m afraid to get too close to anything in case an alarm blares.
In all the beauty, there are no Christmas decorations.
It’s sad. This is the perfect place for a fifteen-foot tree. The banister is lonely without lighted garlands leading up to the second floor. It needs a large, colorful wreath on the door, Christmas figurines on the hall table, and decorations along the edge of the large mirror.
A pit of disappointment lodges in my throat. It’s Christmas, and no one would know by looking at this house.
The double doors to the left open, and a woman around my age exits with a child in her arms, the girl’s head on the woman’s shoulder. She walks as if the foyer is a fashion runway, and her green, floor-length silk gown adds to the illusion. If I had to guess, it’s Armani. She has the same height and lean limbs as Spencer. Her hair is a deep brown with lighter highlights, but what stands out the most about her appearance are her striking bright green eyes. I suspect they’re colored contacts.
The little girl hiccups like she’s just stopped crying.
The woman smiles at Spencer. “What are you doing hiding out in the hallway? Your dad has been waiting for you.” She looks in my direction and studies me from head to foot. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows raise. “I’m Tori, Spencer’s cousin. And you are?”
Before I can answer, Spencer does.
“This is my girlfriend Layla.”
I wish I still had my coat to protect me from her judgment.
She hums thoughtfully. “Grandmother knows how to twist you around her finger, doesn’t she? Anyway, everyone is waiting for you. I need to put Sadie to bed.” She notices my bag. “Is that a Boudron?”
I nod, my voice not making an appearance.
“Nice. I have a red one, but Sadie put all her markers inside. It ruined the lining.” She shrugs like it isn’t a big deal her daughter ruined a four thousand dollar bag. Considering Sadie’s tears stain the shoulder of her silk dress and she doesn’t seem to care, it probably isn’t. “Well, good luck.”
Her parting words leave a feeling of doom in my gut as she walks away. The little girl, her tear-stained cheeks framed by light brown hair, looks at me forlornly over Tori’s shoulder. She has the same green eyes as her mother. Not contacts then.
Spencer puts his phone in his inside jacket pocket and takes my hand. “Let me introduce you to my family.”