Page 71 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
The space feels bigger than it is because the curtains over the windows and glass door are open, with the moon perfectly framed in the space.
On the table are two place settings across from each other. I drop the scarf and flowers on the end of the table and draw closer. Fine silverware. Glass goblets. Placemats with embroidered holly and berries around the edges.
I take in everything and ask myself,what is going on?
Chapter Seventeen
LAYLA
The servingdoor 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 talkedto 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?”
