Page 23 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
His phone rings, and he takes another call.
For the rest of the drive, I watch the scenery the headlights illuminate. I catch a few glimpses between the trees of what must be the ocean, but it’s too dark to tell. There’s no snow, which is disappointing. It doesn’t feel like Christmas without snow.
In my head, I sing through Sarah McLachlan’sWintersongChristmas album. I’m careful not to let any sound pass my lips. It’s difficult. The car is one of my favorite singing venues.
Spencer exits the freeway and navigates down dark streets lined with bare trees. His headlights create shadows that make me feel as if we’ve entered a haunted forest. I don’t see any houses and very few cars pass us.
We eventually turn down a long drive lined with more trees. It opens up onto a large gravel driveway that ends in front of a mansion.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The Maine cabin.”
When he told me we were staying in a cabin, I expected alarge, rustic structure. The “cabin” we’re parked in front of looks like a gargantuan castle nestled in a forest. If this is his grandmother’s cabin, what kind of place does she live when not on vacation?
Spencer opens my car door, but I don’t move. I’m not sure my legs have the ability to keep me upright. His focus is on his phone, and he doesn’t notice my lack of movement. When my initial surprise fades, I stand and he shuts the door behind me. I lean against the car and take everything in.
In the middle of the circle driveway is a fountain with a statue of a woman draped in a robe, one shoulder bare. With it being winter, there’s no water, but I imagine it’s even more beautiful when there is. Ten feet away is parked a fiery red Aston Martin. Two Ferraris. A black Lamborghini. The Cadillac Spencer rented at the airport looks like it belongs on a shady used car lot in comparison.
I’m out of my depth. I suspected I didn’t know what I was getting into last night when Spencer mentioned generational wealth. Then again, this afternoon when he spent tens of thousands of dollars on my new wardrobe to impress his family. Now I know for certain.
Spencer’s grandfather exiled his own daughter because he didn’t like the man she married. What will this family do if they don’t like me?
He was right to buy me clothes. The dress I originally picked to meet his grandma would not impress his family. Hopefully, the Loro Piana midi sweater dress and Mackage wool wrap coat he bought does.
I pull my new Boudron shoulder bag in front of me as if it will protect me from whatever waits inside. It’s my favoritepurchase from today. Made from soft leather, it’s dyed a light blue with five small, round, silver buttons on the front, each with a gold B in the center. It’s an unmistakable brand, and I’ve seen these bags all over the entertainment magazines and social media the last few years. It’s surreal to own one.
Spencer slips his phone into his pocket and takes my hand. I stumble, and he catches me with a hand to my upper arm.
“Are you okay?”
He’s calm. He’s always calm, and it goes a long way to calming me. Everything will be fine. They’re just people, and I enjoy meeting new people. Feeling well dressed gives me a needed boost of confidence. I’ve got this.
“Too much sitting,” I say as an explanation.
I follow him a few steps before I remember our bags in the trunk. “We forgot our suitcases.”
I turn, but Spencer tugs my hand and keeps moving forward.
“Miles will grab them and put them in our rooms.”
“Who is Miles?” I ask.
“The caretaker of the house.”
Another sign of wealth—an employee to do simple things like carry luggage inside. I’d rather bring it in myself, but I quiet that voice and follow Spencer. I’m entering another world, and I need to follow the rules. Rules I don’t know and will have to learn as I go. Nausea rises in my throat.
The right side of the huge double doors open as we climb the front stairs, and an older man, maybe in his early fifties, with thick salt-and-pepper hair comes out onto theporch, a wide smile on his face. He wears slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a black tie.
“Spencer! I’m glad you’ve made it. I thought you were going to arrive hours ago.”
They shake hands.
“We stopped in Boston for the afternoon. Layla, this is Miles. Miles, this is my girlfriend Layla.”
Miles doesn’t shake my hand, but nods his head. “It is wonderful to have you here this week. Welcome.” He turns back to Spencer. “The family is gathering in the sitting room before dinner.”
Spencer hands Miles the car key while we pass into the house. Miles shuts the door behind us. Spencer helps me with my wrap, and I shiver. It’s not cold, but without the thick wool, I feel vulnerable.
