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She let herself in quietly, hoping maybe she could slip upstairs unnoticed, but the smell of roasted chicken and herbs immediately filled her nostrils. Her stomach growled traitorously, reminding her that she’d barely eaten all day.
“Layla? Is that you?” Her mother’s voice drifted from the dining room.
Layla closed her eyes briefly. “Yes, Mother. I’m here.”
“Well, come along then. Dinner is ready. Your host has been kind enough to prepare a meal for us.”
The way Mary said “host” made it sound like Christopher was a servant, someone beneath their notice. Layla felt heat rise to her cheeks as she hung up her coat and made her way to the dining room.
The table was set beautifully, as always. Christopher had outdone himself: roasted chicken with crispy golden skin, roasted vegetables tossed in olive oil, fresh rolls with a crock of local butter next to them, and even a winter salad with pomegranate seeds. It was perfect, and her parents looked completely unimpressed.
Mary was sitting at one end of the table in a silk blouse and tailored pants, her posture impeccable and her expression politely tolerant. Steven, Layla’s father, sat beside her in a crisp button-down shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, his face wearing the same neutral expression he always had that said he’d learned long ago to simply agree with whatever Mary decided.
Christopher was setting down a pitcher of water when Layla walked in. He’d changed into a clean flannel shirt, his hair slightly damp as if he’d just showered. When he looked up and saw Layla, something flickered in his eyes, either concern or hurt, she thought, but it was gone so quickly she couldn’t tell.
“I’ll leave you to your meal,” Christopher said, his voice carefully polite. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Wait.” The word came out before Layla could stop it. Christopher paused, looking at her, and Layla felt her heart hammering in her chest. “Would you—would you like to stay and eat with us?”
She gave him a pleading look, trying to convey everything she couldn’t say in it—please don’t leave me alone with them, please don’t be angry with me, please don’t think I agree with anything they’ve said. Please.
She desperately hoped he wasn’t angry. But she wouldn’t be surprised if he was, and she couldn’t blame him either.
Christopher hesitated, glancing at Mary and Steven. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your family time.”
“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Layla said too quickly. She could feel her mother’s sharp gaze on her. “Please. There’s plenty of food, and you made it all. You should enjoy it too.”
For a moment, she thought he would refuse. But then he nodded slowly. “All right. Thank you. Let me just grab another place setting.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, and Layla slid into a seat, acutely aware of her mother’s eyes still on her.
“How thoughtful of you, darling,” Mary said, her tone suggesting it was anything but. “Although I’m sure Mr. Holcomb has other things to do.”
“It’s Christopher,” Layla said quietly. “And he should get to sit down and enjoy dinner too.”
Steven cleared his throat, the way he always did when he was uncomfortable but didn’t want to get involved. He reached for a roll, buttering it as if it was the most important thing to focus on right that moment.
Christopher returned with his plate and silverware, settling into the seat across from Layla. The table suddenly felt very small, the air thick with tension.
They served themselves in silence, the clink of silverware against china unnaturally loud. Layla took a bite of chicken and sighed with pleasure. It was perfectly seasoned and tender, the skin crispy, absolutely delicious. She wasn’t surprised; Christopher was an amazing cook.
“So,” Mary said, delicately cutting her chicken into small slivers. “Layla, your father and I have been discussing your situation. We’ve decided that we’ll leave first thing in the morning, and you’ll come with us, of course. The roads should be clear enough by then. Our car is more capable of handling the roads, and we’ll discuss with the rental company what to do about yours. I’m sure we can pay them to send someone to collect it.”
Layla’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. “I—what?”
“There’s no reason for you to stay here any longer,” Mary continued, as if Layla hadn’t spoken. “You’ve done your due diligence for the magazine, I’m sure. And really, it was quite silly of them to send you on this wild goose chase in the first place, looking for a feature in a place where there’s nothing noteworthy to write about.”
Layla stiffened, her heart pounding. She set down her fork carefully, her hands trembling slightly. Across the table, she saw Christopher’s jaw tighten, but he said nothing.
“That’s not true,” Layla said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry?” Mary looked at her with raised eyebrows, as if surprised Layla had dared to contradict her.
“I said that’s not true.” Layla’s voice was stronger now, even though her heart was racing. “There’s much more to Fir Tree Grove than meets the eye. There are plenty of interesting stories here, incredible people doing amazing things.”
“Oh, darling.” Mary’s laugh was light and dismissive. “I’m sure the people here are very nice, but let’s be realistic. What could possibly be interesting about a town like this?”
“Nicole’s booth at the Christmas market,” Layla said, the words tumbling out now. “She makes the most beautiful handcrafted knitwear, and she’s been working toward opening her own shop for years. She’s an artist, a real artist, and she’s found a chance to do that here. Here, people actually appreciate her talent and the things she can make.”
