Bungalow Nights

chapter SEVENTEEN



THE DAY AFTER BAXTER’S surprise announcement, Vance accompanied Layla and the Karma Cupcakes truck to a farmers’ market held in a parking lot a forty-minute drive from Crescent Cove. Phil had gone to an afternoon lecture on global travel at a local community college, so Vance had tagged along with the baker to help her sell her wares.

He didn’t want to be alone.

Which was nuts because he’d spent months living inches from a bunch of half-clean guys at a remote outpost and expected to be rejoining them soon. He should be reveling in solitude while he still could get it. But being without Layla at Beach House No. 9 gave him too much time to think.

There was a spot opening up in the family company.

He was not going to get fixated on that, he reminded himself. “You want the bistro chairs and tables set up?” he asked Layla as she moved cupcakes from the boxes to the display cases.

“Yes, please. Then we can check out the other merchandise if you like. I usually take a turn down the aisles before the market opens.”

Sounded good. More distraction from family matters.

He took Layla’s hand as they strolled through the parking lot. There were a couple of other food trucks, but also many small booths. Some featured homemade jewelry, one offered salsa and hummus, another had bread from a local artisan bakery for sale.

He fed Layla a sample chunk of fresh peach, then licked away an errant drop of juice from her lower lip. She smiled at him, and he leaned in for a kiss. This brown-eyed girl was sexier and sweeter than he deserved.

“Vance. Vance Smith.”

Startled by a man’s voice, Vance swung around and found himself grinning. “Cesar!” He held out his hand to the wiry older man, dressed as usual in jeans, boots and a battered straw cowboy hat.

A strong grip brought him in for a brief hug. “You’re home, but haven’t called me?”

“Just here briefly, Cesar.” He turned to Layla and gestured her near. “Layla, this is Cesar Ochoa. I used to work for him. Cesar, this is Layla Parker, a friend.”

“A good friend, I see,” Cesar said, a twinkle in his eye.

Vance ignored that. “What are you doing here?”

“My niece sells some of our produce here. She came up with the idea a couple of months ago. She wants money for a new computer. I brought the boxes in my truck.”

“How is Adriana? And Blanca and everyone else?”

“Bueno. You must come out to visit. Blanca will make your favorite tamales.”

“If I have time before my leave’s up, I will.”

Cesar glanced at Layla. “I understand if you’re too busy, of course. But we miss you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Vance said, smiling. “That doesn’t mean I won’t kick your ass in darts the next time I get a chance.”

The older man laughed, then sobered. “You know you have a job if you want it, Vance. When you return.”

“I...” He sighed. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

They said their goodbyes and Vance watched Cesar head toward his truck, his bow legs making him rock side to side as he strode off.

“What job?” Layla asked.

“Huh?” Vance said, still gazing after his old boss.

“You used to work for him?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He took Layla’s hand again, and they meandered by a booth that sold varieties of cacti in small pots.

“When?”

“Between getting out of the army the first time and going back in this time.” In the next stall were tables filled with a selection of fruits and vegetables. His hand was drawn to a pile of avocados and the narrow-shaped one on top.

“What’s that?” Layla asked.

“It’s a genetic error. We call it a cuke. A pitless avocado.”

“That seems convenient.”

“Maybe,” he said, placing it back on the pile. “I always feel a little sorry for them, though. It’s like they’re not living up to their full potential.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said knowingly, “because they have no stones. You’re such a guy.”

“Brat.” He grinned at her, then ran his thumb over a plump and bright beefsteak tomato.

“That’s what you want to be doing, Vance,” Layla suddenly remarked. “Working at an avocado ranch. Growing things.”

He frowned. “No, I don’t want to go back to Cesar’s. The Ochoas are great, but...no.”

“That’s not what I said.”

The conversation was taking a turn he didn’t like. “Well, I say it’s time to get back to the cupcake truck.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but he popped a nectarine sample inside, then led her away while she chewed. Once at their spot, they were busy throughout the afternoon. He left her alone for a few minutes while he went to buy them each a hand-squeezed lemonade and when he got back, Layla was engrossed in conversation with a woman in a wide-brimmed sun hat. It only took him a second to realize her identity.

Jesus Christ. His mother.

Gritting his teeth, he strode up to the food truck’s window and passed Layla her plastic cup. Then he frowned at his mom. “Do I need to take out a restraining order?”

“Vance!” his mother and his lover said together.

“You’re not going to tell me your car is broken down again, are you?”

“Of course not. I drove it here,” Katie Smith said.

He sipped at his drink in order to cool his temper. “So it’s just a big coinky-dink that you ended up at this particular farmers’ market?”

His mother hesitated and Layla jumped in. “No, she happened to check out the Karma Cupcakes website and noted we would be here today. Because she was in the area, she decided to stop by.”

“There’s some excellent apricot preserves being sold just over there,” his mother added, pointing across the aisle.

“Mom—”

“And I wanted to see the inside of the cupcake truck, since I didn’t get the chance on Picnic Day.”

She was as subtle as a battering ram. Vance didn’t have the heart to really yell at her, though, because he knew that the rift between him and the family—mostly now just between him and his father—upset her. From his bad spills to his bad grades, Vance had been upsetting her all his life.

“Well, what’s stopping you?” he grumbled, then led her to the door and held it open while she climbed inside.

He sat on one of the bistro chairs during the tour, though he could hear the two women chatting and laughing. Finally, drawn to the sound, he peeked in at them through the window. His mother had a wet cloth in hand and was working on removing a smear of chocolate on the wide strap of the pale green dress Layla wore.

It was a maternal activity, and as he took in Layla’s bemused expression, he remembered she hadn’t had a mother for most of her life. This kind of attention was probably unusual to her. He couldn’t see Phil or the colonel caring much about getting out a stain from a favorite garment. While he knew she’d been well cared for growing up, he doubted there’d been much TLC.

I should be gentler with her, he thought. I should think of more ways to please her during these last days that we’re together.

“Vance?” his mother said, casting him a glance.

“Hmm?” Layla was still on his mind, and he was surprised by a sharp little pang at the idea of sleeping without her on the next pillow.

“I asked Layla if you two would come out to the house for dinner tomorrow night.”

His focus sharpened in an instant. “What? No. We were just there for Picnic Day. We’re already coming again for Fitz’s engagement brunch.”

“But this would be different. This would be about the two of you.”

She was definitely a battering ram. A sneaky, manipulative battering ram. He opened his mouth to refuse, but then she set aside the wet cloth and reached up to brush at Layla’s bangs. “These look good on you,” she murmured. “I was always too leery of grow-out issues to have them myself.”

Layla just smiled as his mom continued to smooth her hair. And damn, it was the smile that got to him. A little more mothering would please the colonel’s daughter, he could see that.

“Vance?” his mother prompted.

He sighed. “What time?”

* * *

THE SUN HAD LONG SINCE SET when Layla and Vance returned to Beach House No. 9 following their afternoon at the farmers’ market. The night was clear but chilly, so she changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt as she tried ignoring the melancholy that once again surged.

Hoping the ocean breeze would clear it away, Layla wandered onto the deck and leaned against the railing. The view of the sky was unobscured by city lights and she gazed up at the glitter of a thousand stars and the silver disc of moon. She shivered a little, noting its wavering reflection in the endless blanket of ocean before her. How small she was in comparison. How alone.

While the cove felt delightfully secluded during the day, tonight it seemed oppressively isolated.

It’s just you and me, moon, she thought. The stars were too distant to be considered companions.

Soft music started floating through the air, a woman singing something slow and sultry—no, now it was slow and sad. The man was gone, the day was done, yeah, baby, night instead of sun. Layla glanced at the house to see Vance pulling back the glass slider. He walked onto the deck, a beer in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other. The moonlight illuminated his rangy body and handsome face, and her gloomy mood deepened as the woman’s voice swelled into the chorus.

She should stop sleeping with him, Layla decided. It was time to put distance between them. Then maybe the upcoming goodbye wouldn’t weigh on her so. If she told him he snored, he’d probably see through it as the excuse it was, but he wouldn’t challenge the assertion because it was an easy way out for them both. They needed to start uncoupling and he would recognize the wisdom in that.

He pushed the glass of wine into her hand. Her fingers curled around it. “Thanks.”

“Hungry?” he asked, taking a spot beside her at the rail.

“Not after that pizza.” They’d stopped to eat on the way back.

The song that was playing ended and a new one began, another woman’s voice. Another woman left behind. God, where were the cheery, upbeat tunes that celebrated summer? “What is this, heartbreak radio?” she grumbled.

“Hey, I’m just happy to say I finally figured out how to turn on the outside speakers. Means I retain my stud status.”

She smiled a little at that. He’d been stomping around all month, his masculinity challenged by his inability to figure out the complicated stereo system. “Figures you’d solve the puzzle just days before we leave here.”

They lapsed into silence, the only sounds the wet rush of water and the soft music on the stereo. Vance’s feet shifted and she could feel his gaze on her. “Tell me about your real life,” he said. “So I can picture you and what you’re doing when this is over.”

Oh, good. He was thinking about uncoupling, too. She opened her mouth to answer, but those dark feelings rose again, filling her chest and making it hard to breathe.

“Layla?”

Swallowing hard, she set her untouched wine on top of the railing. “I’ve told you. I live in a little duplex inland and north of here. What I do there is pretty much the same as I do now. I get up early, bake cupcakes, go out with Uncle Phil to sell them. Get up and do it again the next day.”

“What about friends?”

Her seven-days-a-week schedule didn’t leave a lot of time for a social life. “I’m in a baking group,” she said. “We met in a food handling class, actually. About once a month we get together and have dinner, share recipes, just chat.”

She should spend more time with them, she decided. Once a month was too long to go between girlfriend fixes. They had busy lives, though, and would likely find it hard to fit her in. Angelica was a new mom, Patsy was planning a wedding, Gretchen and Jeanette lived far enough away from Layla that meeting them couldn’t be arranged spur-of-the-moment.

“But I admit I’m left with a lot of empty evenings.” And the thought of them stretching ahead only made her lonelier. “Uncle Phil once told me I should join an online dating service,” she added.

“Really?” Sounding surprised, Vance turned to face her. He was silent a moment. “Would you do that?”

She shrugged.

A heavy silence followed. Vance frowned through it, as if arguing with himself. Then he took a long swallow of his beer and met her eyes. “If you want, I know some guys I could introduce—” Breaking off, he looked away. “No. Sorry, but no.”

Was it her expression or some compunction of his own that had halted his offer? It didn’t matter—she couldn’t bear to have this discussion. “No,” she agreed, and forced some cheer in her voice. “Anyway, when I think about it, I’m going to be pretty busy. Uncle Phil is eager to start on that trip of his. I won’t be surprised if he leaves as soon as this month is up. Then I’ll be Karma Cupcake-ing all by myself.”

All by herself. Didn’t that sounded pitiful?

To Vance, too, she supposed, because he grabbed her by the arms and turned her to him. “You’re going to be okay. Wherever I go next—I’ll write. I’ll email you. Even overseas I get a chance to make phone calls on occasion.”

“You have your family to contact then.”

“I have you, too,” he said, giving her a tiny shake. “I’m going to be your friend, Layla.”

“That’s nice, thanks,” she said, stepping out of his hold. She took up her wine again and hoped he wouldn’t see her hand was trembling. God, she was a mess tonight.

At least the latest song was coming to an end, the woman’s wail about bad luck in love hitting its last note. Through the speakers, a new voice drifted into the night and Vance gave a soft laugh. “Hey, it’s your song.”

The slow, acoustic version of Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” Her chest went heavy again. “My dad called it that.”

“No surprise,” Vance said, and plucked her wineglass from her hand to set it beside his beer bottle on the railing. Then he pulled her into his arms.

“No.” Layla resisted. “What are you doing?”

He ignored her protests, drawing her closer. They were chest to chest, hip to hip, and he lifted her arms to circle his neck and crossed his at the small of her back. Then his feet shifted to the beat of the music.

Layla was stiff in the embrace. This wasn’t uncoupling. “Vance—”

“We gotta dance, pretty girl.”

“We’ve danced before,” she pointed out. “On Picnic—”

“That was my dance.”

She frowned at him. “And this one—”

“Is on the Helmet List.”

Layla stared up at Vance, the moon behind his left shoulder, the stars twinkling overhead, like diamonds tossed on dark velvet. He’d not mentioned the list lately, and she’d been content to just enjoy time in his company.

“This dance is for you and your dad,” he said now.

And with that the melancholy surged, growing from that heavy weight squeezing her lungs in her chest to a black shroud wrapping her entire body, trying to crush her to nothing. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t inhale air, she could only release a soundless scream of sorrow.

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.