Just Desserts

“This appeared on Facebook. A concerned parent called me. Do you have an explanation?”

“I, uh, became ill when I was leaving the hotel at Lake Tahoe?”

“Food poisoning?”

“That’s what it felt like.” Not really a lie.

Ella nodded. “That’s exactly what I’ve told the half dozen parents who have emailed me concerning this photo.”

“Are they buying it?” Layla asked, her stomach knotting at the idea of parents contacting Ella about her. She’d always been so careful to behave in an exemplary way. Coming from the freewheeling lifestyle her family reveled in, she was doubly careful to stay within boundaries, color inside the lines.

“Short of running a toxicology test on the residue, what choice do they have?” Ella asked with a sniff. “I told them it was food poisoning.” Her lips thinned as she pressed them together. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

She didn’t need to remind Layla that at the end of this year, her annual contract might not be renewed. Private school contracts went year to year and she had no union to negotiate for her—the price she paid for teaching the best and the brightest.

“I appreciate your support,” Layla said. She swallowed and then asked, “Is that the…only photo?”

“Might there be more?” Ella asked in a deadly voice.

Layla instantly shook her head. “I didn’t even know about this one. I just don’t want any more nasty surprises.” Such as a photo of her taking a swing at her ex in a parking lot. Her hands were clenched into tight fists and she forced them to relax. Surely if there’d been more pictures, they would have made their way onto Facebook, as well.

“Neither do I,” Ella said coolly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Layla stated. For a brief moment she thought about telling her exactly what had happened and why, but that wasn’t the principal’s concern. Layla was not going to pour her troubles out to her boss, especially when the woman was going to bat for her with the concerned parents—and when it might make her wonder if Layla and Melinda could continue to work together. “But I want to apologize for all the trouble you’re going to on my behalf.”

Ella’s expression remained serious. “I hope it’s enough.” Layla didn’t even want to think about what that meant. It had to be enough. “Time is on our side,” the principal continued. “Memories are short, and by the time the break is over and the students come back, this will probably be long forgotten.”

Layla was certainly happy that she’d screwed up at the perfect time.

Ella smiled slightly, her dismissal. “I think everything will be fine.”

Layla nodded in agreement and left. Everything would be fine—except for the part where she and Melinda had to share the same air. Conniving bitch.

But Robert was to blame, too.

Conniving son of a bitch. In many ways she blamed him more, because Melinda couldn’t help herself. She was wired to be cute and competitive, to be the winner at all costs, in all forums. Everyone knew that.

Layla hurried down the hall to her room, glad that the building was, for the most part, still empty. Teachers at Manzanita tended to work late rather than come in early, except for a few diehards. The light was on in Mr. Coppersmith’s room, but there were rumors that he never went home. Ever. Layla tried to recall a time she’d arrived before him or stayed after him, and couldn’t come up with one. Melinda’s room, two doors down from Layla’s, was dark, and so was Sandy Albright’s, directly across the hall. Safe. For now.

Layla fitted her key into the lock, felt the smooth click and let herself inside, closing the door behind her. Then for a moment she simply stood, tote bag with lesson plans and books in one hand, her purse in the other, studying her desk, neat as always. The student work posted on the back bulletin board. The walls she’d painted pale blue herself on her own dime, after reading that the color fostered creativity.

She’d worked so hard to get here, into this posh private academy, and she worked equally hard to stay here. Yes, she got headaches and stomachaches worrying about her job, but that was the price she paid for having students actively working to achieve their destinies. Students who wanted to learn. They were for the most part a privileged lot, special and well aware of it, but they were also just kids.

And one of them had probably snapped her photo in the Lake Tahoe parking lot and then posted it on Facebook for all to see.

Which one?

Did it really matter?

Layla turned on the light and left the door locked so that no one could pop in on her without knocking—just in case she had another crazy bout of tears once the numbness wore off and the ramifications of having that photo posted set in.

Thankfully, no one was foolish enough to attempt to enter her room that morning, although Layla could hear people in the hall. Was Melinda one of them?

Were people talking about her?

Layla had never been the subject of gossip before and she sincerely hoped she wasn’t now, but the words fat and chance kept circling through her mind.

She ate her lunch alone at her desk, slipped out unseen twice to use the ladies’ room, then scuttled back for cover. If she could make it through today, then she’d be able to face the faculty meeting tomorrow. She just didn’t feel quite steady yet, didn’t trust herself to be able to look into Melinda’s face and smile as if she didn’t care about what had happened.

But her solitary, strength-building day ended with a call from Ella just before the final minutes of the school day ticked to an end.

“Please see me before you leave.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Layla’s stomach tightened the minute she saw the older woman’s expression. Trouble. Possibly big trouble.

“It appears we have a situation,” Ella said. “Your photo has gone viral, I believe the term is, and parents have been calling all day. Apparently several students attending the concert at the hotel saw you ‘draped’ over a man, barely able to walk, you were so intoxicated.”

“Or ill.”

“They aren’t buying it, and because of that, because of the particular parents who have been calling with concerns…to mollify…” Ella pulled in a deep breath. “We will have to resort to a temporary restructuring of classes.”

“What kind of restructuring?” Layla asked quietly, her heart hitting her ribs in slow, steady thumps. She knew the answer, could read it in Ella’s eyes. In a private school, where parents paid big dollars for their children’s education, they had more say than in a public school, and apparently the masses had spoken.

“Considering the tremendous…flak…we’ve received regarding the photo…well, you know how it is. Once a rumor takes hold, it’s very difficult to counteract it, and many of our parents are highly reactive. They spend a great deal of money to send their children here....”

Ella continued her long-winded explanation as Layla left her body and floated above the scene, watching herself stare politely at her boss, the picture of composure, while inside she was screaming, “Get on with it already! Tell me that I’m losing Advanced Placement English and taking on Life Skills. Just spit it out!”

“And for that reason…” Ella let out a sigh that made her shoulders sink “…I have no choice but to give Melinda Advanced Placement English and you will take over Life Skills for the next semester.”

Layla wasn’t fooled. She’d have the position for much longer than one semester. Life Skills—a glorified term for gonzo math and reading for those kids who could buy their way into the school, but didn’t give two hoots about grades or learning, despite their parents’ desire to make them industrial leaders. Oh, yes, she’d be at the helm until the next new teacher was hired, or another staff member made a misstep—serious enough to alarm parents but not serious enough to be fired. She could have this gig for years and years the way the budget was looking.

“I understand,” she said, ever professional. “And I’ll quit before I go back to Life Skills.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE©WORDS©STARTLED©HER as much as they did Ella.

What had she just said? Why had she said it?

Because she had truly and passionately hated teaching Life Skills during her first year at Manzanita before being moved to Advanced English when Melinda hired on. Life Skills was the baptism by fire at Manzanita, and being a starry-eyed neophyte, she’d felt guilty for not being able to inspire the lazy, entitled kids that populated the class. A teacher taught. But teaching the arrogantly unmotivated was not her cup of tea, and apparently it wasn’t Melinda’s, either.

“Don’t be silly,” Ella sputtered. “You were excellent teaching that class. I have a copy of the most recent syllabus,” she said, pushing a folder across the table toward Layla. “You can also access it online. Melinda will answer any questions you have.”

Layla was certain that Melinda would be delighted to answer all her questions.

“I know you will return the favor,” the principal added.

“This is not the solution,” Layla said adamantly. “These parents are wrong. One misrepresented incident doesn’t make me incapable of teaching as I’ve always taught.”

“It’s the most logical solution,” Ella insisted, nudging the folder closer to her. “Many of the concerned parents have children in your advanced classes. Besides—” she tapped her pencil on the folder “—Melinda just received her master’s degree in English, which makes her more qualified.”

On paper. “I have every intention of getting my master’s,” Layla said, focusing on the part of the issue that didn’t involve parents. “But I just spent the last two years revamping my English classes, which took up any time I might have used for university courses.” Class planning, prep and grading had barely left her any time for a social life, much less continued education. “And,” she added, “I won a state merit award for those revamped classes last year.” Which Melinda hadn’t. That had to eat at her.

Her boss’s expression remained impassive. No, it remained stonily stubborn, so Layla gave in to desperation and allowed herself to beg. “Please do not take these classes away from me.”

Ella stared at her for a long moment, the end of her pencil making a slow tap, tap, tap on the desk. Finally, she let out a long sigh. “Let’s meet tomorrow, after we’ve both had some time to evaluate the situation.” She drew in a long breath through her nose, then opened her calendar. “Say, nine o’clock?”

“Nine o’clock will be fine,” Layla said, relief coursing through her at the possible stay of execution. She’d be there at nine, after a good twenty-three hours of figuring out how to save herself. She’d probably look like hell from lack of sleep, since unfinished business invariably gave her insomnia, but she’d be there, and somehow she’d convince Ella to allow her to keep her classes.

USUALLY, JUSTIN©WENT©TO the catering kitchen in the evenings after Patty had prepped during the day, and worked on his cakes alone. Just him and the music. No interruptions.

He had a lot to do, especially with Patty about to take sick leave, but tonight, the tenth anniversary of signing away parental rights to his then unborn son, he stayed home. Turned on a basketball game and started drinking. Alone. Never a good thing to do, but right now it seemed appropriate.

The first few anniversaries had passed practically unnoticed. Yes, he had a child out there somewhere, one he’d been totally unprepared to care for at the age of eighteen. When his girlfriend, Rachel, had opted for adoption, it had seemed a godsend. No child support. No confessing to his sisters what he’d done. The child was better off with parents who were married and had resources to provide for it. Problem solved.

And if every now and again, in the early hours, he found himself dwelling on the matter, he shoved it out of his mind. A strategy that had worked fairly well until his niece, Rosemary, had been born.

From the moment he’d first felt her warm little body snuggle against his shoulder, watched her mouth form a tiny O as she yawned, he’d been overwhelmed with protective instincts he hadn’t even known he possessed. Who would have thought that a baby could make a guy feel like that?

But the kicker was the lost baby, the miscarriage his sister, Reggie, had suffered a little less than a year ago, when she’d been four and a half months pregnant. It had devastated both her and her husband, Tom, to the point that they’d talked of having only the one child because they didn’t want to risk another loss. They eventually decided, though, to try one more time and so far, so good, but Justin was still on edge. He never wanted to see his sister go through that again. He never wanted to go through it again vicariously.

From that point on, denial lost its effectiveness. Kids were not something one signed away and forgot about.

Even if he tamped the thoughts down deep, as deep as he could possibly get them, they slowly but surely worked their way to the surface. He began to notice babies everywhere. And kids. Especially kids about the same age that his son would be.

Justin was a father. Somewhere in the world he had a child. A kid who needed to be protected and loved, as Rosemary needed to be protected and loved.

And he hadn’t done that.

It ate at him. Maybe it had always eaten at him in ways he refused to acknowledge.

Last year on the ninth anniversary of the day he’d signed his child away—four months after Rosemary’s birth and before Reggie had acknowledged her second pregnancy—he’d sat down in front of the TV to have a single beer and ended up drinking himself into oblivion.

He planned to repeat the performance tonight. Kind of a yearly ritual, like a birthday party, which worked, since he didn’t know when his child had been born. Rachel was sent across the country by her wealthy parents shortly after they’d discovered she was pregnant, and he’d never received word. All he knew was that he had a son, information Rachel had given him after her first ultrasound.

He was on his third beer, blindly watching the game and thinking that whiskey would work faster, when the doorbell rang.

Layla. She’d stopped by the kitchen earlier that afternoon to pick up her overnight bag, which was still here at his apartment. Eden had given her directions and sent her over, then called to warn him.

He appreciated that, because now all the scattered gym socks were in the hamper and he wasn’t too deeply into a bottle. That would wait until after she left.

But truth be told, he was on his way to a pretty good buzz. Maybe Layla wouldn’t notice.

LAYLA©STOOD©NERVOUSLY on the concrete outside Justin’s second-story condo, hugging her coat closer to her body as protection against the stiff breeze. Why was she so agitated? Not a clue.

Liar. She was tense because Justin made her that way. She never knew what he was going to do, and she hated unpredictability. The door swung open and there he was, barefoot, dressed in washed-out jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His dark blond hair was out of control as always. She wondered if he still cut it himself.

“Layla. What a surprise.”

“I bet it is, what with you having my overnight bag and Eden calling to warn you that I was on my way.”

He smiled, that cocky Justin smile, but he wasn’t looking so cocky with the blackish-yellow circle under his eye. Plus, it was pretty obvious that he’d been drinking. She could smell it on him.

“Would you get it for me, please?” Because all she wanted to do was to get out of here. She’d seen Justin drunk before. He and Derek and Eric had whooped it up a time or two when their parents were gone. Her parents, of course, thought large house-wrecking parties were a rite of passage, and other than making the twins clean up and pay for any damage, turned a blind eye. Stupid, stupid outlook.

“Yeah, sure. You want to come in for a sec?”

“I, uh…no.” She gave her head a shake. She did not care to step into the lair.

He shrugged and walked away, holding a beer bottle by the neck. A few seconds later he was back with her small black case in his hand—a gift from Robert. She’d have to donate the bag to charity once she unpacked her clothes.

He held it out and Layla gingerly took it from him, noting that Justin had really nice hands—long, strong fingers that should have been used to make music. She’d forgotten about that—how she’d once told him he should be a musician. He’d laughed at her, since she’d been so disdainful of her parents’ obsession with all things Clapton. She’d been thinking of the violin or the piano, but had left in a huff before explaining matters to him. Justin Tremont playing a piano. Right.

She studied him warily. “I, uh, wanted to thank you for bringing me home Saturday night. And…I hope your eye is all right.”

“It’s feeling better.”

She drew in an audible breath. “Yes. Well. Sorry about that. I can see that you’ve been taking something for the pain.”

“My favorite painkiller.” He lifted the bottle of Black Butte Porter he held in his right hand, and Layla suppressed a grimace. Dark beer. Uck.

“How many have you had?”

“A few. The game’s on and you know how it is with guys, beer and games.”

“You sit home alone, drink beer and watch sports?”

“The hookers should be arriving any minute.”

“Don’t start, Justin. We’re not fourteen anymore.” She met his eyes. “Well, I’m not, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t have known that from the other night.”

She didn’t have an answer for that one, but she did have another question. “Uh…what all did I tell you? After you brought me home?”

“You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

“Let’s see…that bastard is sleeping with your trollop of a coworker.” He shrugged. “That about sums it up.”

Did she see pity in his eyes? Dear heavens, she hoped not, because she would not tolerate pity from Justin. “That’s all?”

“For the most part. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“I’m sorry about parts of it,” Layla said, thinking it was a sad day when she was confessing her troubles to Justin, even if he was rather intimately involved. But the situation was gnawing at her.

“What part?”

She looked up at him, meeting those rather amazing green eyes. Such a waste. He’d grown from an obnoxious skinny kid into a very striking guy. “The part where it affects my job.”

“Because of the trollop?” His shoulders were hunched against the brisk breeze that was blowing past him into his condo, and Layla heard the furnace kick on. Yet he stood in the open doorway, waiting for her response instead of sending her off and stepping back into his warm house.

“Yes, because of the trollop. I…” Layla gave an impatient, dismissive gesture. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

She blinked at his unexpected response. His expression remained serious. No smirk. Nothing. She narrowed her eyes slightly, gauging him. Something about this didn’t seem right.

Was it possible that he didn’t want to drink and watch the game alone? Well, if he was soliciting her company, then he must truly be desperate for companionship.

The hookers must have canceled.

Justin stepped back before she answered one way or the other, and gestured for her to come inside. Layla fought with herself briefly, then shrugged and walked into his front room, trying not to be too obvious as she took a quick inventory.

It was a guy place. Leather furniture, a giant TV where the Celtics were playing the Bulls with the sound muted. There was a pile of running shoes against the wall next to the front door and a cardboard box filled with women’s clothing. A black, lacy bit of lingerie was tossed carelessly on top. Oh, criminy. Was the woman, whoever she was, going to come home while Layla was here?

No. This looked more like a moving-out box. A toothbrush was jammed into one corner. No wonder Justin was looking for company. He probably wouldn’t mind a bit of sympathy, too.

“Have a seat,” he said as he shut the door and led the way across the room to the U-shaped sectional. Chalk-colored leather. Surprisingly tasteful, with a dark oak coffee table, strewn with cookbooks and sports magazines, nestled in the center of the U. Two empty beer bottles stood side by side at one end.

Layla perched on the edge of the sectional, impressed with how comfortable it was, and Justin settled a few feet away.

“So let’s hear this long story.”

“How drunk are you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not very, but if you don’t want me to remember, I won’t.”

He gave her that roguish Justin grin she was so familiar with, and Layla smiled in spite of herself. But the smile faded as she said, “One of the students at the lake took a photo of me throwing up in the bush and posted it on Facebook. Many concerned parents phoned in, and ultimately my principal decided to demote me to Life Skills and give Melinda my advanced English classes.”

“Who’s Melinda?” he asked. Layla raised her eyebrows significantly and he formed a silent “oh.” “The trollop?”

“The same.”

“Life Skills is bad?”

“Life Skills is a class for the kids whose parents can pay the steep Manzanita tuition, but who don’t perform at the desired level.”

“They have learning disabilities?” Justin asked with a slight frown.

“No. This has nothing to do with ability and everything to do with attitude. Students who can’t achieve but want to learn are in special tutorial classes. This class is for kids who won’t achieve. They are entitled and lazy, and the teacher’s job is to try to motivate them when they know they’re safe in their parents’ protection no matter what they do.”

“Why aren’t they just kicked out of the school?”

“Are you kidding? In this economy?” Layla rubbed her thumb and first two fingers together. “Money…”

Justin leaned back against the cushions, obviously more comfortable with the conversation than she was, and studied his beer for a moment.

“I taught this class before,” Layla continued darkly. “My first year. It was rugged. I hated it.”

And she’d never told anyone that before. Maybe she felt safe because he was drinking. Maybe she just needed to tell someone the sad truth—that she was in some ways a rotten teacher. “I meet with the principal tomorrow and we’ll hash this out.”

Hopefully, she’d be able to convince Ella that it would be disruptive to the students to change teachers nine weeks before the school year ended. Then she would convince her boss that the parents would forget about the unfortunate incident by the time the long summer break was over.

“What if she doesn’t budge?”

Layla’s throat closed slightly. “I…think I’d quit.”

“And then what?”

She gave a quick shrug. “I’d probably work for Sam until I get another teaching job.” She looked him in the eye before saying adamantly, “I’m not going to back down.”

“I don’t blame you. Life is too short to do something you hate for very long.”

Layla stared at him for a moment. As a teen, Justin had always done as he damned well pleased, and she’d often told herself that he was wrong to do so. That it was immature to follow the heart instead of the head. But honestly? She hadn’t been all that happy following her head, and life was short.

“What does Sam do now?” Justin asked. “Does she still have the bead store?”

“No. She has a small clothing and gift boutique that she started last year after the bead shop tanked. Sunshine of Your Love.”

Justin smiled. “No offense, but it sounds like a head shop.”

“It’s worse than that. She, uh…” Layla raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Sunshine of your love…”

“Sex toys?” Justin asked, unable to keep the delight out of his voice.

“Gifts for lovers to share,” Layla said primly. “Along with funky clothing, lingerie and regular items. Balloon bouquets, greeting cards.”