Chapter Eleven
OWEN
During the drive to Sohier park and the Nubble Lighthouse at Cape Neddick, Layla and Brady talk in the back about The Lord of the Rings movies. I didn’t realize she was such an aficionado on the topic. She even has strong opinions on Tom Bombadil, who was only in the book.
Brady is a Layla fan. We should create a club. We’d have to fight over who got to be club president, but I think I could win.
Earlier I thought she only talked with my brother to avoid talking to me, but now I rethink my earlier assumption. I may have a bit of an ego when it comes to Layla. She’s such a huge part of my thoughts, I assume I’m in hers. Apparently not. She is dating my cousin, and we did agree to being friends, so the realization shouldn’t sting as much as it does.
When we arrive, the small peninsula is packed. The first time I came here, I expected Sohier park to actually be a park. It’s more of a rocky outcropping with a grassy spot to one side. During low tide, a small stretch of rock reaches across five hundred feet to the rocky island where the Nubble Lighthouse sits. It’s high tide now, and the ocean beats against the rock on both land and island. It’s a dull rumble compared to the roar of voices from the hundreds of visitors who have the same idea as Grandmother.
On the left of the grassy area, Santa sits on a large red throne. A line of children and their parents winds back to the parking lot. Nearby are real reindeer grazing on hay. Bells twined through their antlers jingle as they move.
To the left are a line of pop-up shops, nothing more than tables, canopies, and homemade products ready to sell. From jewelry to jam, baked goods to loomed rugs. If anyone has procrastinated their Christmas shopping until three days before Christmas, at least they have a wide selection of gifts to choose from.
Layla twirls in a circle, her eyes bright as she takes in all the goods for sale and tells Brady, “My nana sold at markets like this almost every weekend until a few years ago.”
“What did she sell?” Brady asks.
“Knitted items like socks, mittens, hats, and sweaters. I spent so much time with her. This is almost like coming home.”
“Cool.”
“Brady,” Mom calls from a booth. “I want to show you this.”
That leaves me and Layla at the back of the group. She stops at a handmade jewelry table and runs her finger along a necklace with an angel pendant carved from bone. The tag attached says fifty dollars. With a sigh, Layla moves on.
“You’re not going to get it?” I ask.
Fifty dollars is nothing, especially when dating Spencer Eccleston.
“No. I don’t need any more jewelry.”
In my family, need is rarely taken into consideration when purchasing items. Her restraint is an admirable quality.
Or … maybe it isn’t restraint? The way she walks away so reluctantly has me wondering if it’s because she doesn’t have the money to purchase something frivolous. Not even fifty dollars. I count the clues: she’s a school teacher. Her grandmother lives in an assisted living center. Layla has no family to help her financially. How did I not realize this earlier?
My entire perspective on Layla’s relationship with Spencer shifts. Could it be that she isn’t overly interested in money like he claimed, but instead she needs money to survive? Spencer said she wanted to marry for the safety wealth offered. I disregarded it at the time, but maybe that’s the key to understanding the Layla puzzle.
Layla’s phone rings. After looking at the screen, she quickly answers.
“Hello?” She glances at me for a moment, then weaves her way through the crowds to the perimeter of the shops.
I catch glimpses of her between groups of people passing. Next to me is a table selling popcorn. I buy a bag of caramel and munch on it while I wait. The longer Layla’s on the phone, the more her free arm waves through the air as she speaks. When she finally hangs up, she’s blinking back tears. I weave my way through crowds until I reach her.
“What’s wrong?”
She wipes under her eyes. “Nothing.”
“Maybe I can help.”
She laughs bitterly. “You can help as much as I can since we’re both in York and not Salt Lake.” With a shake of her head, like she’s dislodging something from her thoughts, she explains. “It was the daytime front desk attendant at Brock Pine.”
“Bennie?”
“Yeah. Bennie.” She says his name like a curse. She wraps her arms around herself as if for comfort. “My nana slipped past him and out the door. She was lost for most of the day until they found her in Target. Last time he allowed her to leave, she fell. This time she could have been hit by a car or, I don’t know … kidnapped.”
No one is going to kidnap an old woman, but Layla’s scared and not thinking logically. I try to lighten her mood since her nana is safe now.
“Granny-napped more like.”
Layla shakes her head like I’m ridiculous, but gives a small smile. I’d love to reach out and pull her into my arms, but that isn’t my place as her friend . It’s Spencer’s, and the idiot isn’t here.
“She’s okay, I know,” Layla says. “But I worry about her, and I feel so powerless, especially when she’s so far away. Bennie better not let her get out again because I have a roommate who is devious when it comes to payback.”
It isn’t Bennie’s job to keep the residents in. They can leave at any time, though they are supposed to check out before they go. But Layla’s grandma has memory issues. That would be scary.
She walks back into the crowds. I go with her.
“Could you move her somewhere else?” I ask.
“It’s too expensive.” She glances up at me as if she’s said something she shouldn’t have. It reinforces my theory that she’s struggling to pay for her nana’s care. “I mean, it would be too confusing for her. Next week she’ll be moved into the memory care unit, and that’ll be hard enough. Taking her to a whole new place is too much.” She gives me a sardonic grin. “For both of us.”
Her first response was most likely the more honest reason, and it bothers me. She’s dating Spencer. He plans to marry her. Why isn’t he helping her with the expense? He dressed her in designer brands and bought her a Boudron bag, but he can’t foot the bill for her grandma?
I want to stop listening to the voice that’s telling me her relationship with my cousin is insincere, but I’m finding that impossible with this new hypothesis.
“Tell me again how you met Spencer?” I offer her popcorn, and she takes a kernel without looking at me.
“At a party last New Year’s Eve.”
“Spencer doesn’t party. Unless it was a firm event, or a client invited him, he wouldn’t be at a party.”
She takes more popcorn and eats each kernel one at a time. People jostle around us, but we stick together, shoulder to shoulder.
“Did you lie?” I ask.
She stops at a booth of hand sewn aprons and flips through the child-sized rack without seeing them .
“We didn’t lie,” Layla says meekly. “I met him at a party. But, you’re right, it was at the house of one of his clients.”
“How do you know his client?” Spencer’s clients are business people who make a million dollars a year, minimum. Layla doesn’t hit me as the kind of person who hangs out with millionaires. That’s one of the things I like about her.
She huffs. “Why do you care who I know?”
“I don’t,” I say with a shrug. “I want to understand how you and Spencer met. You’re not his type.”
“Because I’m a school teacher ?”
She walks away, and I follow until I’m beside her again.
“I offended you with that comment last night, and that wasn’t my intention. How well do you know the Eccleston family? My mother was disowned because she married my dad, a school teacher . It’s a sore subject for me.”
She slows her pace. “I’m sorry; I didn’t make the connection. Spencer doesn’t care about that sort of thing. He’s never cared about my career, and as far as I can see, neither does anyone else in the family.”
Probably because Grandfather isn’t here anymore. If he were alive, there is no way Spencer would have brought Layla to Christmas. It’s harsh, but it’s true. I’m shocked Spencer started dating her before Grandfather passed. My cousin never rebels.
“He may not care about your profession,” I say. I should not say another word, but she doesn’t see how mismatched with is with Spencer, and that bothers me. “But he cares about your appearance because he picks out your clothes. How much did the Boudron cost you? Three thousand at least. And the coat? Another two thousand. I’d be surprised if those slacks were less than nine hundred.”
She stops in the middle of the path and glares at me. I’ve hurt her and I hate it, but I don’t regret what I said. She shouldn’t settle for a guy who treats her like a Barbie doll.
“How do you know I didn’t buy this coat myself?” Her voice quivers, but she glares with all the confidence in the world.
“Because I’ve seen you multiple times over the last six months, and you’ve never worn it until yesterday. Tori has a coat just like that in green, and it was new this fall. She wouldn’t shut up about it when I talked to her last month.”
Her stance softens. “I can’t understand why you care.”
“Because I care about you, Layla. Call me a fool, but I do. Are you in need of money? Is Spencer manipulating you?” I lean close and lower my voice. “Do you know he stands to inherit twenty million dollars when he marries?”
Her expression doesn’t change as I mention the insane amount of money, which tells me she knows. Maybe I’ve gotten this wrong, and she’s manipulating him . I instantly disregard that thought. Layla isn’t the type to harm anyone, not even for her benefit.
She turns and stalks away. This time I don’t keep up, but follow slowly behind. She catches up to Brady, who’s trying on a green Lord of the Rings cape at a booth that sells fantasy costumes.
As I approach, Brady turns to me. “Owen, this is what I want for Christmas.”
“I already got you a Christmas gift.”
“I won’t like it as much as this. ”
“You better like it because it’s exactly what you asked for.”
Brady’s shoulders slump. “Come on. It’s only a hundred and fifty. You can afford it.”
This is what I don’t like about money. The entitlement. I want Brady to learn the value of a dollar, not that he can get whatever he wants with no effort on his part. Once he inherits twenty million from Grandmother, it’ll be too late.
When I say nothing, he deflates further.
“Brady,” Layla says, “I could knit you a cape just like this.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
Layla nods. “I can have it done by the new year. I have the perfect wool at home that will work for this sort of project.”
“Thanks!” Brady is thrilled.
I am not. It’s nice of Layla to offer, but it’s still time and money someone is investing without Brady doing anything to earn it. I’m caught between offending Layla again and disappointing Brady now that he has a promise.
It’s better I accept Layla’s generosity. I’m about to tell her to send me the bill for the supplies and her time when Grandmother calls out to her from the next booth over.
“Layla, what do you think of these?” She points to ball ornaments made from patch worked pieces of material. “I want to decorate the trees with items made by local artisans.”
Layla goes to look and Brady follows, the glow of hero worship in his eyes, like she’s the Pied Piper. It’s enough to make me pause because I want to follow, too. Does that make me a rat ?
I stay where I am and reevaluate why I’m asking her questions about her relationship with Spencer. She’s a grown woman who can make her own decisions. I may not agree with them, but it isn’t my place to make value judgments on what she does.
Instead of tagging along and forcing her to answer questions she doesn’t want to, I head back to the aprons and buy the lady-bug print for Sadie. I’m not sure how often she’s in the kitchen, if at all. Tori’s cook probably doesn’t appreciate Sadie’s help, but she will look cute wearing it.
I browse the other booths on my own and buy a few items until I get a text from Mom telling me they’re stopping for hot cocoa and cookies and to come meet them.
With only a few picnic tables available, it’s easy to spot Rheta’s wheelchair at the end of one. I don’t know how they snagged it with so many people milling about, but I’d guess whoever was here before was thrilled to give up their table to “Ms. Rheta.”
The town’s hero worship of Grandmother is a paradigm shift for me. She was always Grandfather’s shadow. He was the one everyone looked up to. It seems since his passing, she’s finally found herself. It only took her eighty years, and that makes me sad for her.
The only place at the table for me is on the end, next to Layla. I stuff my shopping bag at my feet and offer a quiet apology.
“I’m sorry,” I say under my breath, so that she’s the only one who can hear. She stills, but doesn’t turn to look at me. “What you do is none of my business. I respect your job as a teacher. You look amazing in blue and that coat is nice. I’m sorry that what I said came across as a judgment against you.”
It was against Spencer.
She nods, still looking ahead. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“I hope I can still call myself a friend. And as a friend, if you need anything, including money, I will help. No strings attached.”
Her cheeks pink, but if I expected her to take me up on my offer and ditch Spencer, then I’m a fool because she says nothing.
Miles brings me a tree-shaped frosted sugar cookie and a cup of hot cocoa topped with whipped cream. Sticking out of the top is the hook of a candy cane. Even if I don’t look at Layla, my thoughts are there. From now on, candy canes will always remind me of her tradition and the candy cane bouquet she gave me after she stole my car.
I slurp up the whipped cream, and dip my frosted sugar cookie in my cocoa.
“Don’t do that,” Layla says, exasperated, as if our previous conversation had never happened. “You’re ruining a perfectly good cookie by making it disgusting.”
LAYLA
Owen doesn’t look at me, but he smiles down at his cocoa. “It’s actually quite delicious. You should try it.”
He bites off the cocoa soaked bit of cookie.
I grimace. “No. I don’t like soggy desserts. ”
“Bread pudding?”
“Gross.”
“Banana pudding?”
“Mushy Nilla Wafers? Yuck. I don’t actually like the texture of pudding in general.”
“Apple crumble smothered in ice cream?”
“I don’t know if that would count as soggy. However, ice cream on cake? Blah.”
He dips his cookie again, almost as a taunt. I look away, not because it’s gross, which it is, but because he’s charming while being gross.
Rheta and Marianne are reminiscing about a Christmas spent in Paris forty years ago, and no one is looking at this end of the table.
I should let our earlier conversation drop, but Owen has this effect on me where I want to tell him everything. It shouldn’t matter under the circumstances, but I don’t want him to dislike me or believe I’m a gold digger or a liar. I want him to understand me, because that’s what friends do: they understand each other.
“I’m friends with members of a band,” I say. “They were playing at a private party last New Year’s Eve, but their singer came down with food poisoning. I filled in for her the night I met Spencer.”
The soggy part of Owen’s cookie falls into his cocoa. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“The band was taking a break between sets when he came over and started talking to me.”
I think back on that night. Spencer was sexy and suave with his slicked back pompadour and double-breasted suit. After our first conversation, I didn’t lose track of him all night. I’d never met someone like him, and it felt amazing to have his attention when there were so many beautiful women there who were actual guests. Whenever I wasn’t on stage, he sought me out. To say I found it flattering does my feelings a huge disservice.
“I thought he was slumming it with me,” I say. “I was literally the hired help and everyone treated him like a celebrity. But he called me the following week and asked me out. He got my number through the host who contacted the band. Who puts in that much effort for a date with a jazz singer? He has only ever shown me respect.” I smile sardonically. “Unless it has to do with putting his phone away during meals or arriving on time. Then he’s a lost cause.”
Owen smiles but quickly sobers. “You’ve been together ever since?”
He has to be thinking about our fry night. Is telling him the truth about how I came to be here better or worse? I can’t decide, but I know I don’t want to lie. He must suspect I need money for Nana because of his offer to give money after my call with Brock Pine Home. He knows part of my story already.
“No, we haven’t. We broke up a few times over the year, but we always get back together. Spencer and I weren’t dating when I went with you for fries. I’m sorry I left so abruptly. I got a text from him saying he needed to talk to me as soon as possible. When we met up, he asked me to come with him to Maine, and I said yes.”
The intensity of Owen’s attention makes my heart flutter.
He nods. “Thank you for explaining.”
“I know Spencer and I aren’t a conventional match, but we work as a couple. I’m not blind to his faults, but he’s what I need in my life. Besides, I’m not perfect either.”
I come with a lot of financial baggage.
Owen eats the last bite of his gross, soggy cookie and says under his breath, so softly I barely hear the words, “I disagree. You’re nearly perfect to me.”
My heart flutters at his words, but he wouldn’t think that if he knew the truth.
OWEN
As the sun sets, everyone at Sohier Park heads closer to the rocky shore and looks out at the lighthouse. Wispy clouds in the sky reflect the light from the sun as it sinks behind what looks like the edge of the world, coloring the sky pink and shadowed purple.
“I’ve never seen a sunset like this before,” Layla breathes out with reverence. “It’s beautiful.”
I glance over. Her face is aglow with the last minutes of the sun’s rays and I am in awe of the view. I couldn’t agree with her more: beautiful. If she were mine, I’d hold her hand. She’d lay her head on my shoulder. I’d kiss her forehead. She’d snuggle into the crook of my neck.
A foolish dream that will only cause me pain because it will never come true. I’d step away from her, but we’re packed in tight.
As the sky turns to a murky blue, the crowd starts a countdown from ten. Layla puts her hands to her chest and laughs. She meets my eyes and we both join in .
“Five … Four … Three … Two … One!”
Christmas lights outlining all five structures on the island, including the Nubble Lighthouse and the keeper’s cottage, turn on at once. The crowd collectively gasps. Even Brady seems impressed as his eyes widen at the sight.
A cheer goes up, but I’d guess no one claps louder than Layla.
Just as Grandmother demanded, back at the cabin, everyone shows up at dinner. Once again, I’m seated across from Layla and Spencer during the meal. Whenever my eyes wander in their direction, Spencer touches Layla. A hand on her wrist. An arm along the back of her chair. If he leaned any closer to her, he’d tumble into her lap.
From the way Layla glances at him with a wrinkled brow and a slight frown, I’m left believing his behavior is all for my benefit. I want to tell him to grow up, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how irritating I find the constant touching.
I stew about what Layla told me today: they hadn’t been dating recently until they met up Friday night and he invited her to Maine.
I stew about what Layla didn’t tell me: her love for Spencer.
If not love, then it must be all about the money. Her motivation is honorable if it’s to take care of her grandma. It makes me sad. She deserves to be adored and spoiled with love by someone who will sacrifice and put her needs first. What a sorry situation that she’s not marrying the kind of man who will do that for her.
Mom nudges me with her elbow. When I look over, she mouths, “Grumpy Face, what’s wrong?”
I sit up straight with a shrug and smile, banishing my grumpy thoughts.
Dorian shares a story about a client who got drunk, stuck his head through the bars of a handrail, and was then robbed by some marauding teens on their way to school the next morning. He’s a talented storyteller, and everyone but me laughs throughout the telling.
I have never been with my extended family in a lighthearted situation like this. During the summers I spent here, meals were serious affairs. This is what it should have always been like. I understand why Grandmother brought us all together for the week: to make memories like this.
Since Dad’s funeral, I’ve carried around a knotted ball of anger in my chest. Right now, as I watch everyone laugh and joke together, a few of those knots unravel. They’ve been the villains in my story for so long, it feels odd to see their humanity. I quite like my grandmother after today. Ellory and Dorian may be selfish, but they aren’t evil.
Grandmother stands. “Shall we have our carol singing in the music room? Layla has graciously offered to play the piano for us.”
I’ve always been confused by the house having a music room when no one plays music, but it comes in handy tonight. We file down to the basement and into the music room, which comprises a piano and a few dozen folding chairs.
Grandfather had the cabin built on a slope, so the basement opens into the backyard. Much like upstairs, the back of the house is mostly windows. No ocean views here, just trees.
As we pull out the chairs and set them up in a semi-circle around the piano, I overhear Layla speaking to Spencer.
“The case will not make itself,” he says.
“Stay for thirty minutes. Everyone else is here.” She points to Dorian and Ellory. Even Tori showed up after putting Sadie to bed.
Spencer’s erect posture softens when he notices me watching them. “You’re right. I can stay. It’s been too long since I heard you play.”
I’m surprised he’s heard her play at all, but I suppose they have dated some of the year, if not recently. Layla kisses his cheek before she sits at the piano. It’s the first time I’ve seen her show him physical affection, and it turns my stomach sour.
Miles hands out music books. We start with “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” I’m not sure Uncle Dorian has ever sung a note in his life, but under Grandmother’s watchful eye, he joins in. We’re not great, but we’re not terrible either.
Grandmother claps and laughs. “I planned for us to sing to a recording, but this is so much better.”
I can’t help but think of Grandfather missing out on this Christmas. The first happy family Christmas we’ve ever shared. It must make him miserable to know he’s not here to ruin it.
With each song, we get worse, and Grandmother’s laughter gets louder. She finally ends the misery after our fifth song.
“Good night!” she says with a wide wave of her arm, like she’s Santa Claus. “Thank you for making this old woman’s evening so memorable.”
She’s cackling as she leaves the room.
Layla plays a song with an unfamiliar melody. Spencer goes to the piano and talks to her for a few minutes, but her fingers never stop dancing across the keys. I can’t look away. The music makes her happy, and she literally glows.
Everyone in the family leaves but for me and still Layla plays. I’m drawn to her and step closer until I’m only a few feet away. The last chord reverberates around the room. I feel it in my chest.
She looks up and says, “I thought everyone had left.”
“You’re an amazing musician.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Thank you.”
“What song was that you just played? It’s beautiful. I didn’t recognize it.”
Her blush deepens. “It’s something I made up. It changes every time I play it.”
I’m in even more awe of her. I curse Spencer for finding Layla first and relegating me to friendship. I don’t want to say good night. Tomorrow is too long to wait to see her again.
“My mom, Brady, and I are having our sing along to The Muppet Christmas Carol in my room tonight. Do you want to come?”
She chews on her lip as she thinks. I have to look away because my fingers itch to touch her cheeks. My thumb wants to run along her full, bottom lip. She drives me insane.
Finally, she says, “Um, okay.”