Page 81 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
I snort.
“He missed you,” Miles continues. “He never stopped hoping you would answer his calls.”
I shake my head. “He only called to try to convince me to come back to the firm so he could control me, not because he cared.”
“Mr. Eccleston might not have liked your father, but he wasn’t a malicious man. Never did he want something horrible to happen to him. He regretted how he treated you and how he spoke about your father after his stroke.”
I don’t believe Miles. For Grandfather, it was his way or you no longer existed. He didn’t care about me or Mom and definitely not Dad because we were outside of his control.
“He never said that,” I argue.
Miles nods. “He did, on multiple occasions, and I thought you should know. You were a brilliant lawyer and I hate thinking you gave that up because of how he treated you and your father. He wanted to ask for your forgiveness.”
I don’t want to accept this as the truth. I take a few minutes to sort through my thoughts and emotions about why, and it becomes clear. It means Grandfather died with an apology he never got to give. I took that away from him, and that doesn’t sit well.
Until I remember, there is more than one way to reach out. He could have sent me a postcard or hired a skywriter if he was desperate enough. Mom would have answered his call. If he made peace with her, then I would have spoken to him again. Maybe he regretted how he handled the situation, but he didn’t try hard enough to tell me himself.
Still, I can’t disregard all of of Miles’ words. I loved Grandfather for half of my life. The summers I spent with him were my favorite months of the year. I think back to my time at the law firm. I might not have enjoyed practicing law, but I enjoyed working with him. Not only did I lose my father eight years ago, I lost my grandfather.
I hope what Miles said is true and Grandfather came to understand how his actions hurt my family. If so, then I accept the apology he never gave me. The last of the anger I’ve held on to disintegrates. If Mom can forgive and move on, then so can I. I breathe deeply, maybe for the first time since Dad’s funeral.
“Thank you, Miles.”
He nods. “I’m glad you came this Christmas. Your Grandmother has missed you. I’ve missed you.” He slaps meon the back and walks toward the door. “Lunch is being served in the dining room.”
Spencer will know the moment I walk in that I’ve been sulking. He’ll probably insist Layla sit in his lap just to needle me. Layla will see my devastation. Mom and Brady will offer silent sympathy. I can’t handle everyone right now.
“I’m not hungry.”
He stops with his hand on the knob and studies me. “I’ll bring lunch up to your room and tell Ms. Rheta you’re not feeling well.”
I head upstairs to my purple oasis and eat the lunch Miles brings me. I flip through the channels on TV until I fall asleep. When I wake, it’s dark. I lie in bed and think about Layla. About how much I admire her. How I love her. How there is nothing I can do about her engagement to Spencer.
He won. I have to respect Layla’s choice and let her go. My acceptance of the situation isn’t easy; it’s downright depressing, but unavoidable.
I’ve missed one meal, and that’s enough wallowing. It would be a crime to miss Christmas dinner. I change out of my wrinkled shirt and head downstairs. As luck would have it, I run into Layla as she exits the family room.
“Owen!” She sounds shocked to see me and takes a step back, then makes sure the door shuts behind her as if us meeting in the hallway is something illicit. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Yes.” Seeing her with Spencer’s ring on her finger is an ice pick to my chest, but I will listen to anything she wants to tell me.
The family room door opens. Her eyes widen. She takesmy hand and pulls me to the first door she comes to, which is a walk-in closet full of towels, bedding, and cleaning supplies. It smells like lemon polish.
The door shuts, leaving us in pitch dark.
She feels along the wall, and a second later the overhead light flips on.
“Can I help you with something?” My eyebrows raise as I glance around at our intimate location.
She blushes. “I need you to understand me.”
The humor I find in our surroundings flees. I rub my eyes. “Layla, it’s honestly none of my business what choices you make. You don’t owe me any explanation.”
“I do. Even if you don’t need to hear it, I need to say it. I don’t take my decision to marry Spencer lightly.” Her shoulders slump. “I’m tired of being alone.”
There’s more to her decision than loneliness because I’m standing right here. “Then why Spencer? Once married, you’ll be more alone than ever because he’s a workaholic.”
She won’t meet my eyes. They’re focused on my chest. “When I was ten years old, my mom lost her job. She slept a lot and Nana assumed she was depressed, but it turned out she had colon cancer. No insurance. Four years of treatment. Opa and Nana worked past retirement to pay off the medical debt. We lived on a strict budget until they paid the last bill and they could finally retire. Opa died two years later.”
