Page 47 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
“You better like it because it’s exactly what you asked for.”
Brady’s shoulders slump. “Come on. It’s only a hundred and fifty. You can afford it.”
This is what I don’t like about money. The entitlement. I want Brady to learn the value of a dollar, not that he can get whatever he wants with no effort on his part. Once he inherits twenty million from Grandmother, it’ll be too late.
When I say nothing, he deflates further.
“Brady,” Layla says, “I could knit you a cape just like this.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
Layla nods. “I can have it done by the new year. I have the perfect wool at home that will work for this sort of project.”
“Thanks!” Brady is thrilled.
I am not. It’s nice of Layla to offer, but it’s still time and money someone is investing without Brady doing anything to earn it. I’m caught between offending Layla again and disappointing Brady now that he has a promise.
It’s better I accept Layla’s generosity. I’m about to tell her to send me the bill for the supplies and her time when Grandmother calls out to her from the next booth over.
“Layla, what do you think of these?” She points to ball ornaments made from patch worked pieces of material. “I want to decorate the trees with items made by local artisans.”
Layla goes to look and Brady follows, the glow of hero worship in his eyes, like she’s the Pied Piper. It’s enough to make me pause because I want to follow, too. Does that make me a rat?
I stay where I am and reevaluate why I’m asking her questions about her relationship with Spencer. She’s a grown woman who can make her own decisions. I may not agree with them, but it isn’t my place to make value judgments on what she does.
Instead of tagging along and forcing her to answer questions she doesn’t want to, I head back to the aprons and buy the lady-bug print for Sadie. I’m not sure how often she’s in the kitchen, if at all. Tori’s cook probably doesn’t appreciate Sadie’s help, but she will look cute wearing it.
I browse the other booths on my own and buy a few items until I get a text from Mom telling me they’re stopping for hot cocoa and cookies and to come meet them.
With only a few picnic tables available, it’s easy to spot Rheta’s wheelchair at the end of one. I don’t know how they snagged it with so many people milling about, but I’d guess whoever was here before was thrilled to give up their table to “Ms. Rheta.”
The town’s hero worship of Grandmother is a paradigm shift for me. She was always Grandfather’s shadow. He was the one everyone looked up to. It seems since his passing, she’s finally found herself. It only took her eighty years, and that makes me sad for her.
The only place at the table for me is on the end, next to Layla. I stuff my shopping bag at my feet and offer a quiet apology.
“I’m sorry,” I say under my breath, so that she’s the only one who can hear. She stills, but doesn’t turn to look at me. “What you do is none of my business. I respect your job as a teacher. You look amazing in blue and that coat is nice. I’msorry that what I said came across as a judgment against you.”
It was against Spencer.
She nods, still looking ahead. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“I hope I can still call myself a friend. And as a friend, if you need anything, including money, I will help. No strings attached.”
Her cheeks pink, but if I expected her to take me up on my offer and ditch Spencer, then I’m a fool because she says nothing.
Miles brings me a tree-shaped frosted sugar cookie and a cup of hot cocoa topped with whipped cream. Sticking out of the top is the hook of a candy cane. Even if I don’t look at Layla, my thoughts are there. From now on, candy canes will always remind me of her tradition and the candy cane bouquet she gave me after she stole my car.
I slurp up the whipped cream, and dip my frosted sugar cookie in my cocoa.
“Don’t do that,” Layla says, exasperated, as if our previous conversation had never happened. “You’re ruining a perfectly good cookie by making it disgusting.”
LAYLA
Owen doesn’t look at me, but he smiles down at his cocoa. “It’s actually quite delicious. You should try it.”
He bites off the cocoa soaked bit of cookie.
I grimace. “No. I don’t like soggy desserts.”
