Page 30 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
I hand over the keys. “You can’t miss it. It’s a red, fifteen-passenger van.” And not a sleek, shiny one. It’s a box on wheels.
His eyes widen. “A van?”
Mom laughs. “We were lucky enough to get the last rental in the whole airport.”
She takes a moment to explain the mix-up with our car rental reservation, as though hesitant to say goodbye. I glance at Brady to share the bizarreness of this situation, but he’s looking at the painted ceiling. It’s a replica of a circular painting in the church of Saint-Roch in France. As a kid, I was fascinated by the people who look like they’re climbing toward heaven through puffy clouds. Now it hits me as pretentious.
“I thought this was supposed to be a cabin,” he says. “It looks like a palace.”
“It’s called a cabin because it’s a rural location. Youshould see the other vacation homes. The villa in Italy is amazing.”
Honestly, I’m surprised Grandmother chose Maine for Christmas since she hates the cold. Maybe she assumed Mom couldn’t afford the trip if she chose somewhere international.
Mom finally says goodbye to her pal Miles. When we enter the dining room, everyone is indeed waiting for us. Grandmother sits at her normal seat at the end of the table with Dorian, a redheaded woman, Tori, Spencer, and Layla on one side, and Ellory and Gerald along the other. The table is too large for the small group assembled.
The three remaining seats are on the side nearest the empty end chair where Grandfather always sat. It feels as if he’s about to walk in and my body tenses. I remind myself he’s gone.
Silently, we take our seats. I’m on the end, across from Layla. Not a great seating arrangement.
A moment later, two servers bring in a pureed soup. We wait until Grandmother has her first taste before we eat. It’s delicious and creamy. Not as good as Miles’ mom’s soup when she worked here, but almost.
We eat our soup silently. The servers clear the dishes and serve us salad. In the past, Grandfather directed the conversation during meals. It seems without him, we’re at a loss.
“Layla,” Grandmother says into the silence. “Spencer. Tell me how you two met.”
I watch them gaze at each other as they share their story. If I keep staring at them, I’ll lose my appetite, so I force myself to focus on my plate.
They’ve been dating for a year. I saw Layla for the first time on June twenty-first. I have to wonder what this week would look like if I’d met her before she met Spencer. Except a year ago I spent all my time working to grow my manufacturing company, and we would never have crossed paths.
Even though they weave a believable account of their relationship, their story doesn’t add up with what I’ve gleaned from watching Layla over the past half year. I might not have talked to her, but the residents talked about her. There was never any mention of a boyfriend.
During our main course of chicken Kiev, asparagus, and crispy roasted potatoes, Grandmother keeps up the conversation. She wants to know about Mom’s job as a secretary, Layla’s students, Tori’s daughter, Ellory’s pro bono cases, and Brady’s schooling. She asks me what I’ve been up to, and I tell her I’m a landscaper. It’s barely the truth since I own the business and do little of the actual physical labor. Spencer looks at me with pity.
One thing Grandmother does not bring up is the law, which I appreciate. Under Grandfather, every meal was about the law.
I don’t think I’m the only one who notices Grandmother eats very little. By the time dessert is served, she doesn’t pretend anymore and waves away a plate of strawberry cheesecake, my favorite.
“I am so happy that we are all here,” she says. She motions to a server, and they pull out her chair. She stands, leaning heavily on the table. “It’s been too long since we’ve been together as a family. This year we will have a traditional family Christmas. Schedules for the week are inyour rooms. Sleep well. I will see you tomorrow morning at breakfast.”
She leaves, the door closing softly behind her.
“Well,” Ellory says with a sigh. “I think we all know now why we’re here for the week.”
“She wants to see her family,” Mom says.
“Yes,” Ellory agrees. “Because she’s dying.”
“And holding our inheritances over our heads, so we’ll play along with her ‘traditional family Christmas,’” Dorian adds.
Chapter Eight
LAYLA
It’spast ten by the time I finish filling out the paperwork for Nana’s upgrade to the memory ward and email it to Brock Pine. With a shaking hand, I submit January’s payment in four partial transactions. Between the last of my bank loan, the money I put aside for my own rent, and my almost maxed out credit cards, I just manage to make the full payment. I can’t let myself imagine what I would do in February if Spencer hadn’t proposed.
I get ready for bed in the attached bathroom. It’s colossal. The shower has so many knobs I can’t imagine what they all do. There’s a separate, jetted tub. A TV is mounted on the wall across from the toilet.
Once my teeth are clean, I turn off the light and climb into bed. The blanket is weighted, and I sink into the mattress. My body is in heaven, but my brain won’t shut off.
