Читать книгу Just Desserts - Jeannie Watt - Страница 11

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.”

“I’d love to see the balloons.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Your family is nuts, Layla.”

“I know.”

“I mean that in a good way.”

“What kind of good way? What could possibly be good about shirking responsibility?”

“How is it irresponsible to run a business?”

“If you saw how Sam did it, you’d understand.” The bead business had sunk slowly but surely as her sister bought stock and put off paying for it. But Sam hadn’t had much business traffic, either. Sunshine was doing much, much better. Apparently more people wanted to invest in their love life than in jewelry making.

Layla let her head fall back against the buttery-soft leather sofa cushions, but resisted the urge to close her eyes and luxuriate for a moment. None of her furniture was this good. She’d bought cheap stuff, saving her money for more important things, like her retirement fund.

This seemed so wrong. She’d formulated a plan, made sacrifices to stick to it, and everything was supposed to turn out all right. The end. She wasn’t supposed to be demoted back to Life Skills. Or have to go work for her sister, who couldn’t afford to pay her.

Justin got up and went into the kitchen on the other side of the breakfast island and opened the fridge. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asked. Layla shook her head and he pulled out a single beer.

“Do you always drink alone?”

“I’m trying hard not to,” he pointed out.

Layla scowled at his purposeful misinterpretation. “Did your girlfriend move out?”

Justin glanced over at the box. “Very astute, Watson.”

“It was the toothbrush.” And it explained why he was drinking.

“But, no, I don’t usually drink alone and it isn’t because of Cindy.” Spoken like a man.

“Why today? Special occasion?” To Layla’s surprise, there was a fleeting touch of bitterness in his answering smile. There, then gone.

“In a manner of speaking.” He held the unopened bottle loosely, contemplating it for a moment. “An anniversary of sorts.”

“I see.” But she obviously didn’t. And she’d never known Justin to be anything close to morose. It bothered her. “What kind of anniversary?”

He shrugged, and she could see he wasn’t about to give her a straight answer. Instead, he cocked his head, and the old Justin was back. The one she knew and could deal with. “What do you think about me, Layla?”

“Can I use long words? Or shall we stick with monosyllabic?”

“Your choice.”

“I think you’ve never had boundaries. You live life in a free-form way. I don’t believe you give a hoot for consequences. And because of that, sometimes you have to drink alone.”

“You think I’m irresponsible?”

Layla sighed. “Not exactly. I’m saying that in some aspects of your life you are more haphazard than in others.”

He studied her intently for a moment before saying, “Which aspects?” For some reason he needed her to spell it out. Fine. She’d spell.

“Well, judging from what went on in high school, you tend to be mercurial in your personal relationships.” She gestured toward the box. “How many of those have you had in your life?”

“A few,” he admitted.

“But on the other hand, you’re part of a successful business.” She shifted her head on the leather sofa cushion to look at him. “So who am I to judge?” And what could you possibly care about my thoughts after all these years?

She got to her feet. It seemed like a good time to go. In fact, suddenly she felt as if she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Something was off here…something that didn’t feel like it used to, and it was making her patently uncomfortable. Why was Justin asking her opinion of him? And in such a deeply serious way. And why was he suddenly looking like an attractive guy instead of her archrival?

“I need to get back home,” she said lamely. “I have…stuff to do.” More lameness.

“Do you make a spreadsheet or something for that?” he asked mildly. Layla didn’t bother answering. She picked up the case and Justin walked with her to the door. When they got there, he put his hand on the knob as if he was going to open it for her, then said, “We’ve been through a lot, you and I.”

“Meaning you made my life miserable when I was a kid? Yes.”

“If you hadn’t been so easy to mess with, so…reactive…”

“Blaming the victim, Justin?” she asked softly.

“You were never a victim. You gave as good as you got.” He touched his bruised cheekbone.

Funny, but she didn’t remember it that way. Maybe she’d tried, but… “I was never in your league, Justin, so it wasn’t a fair contest.”

He frowned a little, his expression distant, as if calling up a long lost memory—something that involved her, no doubt.