Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) (36 page)

This dance is for you and your dad.

“Layla.” Vance stopped moving, his eyes narrowed. “Layla, what’s wrong?”

With a wild shake of her head, she broke away from him and ran, leaping down the steps to the sand and speeding up the beach, legs churning. Distance, she thought, desperate for it. She needed distance. Not from the cloying bleakness and the clawing pain—she carried that in her heart and on her back and tangled in her soul—but distance from Vance.

He couldn’t see her in this state.

She ran out of breath before she ran out of beach. Her vague idea of making it to the cupcake truck wasn’t possible. But her gaze snagged on a build-up of sand ahead, a sort of dune at the base of the hillside, and she dove for it, dropping into its dark shadow. Drawing up her legs, she wrapped her shins with her arms and pressed her forehead to her knees, clutching herself tight—a human knot of sorrow.

No sound reached her ears except her harsh inhales and exhales of air. She was breathing again, and she supposed that was good, but the oxygen coming in only put more pressure on a chest already filled with unshed tears.

“Sweetheart,” a gentle voice said. “Layla.”

Vance! She jerked, then tucked into herself more tightly. “Go away,” she told him, the words muffled against her knees.

Even though her eyes were squeezed shut, she sensed him settling on the sand beside her. She felt the brush of his hand on her shoulder and hunched away from it. “Go away.”

His touch disappeared, but his voice remained. “Not a chance.”

Her eyes pinched tighter and she pressed her lips together to hold back a frustrated scream.
Just be still,
she told herself.
Just keep it together
.

“You know about the five stages of grief?” Vance asked.

Ignoring him, she rocked a little for comfort.

He groaned. “You’re killing me,” he murmured. She heard him take in a long breath. “The five stages of grief. The first is denial.”

That’s what she’d been in, Layla thought, denial—until moving into Beach House No. 9. But she’d been facing the truth since then, hadn’t she?

“The next are anger and bargaining.” When she didn’t reply, he spoke again. “Do you hear me, Layla? Anger and bargaining.”

Suddenly, his little lecture struck her as condescending, and temper added to the roiling mix of emotions inside her. “I know about anger and bargaining,” she said, her voice sounding rough. “I’ve been through those many times. Every time he left, don’t you think I was angry? Every day he was gone don’t you think I bargained with the universe?”

She was rocking again, the ache behind her eyes excruciating. “I didn’t step on cracks when I was little. Later, to get on fortune’s good side, I offered up prayers for drivers who cut me off instead of flipping them the bird.”

“Okay,” Vance said. “Okay. So that leaves just two others. Depression and acceptance.”

Why wouldn’t he go away?

“And I don’t think acceptance is possible quite yet, Layla. I really don’t.”

She turned her head to stare at him. “Oh, great. Are you telling me I’m stuck with depression? What kind of pep talk is that?”

“It’s not any kind of pep talk at all, sweetheart. It’s permission to feel bad. And it’s permission to start letting it out.”

Her eyes closed again and she shook her head. “No. No letting it out. A soldier’s daughter doesn’t cry.”

“When her soldier dad is never coming home again, I think she should.”

“No.” Her head went back and forth again, her hair swirling in her vehemence.
No, no, no.

“Yes, Layla.” Vance reached over and grasped her, hauling her into his lap even as she fought him. He curled himself around her, ignoring her struggles and slaps. “I’m not letting go until you do.”

She opened her mouth to shout at him, to yell and scream and curse him. But instead, to her horror, a sob released. And then another. And then she was wailing like the women on the stereo, the notes of her sorrow a song about grief and loneliness and feeling as if she’d lost her roots.

Vance turned her into his body and she buried her face against his chest. “I’m so alone,” she said through her choking tears. “I’m so alone.”

“I’m here,” Vance said, a hand against her hair. “I’ll always be here.”

The lie only made her cry more.

Exhaustion finally quieted her. Maybe fifteen minutes had passed. Maybe three hours. Vance’s sweatshirt was wet and she shivered, suffering from an intense emotional hangover. He brushed a kiss to her hair.

“Let’s go back to the house,” he said.

She started to shake her head again.

“Shh,” he said, kissing her once more. “You’ll be better now. It’ll be easier.”

“Vance...” She needed to tell him they’d be sleeping in separate beds. She needed to make sure he understood that things had changed now. He’d been too close already and now he was the only man who had seen her fall apart. That kind of intimacy was unbearable.

He helped her to her feet.

“Vance...” she began again.

“I’ll hold you all night long,” he said.

And Layla was too worn out to resist.

Back at the house he washed her face with a warm, wet cloth then undressed her like a child. One of his T-shirts was pulled over her head and he tucked her under the covers. He spooned her, his knees curled behind hers, his arm across her belly to hold her against his wide chest. It was a Vance she hadn’t experienced before in bed. No seduction, no demands, but a solid source of strength and comfort.

This is temporary,
Layla reminded herself.
Impermanent.
If they were not yet uncoupled, she had to hold on to the thought that it would never last.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

L
ATE THE FOLLOWING
afternoon, Layla and Vance made the drive to avocado country again, with him expertly managing the tricky turns in the road. Since waking alone in bed that morning, Layla had moved around Beach House No. 9 in a listless state, but Vance hadn’t pushed her. He’d been quiet, too, likely preoccupied by the thought of another uncomfortable visit with his family.

His hand was on the small of her back as he pushed open the front door of his childhood home. She decided it was nice that he hadn’t knocked or pressed the doorbell first. It meant he still felt, at least in some small way, that he belonged here.

It was heated summer outside, but inside, pleasantly cool, probably due to the home’s thick plaster walls and polished terra-cotta pavers on the floors. The rooms were painted in earth tones and the furniture was oversize, the dark blues and golds of the upholstery matching the Persian area rugs.

The foyer opened into a spacious living room, empty of people. But a delicious smell permeated the air. Vance looked down at her with a quick grin. “Lasagna. My mom made my favorite.”

Through an archway came the distinct clack of billiard balls. A movement caught her eye. Fitz. Both the sound and the sight had snagged Vance’s attention, too.

Layla gave him a little push. “Why don’t you go play with your brother?”

“You come, too,” he said.

She shook her head. The sound of female voices could be heard from the opposite direction. “I’ll find the kitchen. I bet your mother is there and I can give her the wine we brought.”

Handing over the bottle, he studied her face. “Sure?”

“I’m good,” she said firmly. It was good for them to go their separate ways. Even after last night,
especially
after last night, it was a priority to end this attachment to Vance.

Inside a large and charming country kitchen she indeed found Katie Smith. Huddled with her at a granite island was another woman who had to be her twin—Vance’s aunt Alison—and Fitz’s fiancée, Blythe.

At Layla’s “Good afternoon,” all three heads popped up. Vance’s mother and aunt smiled, while Blythe quickly closed and pushed away a magazine the three had been examining.

“You’re here!” Vance’s mom cried, coming forward.

Layla held out the bottle of wine, but the older woman merely set it on a counter and kept coming, close enough to wrap her in a warm hug. At the unfamiliar maternal act, a hot pressure built behind Layla’s eyes. After a second’s hesitation, she responded with a short squeeze.

Then she drew away, embarrassed by her reaction to the welcome. Pinning on a smile, she nodded at the other women in the room. “I’m Layla,” she said, reaching out to shake the hand of Vance’s aunt. Next she addressed the cool blonde. “It’s good to see you again, Blythe.”

It would be better if the other woman didn’t look so elegant. She was in silk again, a thin, ice-blue T-shirt tucked into buff-colored tailored slacks. Clearly, she didn’t eat cupcakes.

Definitely one of those low-carb dieters.

Layla smoothed the cotton skirt of her dress and smiled again when Vance’s mother asked if she liked lasagna. “Absolutely. And it smells fabulous. Is there something I can do to help?”

“Oh, no, it’s all taken care of for the moment,” Katie said, with a wave of her hand. “We ladies are hanging out in here so that we don’t make the men nervous with—” She broke off, her gaze shifting in Blythe’s direction.

Layla looked there, too.

Fitz’s fiancée wore an embarrassed expression and she had her hands spread wide over the magazine cover, as if she wanted to mask its title. But Layla read it, anyway—
Bridal Boutique
—and understood the situation. “Were you working on your wedding plans?”

Blythe’s face turned pink. “We can do it another time...”

“Don’t stop because I’m here.”

Vance’s mother was beaming at her. “I’m so glad this doesn’t have to be awkward.”

Which, of course, it wasn’t, because none of this nuptial business had anything, really, to do with her. Even if she had been Vance’s actual girlfriend, there would be no need for self-consciousness.

And she wasn’t Vance’s actual girlfriend.

So she bellied up to the island and grabbed one of the magazines off the stack that Blythe pushed forward. “We’re looking at dresses,” the other young woman told her. “Trying to decide between mermaid, princess, empire, column or ball gown.”

It was like a foreign language to Layla. She must have worn her confusion on her face because Vance’s aunt shot her an amused glance. “You don’t watch any of the wedding shows on television? Never gone gown shopping with a friend?”

She shook her head. “I admit to being ceremonially challenged. I was raised by two very unsentimental, unromantic and deeply entrenched bachelors.”

“But your baking is divine. And you always dress so pretty,” Katie said.

“Thank you.” The compliments warmed her, which felt a little dangerous, too. It was no time to be bonding with Vance’s mom. “My inner girl eventually found its way.”

“A very lovely way at that,” the older woman pronounced.

The kindness flummoxed her again, so Layla directed her attention to the glossy pages, turning them one by one. Blythe would look beautiful in any number of dresses.

“Are you sure you’re okay about this?” the bride-to-be murmured for Layla’s ears only.

“Of course.” A smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. “Think about it. I’d rather you be planning your wedding to Vance’s brother than to Vance himself, right?”

“Oh, right.” Blythe laughed, her shoulders relaxing. “Absolutely right.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen loosened up considerably after that. Katie served up four glasses of a very cold and deliciously crisp chardonnay, along with a tray of chilled grilled asparagus and prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe on skewers. A half glass in, Layla found herself agreeing to provide white-iced champagne cupcakes for Blythe and Fitz’s upcoming engagement brunch. Vance’s aunt got a little teary about losing Baxter to France for a year...but she seemed sincerely pleased her beloved son had found true love.

Katie slanted Layla a look. “That seems to be going around the Smith family these days.”

Instead of answering, she pretended an avid interest in the magazine pages in front of her. She studied the two-page spread of a wedding party—an entire family gathered around a glowing bride and groom. It looked as foreign to her as the language of bridal gowns. Maybe she’d never daydreamed about a Big Day because she didn’t have a large family with whom to celebrate.

Now she didn’t even have a father to walk her down the aisle.

Oh, God, the tears were stinging again.

“Layla?” Vance’s mother patted her arm. “Are you okay, honey?”

Blinking rapidly, she held the back of her hand to her nose. “Just a tickly nose,” she said, aware her voice sounded scratchy, too.

“Everybody gets those sometimes,” Katie murmured. Then she placed her palm between Layla’s shoulder blades and rubbed a soothing circle.

The touch brought her back under control. She hauled in a steadying breath, then picked up her wine. “You’re very kind,” she said to the other woman, just as Vance’s dad came up behind his wife.

“And beautiful,” he added, grabbing Katie’s glass from her hand and taking a swallow.

“Moocher,” she said fondly. “You remember Layla.”

“It’s good to see you again,” she started—and then found herself at a loss for words when William Smith took her outstretched hand in both his big paws. He smiled, and it was devastating, just like his son’s.

“Welcome,” he said. Then he leaned close. “I appreciate what you shared with me about my son on Picnic Day. I’ve thought of it often.” Then he smiled again, and she realized that he was definitely a charmer when he wasn’t at odds with Vance. He stayed in the kitchen with the ladies, offering groan-worthy opinions on wedding regalia and teasing his wife about their wedding day until she whapped him with a dish towel.

His brother came into the kitchen next, and Layla met yet another handsome Smith male—though he was about three inches shorter than the quite tall William. Apparently the elder Smiths had been joined in a double wedding and Roy told them how his brother’s tuxedo had been delivered to him and vice versa, causing a four-alarm panic until they managed to get control of their groom jitters long enough to figure out what happened and swap clothes.