Chapter Seventeen
LAYLA
The serving door opens and Owen walks in holding two plates. The smell of curry gravy hits me first, but even then, I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. Blutwurst, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes with gravy smothered over everything.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he says.
“I …”
I don’t know what to say. Yes, I’m hungry. We decorated all day and never had a sit-down meal; just finger foods laid out in the dining room. I’d probably eat anything right now, but to find my family’s traditional Christmas Eve feast in Maine leaves me speechless. Owen remembers everything about our conversation in his car on fry night.
Owen sets the fine China plates on the table, then disappears into the anteroom to come back a moment later with a basket of rolls.
I clear my throat. “What is this for? ”
“It’s Christmas Eve dinner.”
He pulls out my chair and I sit, my legs weak.
“Yes, but why?”
“Because I want you to have the best Christmas, and that means celebrating Christmas Eve like it’s meant to be celebrated.”
I run my finger along the edge of the placemat, unable to look at him. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
He sits across the table. “You should always have many sweet things done for you.” It’s a fact for him, as if I should expect nothing less. He points to my plate. “Tell me what you think.”
That’s all the encouragement I need to cut into the blutwurst and take a bite. An explosion of flavor hits my tongue. It’s an earthy, almost coppery taste, so familiar I close my eyes to savor it.
Owen’s silverware clinks against his plate, and I open my eyes. He’s starting with the sauerkraut, brave man. He grimaces, one eye closing as he swallows it down.
“That’s … sour.”
I laugh. “The hint is in the name.” I take a bite of the warm, gravy-smothered sauerkraut. The tangy sourness is one of my favorites. It brings a smile to my face.
Owen chews a bite of blutwurst thoughtfully, as if deciding if he likes it or not. The flavor isn’t for everyone. If I didn’t grow up with it, I’m not sure it’s a taste I would have acquired as an adult.
“Where did you get all of this?” I ask.
“Miles knows a German family who lives nearby. I talked to them yesterday, and they were happy enough to make you a Christmas Eve dinner.”
“Thank you, Owen,” I say with utmost sincerity. “I wasn’t lying when I said this was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“You’re welcome, Layla.”
I tear a roll in half. The outside is hard, the inside perfectly soft. I dip it in the gravy. It’s smoky and slightly sweet.
“Not a fan of the sauerkraut,” Owen says. “But the sausage is good.”
“It was Opa’s favorite. Nana made it every year. As a word of caution, never look at the recipe. The year I found out what the ingredients were, it ruined Christmas Eve dinner.”
He pauses with another bite of sausage smothered in mashed potatoes and gravy halfway to his mouth. “What’s in it?”
“I told you; you don’t want to know. Just enjoy the flavor and forget I mentioned it.”
He places his bite in his mouth and chews. “That’s good advice.”
Every bite is delicious, and I am determined to meet this German family who shared their meal and thank them before I leave.
I eat my plate clean, even after I’m near bursting. I don’t know when I’ll have an authentic German meal again.
I lay my fork and knife across my plate. “Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“And I will keep thanking you because twice is not nearly enough.”
“You’ll have plenty of opportunities because the celebration is just beginning.” He stands and waves to the tree in the corner. “Up next, the fake German tradition of finding a pickle hidden in the Christmas tree.”
I’m in awe. “I can’t believe you found a pickle ornament on such short notice.”
“I didn’t, so I had to make my own.”
I move to stand in front of the tree. I can’t spot the pickle with a cursory glance. “What did you make it out of?”
“A pickle.”
I turn to look at him, wondering if I understood correctly. “You hid a real pickle in the tree?”
With a shrug and a lop-sided grin, he says, “I had an ornament hook, and I had a pickle. It wasn’t hard.”
I laugh. My chest warms, my thoughts turn to mush. Owen is a good, good man. The best of them all and I’m lucky to have him as a friend. Going against my better judgement, I reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s only meant to last a few seconds, but I’m enveloped in the spicy scent of his cologne and a second later, the tight embrace of his arms. Any desire to end this moment flees. I feel secure and safe. He gives the best hugs.
The only thing that gets me to draw back is the thought of Spencer. I should not have instigated this, and I unlock my arms from around his neck and take three large steps back. It’s best if I pretend that didn’t happen and forget how nice it felt to be held in his arms.
I clear my throat and look at the tree. “Will you time how long I take to find the pickle? I have this down to a science.”
He grabs his phone from his back pocket with jerky movements, and I wonder if he’s as affected by the hug as I am. I still feel the warm press of his arms around my back. The tickle of his beard against my cheek.
I appreciate how he doesn’t comment on the last thirty seconds and instead opens the stopwatch app on his phone. “On your mark, get set, go!”
After mentally separating the tree into blocks of space, I give each square all my attention, one at a time. My other trick is to always look at an angle and not straight on.
Nana hid the pickle at around her eye level. I’m not sure if it was to make it easy for me or easy for her, but I look at Owen’s eye level.
Owen has done the same as Nana. I make out the green blob hidden behind another ornament. Tricky, but not tricky enough.
I unhook it from the branch and once it’s free of the pine scent, I’m hit with a pickle smell. Ironically, I hate pickles, and I wrinkle my nose and hold it out.
He whistles. “Impressive. One minute, fifteen seconds.”
“It’s your turn to search.”
That grin of his has my heart racing.
“Really? I didn’t know I’d get a turn.”
I ignore how his eyes dance. “Turn around so I can hide it.”
Once he’s facing away, I try to find the perfect spot. If I wanted to make it hard, I’d hide it in the bottom branches and near the trunk, but I decide to be nice and put it on the end of a branch at waist height.
“It’s hidden. See if you can beat my time.”
He doesn’t look convinced it’s possible. “Wish me luck.”
I start the timer and he moves branches out of the way to peer deeper into the tree. Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to use my hands, only my eyes, but he’s a beginner and Nana isn’t watching. I let it slide.
The seconds turn into minutes. I love his long fingers and large hands. I watch the way his muscles move under his button-up shirt. How he scratches his bearded cheek absently as he focuses on his task. The way his thighs tighten when he squats to look low. He hasn’t worn shorts once since we arrived in Maine, and I miss seeing his legs.
As the minutes accumulate, he doesn’t get frustrated or give up. He’s focused, even if his search method is erratic; he’s in one spot, then the next. He looks past the pickle at least three times before he finally pauses.
“Found it!” he crows and unhooks it from the branch. He turns, his face alight with his triumph. “That was harder than I thought it would be. How long did it take?”
His happiness at finding the silly pickle is sweet and sincere. It distracts me, and I forget to stop the timer. I shave off a minute as a personal punishment for staring. “Six minutes, twenty-one seconds.”
He blows out a breath and wipes at his brow with the back of his hand as if he’s just run a seven-minute mile. “It seems I need practice.”
“Give it twenty years, and you’ll be a pro just like I am.”
His eyes turn serious and his smile melts away as he studies my face. “I’d like to.”
Time stops. A tangible current runs between us. He’s so close I can reach out and touch his chest, just like I did on the beach. My hand lifts a few inches before I remind myself that this is my friend . The hug was pushing the friend boundary enough. Feeling up his chest a second time is way too far .
Spencer had a right to his anger this afternoon. I’m angry at myself for letting my feelings run this deep. I need space, so I walk to the other side of the room, putting the table between us, but I don’t leave. There isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.
“What’s my prize for the quickest time?” My voice is wobbly, as are my legs. I steady myself by grabbing onto the back of a chair.
He glances at my lips for a split second before turning away. “I’ll go grab it.”
He exits through the serving door and this time when he comes back he has a tray with a stollen loaf cake covered in powdered sugar.
“Weihnachtsstollen,” I whisper. The faint scent is enough to transport me back to my childhood.
“Um, what?”
Why does Owen have to remember everything I tell him? Why is he so wonderful?
“Weihnachts is Christmas in German. Weihnachtsstollen.”
“Do you speak German?”
“Not enough to have a conversation, but a little.”
Owen places the tray on the table and cuts a thick slice off the end. Inside the loaf cake are the bright colors of dried fruit, candied citrus peel, and almonds. Baked through the center is a rope of marzipan.
He hands me the first piece. I break off a corner and drop it on my tongue. I close my eyes as the memory of Christmases past envelopes me.
“This is just like Nana makes it,” I whisper, my feelings of missing Nana so close to the surface that I have to sit down before I fall down. “I’ve tried to make it like this, but it’s never had the right texture or mixture of spices.”
“It looks like fruitcake.”
If he were closer, I would smack his arm for the insult. “I am offended on behalf of Germany. It is not a fruit cake; it’s stollen .”
He uses a fork instead of his fingers, but his eyes widen as he chews. “This is delicious.”
“I told you.”
I savor each bite and appreciate Owen’s silence as I do so. I need the mental space to collect my thoughts and feelings and package them away, never to think on again.
When I’ve eaten my last bite, he asks, “Are you ready for your gifts?”
Gifts plural? This is all too much. He’s blurring the lines between friendship and more, almost as if on purpose.
“This entire night has been a gift, Owen. Please, nothing else. Thank you for making Christmas Eve special, but I need to get to bed. I’m exhausted.”
I stand and walk toward the door, but he comes up behind me and catches my hand. His touch is light, a grip I can break easily, but I stand where I am, frozen as feelings course through me. Feelings of longing, regret, and guilt.
“Please, wait.”
I stay where I am as he grabs the poorly wrapped gifts from under the tree.
“Merry Christmas!” He holds them out to me in both hands, a shoe box sized gift on the bottom, with three small, oddly shaped gifts stacked on top.
It’s such a ridiculous sight. I laugh even as my heart breaks. “I thought Sadie wrapped those! ”
A fake frown steals his smile. “Seriously? I spent a lot of time and tape to make these presentable .”
By the twinkle in his eye, he meant the pun. Honestly, the wrapping is perfect. Spencer would never go to the trouble to wrap gifts for anyone, and I both love and hate that Owen went to the effort to wrap these for me.
I grab the scarf from the end of the table, glad I brought it with me so I have something to give in return. “This is for you.”
He doesn’t have a free hand since he’s still holding my gifts. I lean forward and drape it over his shoulders as if it’s some sort of award. Our faces are inches apart. I want to burrow into his warmth again and forget about money and responsibilities and Nana. All that matters in this second is Owen.
No! I will never forget about Nana. She sacrificed so much for me and Mom. I will sacrifice for her.
I step away until my back hits against a chair.
Owen gives me space when he looks down at the scarf lying against his chest. “You made this for me?”
“Yeah. It’s just a scarf.”
He looks up, his eyes soft and sweet. “Nothing you make is just anything. Do you know how jealous I’ve been of all the Brock Pine residents who have received something you’ve knit? You should hear them brag. Now I get to join in. Norman will be green with envy that I got a scarf from you, and he didn’t.”
My chest burns with pleasure. I had no idea anyone cared they had something made by me. It’s like Owen knows exactly what to say to make me feel extra special.
“Thank you, Layla.” His voice is soft, fervent. My skin pebbles in goosebumps. “It’s beautiful, and I will treasure it always.”
He puts the gifts on the table and picks up the largest one. “Open this first.”
There’s an uneven weight inside that makes a clunking noise when I give it a little shake. I tear off the paper and open the box. I’m unprepared to find a thirty-two-ounce bottle of ketchup.
I laugh, dispelling most of my yearning for Owen over the past few minutes. This is a friendly gift, even if it is amazing how much thought he put into it. Into everything tonight.
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
He smirks. “It’s a bottle of ketchup. I can get you more. They were on sale at the store, so it won’t set me back much.”
I slap his stomach with the back of my hand. Mistake. It’s firm and warm. Touching of any kind is off limits where this man is concerned.
“I mean everything, smarty pants. The food. The pickle.” A real pickle. A point to him for innovation. “The ketchup.”
“I can’t wait for you to open the rest of your presents if I’m met with so much appreciation for ketchup.”
The second gift is the angel pendant on a silver chain from the shop at the lighthouse. The one I stopped and stared at for a few extra seconds. Of course, Owen noticed. He seems to notice everything about me.
The third is a bar of peppermint scented soap. Now I can smell like a candy cane every time I wash my hands.
Nothing is extravagant, but it’s the thought he put into them. He knows me. He pays attention. He cares.
I realize for Owen, tonight is not about us being friends. He is treating me like a girlfriend. I love spending time with him, but it’s time for me to stop ignoring what’s going on between us. We have to stop pretending.
I lay the items out on the table next to the last wrapped gift. “Owen, I can’t accept these. I’m dating Spencer.”
He leans his hip against the table and waits until I look at him before responding. “Spencer doesn’t love you. His career will always come first. Are you happy dating a man who cares about his job more than he cares about you?”
Of course not, but I love Nana more than anything else in the world and she’s worth it .
Instead of responding to his prying question, I turn away and head to the door, leaving everything, including the beautiful bouquet from earlier. “Spencer is a good man and a good friend. He might not take me on a tour of a tree farm or wrap his own gifts, but he gives me what I need; security and peace. Good night, Owen.”
“Layla, let me help you.” He sounds like I’m ripping out his heart, which pains mine.
I pause with my hand on the door and glance over my shoulder. I give him a carefree smile. “How? By accepting your inheritance and marrying me instead?”
I meant it as a joke to lighten the conversation, but the question comes out as if I’m serious. His hesitation in answering is a punch to my chest. In his eyes, I just jumped from friendship to marriage and he didn’t follow. My cheeks heat from humiliation.
“I will marry for love,” Owen says softly. “I won’t marry someone who wants me for my money.”
His voice is kind, but I hear an accusation hidden in his words because I will marry for money .
I study the tile beneath my feet. “I speak from experience when I say there is no nobility in being poor.”
“I know that you’re struggling to pay for your grandma’s care,” he says. “I can help you. There is no reason for you to date Spencer if all you need from him is money. I will give you what you need, and I expect nothing in return. I just want you to be happy.”
He wants me to be happy. He’s not throwing his hat into the competition for my heart. Of course not, there isn’t any competition except in my head. What a fool I am. Tonight wasn’t about Owen wanting out of the friend zone, it was about being a friend. Get it together, Layla.
“I want to help you,” he says again. “Let’s get your financial situation settled, then let me take you on a date. We can see where we go from there.”
Maybe I’m not a complete fool. He still wants to date me, just not marry me. It’s an appealing offer. I’d rather not marry for money, but Owen doesn’t know what he’s offering. He’s a landscaper. He might own the business, but without his inheritance, he doesn’t have the capital to help me financially. It isn’t a thousand dollars here or there, it’s seventy-five grand a year for as long as Nana lives. It’s a hundred-thousand dollars of debt. If I tell him how much his help will cost, I’m sure he’d find a way, but then we’d both be financially ruined.
Maybe most important of all, I can’t use him for financial security like I can Spencer. Owen is too good and honest, and I have nothing I can give him in return. With Spencer, I have no such qualms because we’re using each other. I get someone to pay for Nana’s care, and he gets forty-million dollars and a wife to show off at work parties .
I will marry Spencer. I don’t need thoughtful gifts and laughter and pickles on trees to be happy. What will make me happiest is for Nana to receive everything she needs for as long as she needs it.
Owen will find a lovely woman and be unencumbered by debt and live a happy life without me. It hurts to think of him with someone else, but I have no claim on him.
“Good night, Owen.”
I head upstairs, expecting Owen to follow and argue, but all is silent. When I reach my room, I notice light shining under Spencer’s bedroom door across the hall. If he’s awake, I would like to see him and get myself back into a realistic headspace.
Spencer answers my knock in seconds. I’m familiar with seeing Spencer in suits, and it’s a surprise to see him in plaid pajamas. His pompadour flops to the side. A sleepy smile stretches across his cheeks. He is always handsome, but when rumpled like this, there is little that compares.
In his hand is a file folder that he hides behind his back. After he told me earlier today that his dad and aunt were taking care of everything until the day after Christmas, he might feel like a liar. Well, after the last hour with Owen, that makes two of us.
“Layla,” he says in a scratchy voice. “Is something wrong?”
“Can I come in for a minute?”
He steps back, and I walk inside.
Besides his rumpled bed sheets, none of his belongings are visible. It looks as if no one is staying in this room. I sit on the end of the bed.
“Is something wrong?” Spencer asks .
The two of us have only ever been honest with each other, and I see no reason to stop now. My situation with these two cousins has my head spinning and my heart hurting.
“Tonight, Owen made me a traditional German dinner to celebrate Christmas Eve. We hid a pickle in a tree. Then he gave me ketchup as a Christmas present. As well as a bouquet and a necklace.”
A flash of multiple emotions cascade across Spencer’s face. Surprise, anger, confusion, and finally resignation. After our conversation this afternoon, he might be unsure on how to respond. I’m not sure how I want him to respond.
What he finally lands on is, “Why a German meal?”
The corner of my lips tip up the smallest bit. He’s trying to make me happy in so many small ways, like taking time off from work today and tomorrow. Driving home from the tree farm in the van. Not lecturing me about spending time with Owen when, in this case, he has every right to.
“My opa was from Germany. I’m a quarter German.”
Spencer sits next to me. “I didn’t realize. I also didn’t know Owen knew how to cook.”
I chuckle, then sigh. “He doesn’t, or at least I don’t know if he does. He got the food from a local German family.”
“Is this what you want from me? German dinners and a tour of a tree farm?” He takes my hand. “If so, you’ll have to tell me because I’d rather not guess, then have you disappointed when I fail.”
I give his hand a squeeze. “No, I do not expect any surprises from you.” As much as I enjoy them, they aren’t in Spencer’s wheelhouse. There are other traits he excels in. “What I want from you is your time, your trust, and your honesty. I will give the same to you. Which is why I’m telling you about tonight.”
Spencer taps his fingers against his leg. “I’m going to guess Owen tried to talk you out of marrying me. I know he wants you for himself.”
“Essentially, yes,” I say.
“Did he convince you?”
Unbidden, a wish that Spencer would break off our agreement flairs up. It’s so strong it takes me by surprise and steals my sanity. I need Spencer. I don’t want him to break up with me. What will I do for Nana? How will I un-bury myself from this debt? I can’t do it on my own.
“No, he did not convince me.”
“Good.” Spencer kisses my temple. “I’m not the kind of person who changes his mind once it’s made, and I’m glad you aren’t either.”
Instead of his loyalty bringing me peace, my chest tightens, much like it does every time I visit Nana. I don’t allow myself to think about why.
“Are you ready for the proposal tomorrow?” he asks. “I’ll do it in front of the family after we exchange gifts, if that sounds agreeable to you.”
Oh gosh, the proposal tomorrow on Christmas. The tightness in my chest increases. “That will work. Good night, Spencer.”
I’m off the bed and out of the room in seconds. I breathe a little easier in the hallway. At least for a few seconds, until I notice on the floor outside my bedroom the flower bouquet, the remaining stollen wrapped in plastic wrap, and the other gifts from Owen, including the one I didn’t open.
Gifts in the hallway remind me of another German Christmas tradition from growing up: St. Nicholas Day. Every December fifth I left a shoe outside my door and in the morning, it was filled with gifts and candy. One year, I stole Opa’s winter boot because it was bigger than my tennis shoe. Nicholas, aka Opa, did not disappoint and filled the boot all the way to the top. I got a lot of fruit snacks and Hostess cupcakes from the pantry, but I loved it.
If seen, these gifts will add fuel to the gossip about me and Owen, something I want to avoid. I grab them, enter my room, and dump them on my dresser.
An ache for my Nana and Opa forms so deep and wide I collapse on my bed. If they were both alive and healthy, I could talk to them about this, and they would listen and help me figure out what to do. Except if they were here, I wouldn’t be in this situation. I feel so alone. Fear of the future, not just for my marriage but for Nana, nips at my thoughts.
I’m glad I have two more scarves to knit. The distraction will keep me sane. As I cast on, my eyes drift to the wrapped gift on my dresser. It taunts me.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll open you.”
I get off my bed and grab it. Whatever it is jingles as I tear the paper. A bracelet falls to the floor. It’s not until I pick it up that I see it’s a charm bracelet with five charms. A candy cane, a lighthouse, a Christmas tree, a cup of hot cocoa, and a pickle. The last one has me laughing out loud even as tears stream down my cheeks. Who sells pickle charms? This year it’s Owen who gets the good luck because hunting down a pickle charm is impressive detective work.
I love the bracelet. The problem is, I can never wear it because every charm reminds me of him .
How dare Owen be the kind, attentive, gorgeous, thoughtful man that I always dreamed would come into my life. He does something no boyfriend has ever done: he puts me first.
“Curse you, Owen.”
Banishing every thought and desire that works against my resolve, I go back to my bed and grab my knitting. My alarm will sound in a few short hours, and I still have two scarves to make.