Just Desserts

by Jeannie Watt

  “In that case, after the close of this school term, we no longer need your services.”

  Layla heard the words as if through a cotton wool filter. She tilted her head, then gave it a tiny shake. “I’m fired?”

  “Your contract will not be renewed next semester.”

  “I’m fired.”

  “You will not be renewed after you finish out this semester.”

  She was so damned glad she hadn’t wimped out and taken the transfer yesterday, only to have this happen. At least now she had some pride left. Not much, but enough to allow her to pack and leave the building with her head held high.

  She’d wait until she got home to collapse into a heap of insecurity and quite possibly tears.

  She met Ella’s pale gaze. “I don’t think I will finish out the semester.” Down the hall from smug, smirking Melinda, who would know that Layla had been sacked. She’d have won. Yay!

  “You’ll break your contract?”

  “I’ll take my sick days.” There were nine weeks of classes left after spring hiatus. She’d have two days to spare.

  “You aren’t sick.”

  “Oh, no. I am. This situation is making me sick. I’m being railroaded under the most ridiculous circumstances.”

  Ella’s nostrils flared, but before she could speak, Layla said, “I’ll just go pack up my room.” She turned smartly and started toward the door, maintaining her composure only because she was in absolute shock.

  “No.”

  The curt response stopped her dead. She turned back. “Excuse me?”

  “You will not use your sick days and you will not be allowed back into a classroom here at Manzanita Prep. I’m sorry, but your services are no longer required, effective immediately, and you’ll have to leave the building. Walter will escort you out.”

  Walter will what? Layla felt her throat closing. “I don’t understand.”

  Ella held out her hand. “Please give me your keys.”

  Layla slowly shook her head, not fully grasping what was happening. She couldn’t get her belongings?

  “You’ll get all your personal things back,” Ella assured her.

  “But my lesson plans, the materials I’ve developed…I did that on my own time. Those are mine.” Layla spoke from between clenched teeth.

  “Your personal belongings will be returned to you in short order,” Ella replied. “It would be illegal for us to keep them.”

  Layla couldn’t stop the sneer from forming on her face. “And you wouldn’t want to do anything illegal. But you will toss me neatly under the bus.” She took her keys out of her jacket pocket and slapped them down on the table. “I want everything. All the lessons plans, the units, everything. Those are mine.”

  And she wasn’t going to get them—at least not until every page was photocopied. She could see it in Ella’s face. The principal wouldn’t want to lose the materials that had won Layla the state merit award for excellence. She would want to hand them off to Melinda or one of her other teachers.

  Layla turned on her heel and headed for the door, only to run straight into Walter’s six-foot-two-inch frame. She looked up at the security man’s stern face as he took hold of her arm.

  He didn’t exactly frog-march her out of the office, but he wouldn’t loosen his hold. Layla was “escorted” down the hall and out the door into the rear parking lot. Only then did his expression soften.

  “Sorry about that,” he muttered.

  “Why did she do this?” Layla asked, tears starting to sting her eyes now that reaction was setting in and she was far enough away from the Wicked Witch of the West not to lose face.

  Walter’s mouth flattened and he looked slightly embarrassed at his role in the matter. She’d always gotten along well with him. “Common practice so dismissed employees don’t have the opportunity to vandalize anything in anger.”

  “I understand,” Layla said automatically. But she didn’t. She didn’t understand any of this. Last Friday she’d been a happy teacher about to go on vacation. Now she was an unhappy teacher without a job.

  All because of…way too many things that seemed to align at one time. A perfect cosmic junction of bad luck, and Layla had been smack in the center of it.

  The tears that had built up started to fall, streaming down her cheek as she walked to her car, head down. She refused to wipe them away in case Ella or Melinda or anyone else was watching from a window. And the crazy thing was they were more tears of anger than anything else. Layla felt steamrolled. Misused.

  And mad as hell about it.

  The depression phase would no doubt follow the anger, but right now she was hanging on to her outrage, because it helped numb any other emotions that might come crashing down on her.

  She got into the car and slammed the door before staring blankly out the window. So where did she go now?

  Home? Sam’s place?

  She swallowed the giant lump in her throat and started the engine, hoping she could get out of the parking lot without giving in to the very strong urge to smash her car straight into Melinda’s little blue Mitsubishi Eclipse.

  Maybe Melinda hadn’t engineered this, but she was benefiting, and she’d been screwing Layla’s boyfriend at night and smiling at Layla during the day.

  JUSTIN’S HEADACHE HAD abated after a couple hours of work, so he had no excuse for snapping at Eden when she asked why he’d taken another cake order when he was already swamped. Wearily, she made a face and headed out of his room, obviously writing his bad mood off to the hangover.

  He braced his hands on the table and let his head drop after Eden closed the door with exaggerated care. He’d taken the cake order because he wanted to bury himself in work. Keep from thinking.

  Ten years.

  His son had made it ten years without him. He’d made it for ten years without knowing anything about his son. And they’d been okay years. No reason he couldn’t continue the way he had up until now—except that he couldn’t shake the questions, which in turn led to the guilt.

  What if his son had needed him and he hadn’t been there?

  He turned the music up another couple notches and started dropping butter into the mixing bowl. He was, of course, making a birthday cake today. One of dozens he’d made over the past few years, so it shouldn’t bother him. He wasn’t going to let it bother him. Determined, he set to work.

  “YOU SHOULD HAVE SMACKED her car,” Sam said adamantly. “Just nicked the bumper, if nothing else. I think you missed an opportunity.”

  Layla tried to smile, but couldn’t get the job done. She should have gone home. Should have accepted the transfer to Life Skills. Should have simply gone to work every day and put up with Melinda living her—Layla’s—life, teaching her classes, sleeping with her boyfriend.

  Layla let out a low groan. She was ashamed. Embarrassed.

  What had happened to her newly discovered rebel self?

  Easy. Rebel Layla had gotten smacked firmly backward and now was whimpering in a corner—or rather, sitting on her sister’s purple sofa with an emerald-green afghan pulled over her ugly teacher clothes.

  Guess she wouldn’t be wearing those again for a while.

  “You’ll get another job,” Sam said as she tossed various items—a necklace, a lipstick, a small pair of needle-nose pliers—into her huge tote bag. Layla could see a Pop-Tart box poking out of the interior. “And until then you can help me. No sweat.”

  No sweat. Just get another job. Work at a boutique for free, since her sister could barely afford to pay herself.

  Layla tugged the afghan closer to her chin.

  “Are you sure you even want to be a teacher?” Sam asked suddenly. Layla scowled at her.

  “Of course I want to be a teacher. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher. Why would you ask such a question?”

  Sam picked up the tote bag and gave it a slight shake so that everything settled into place with a few clinks and muffled clanks. “Because you’ve never seemed very happy doing it.”


  “I’m happy! Or I was happy.”

  Sam propped a hand on her hip. “What about all those headaches and stomachaches you keep talking about?”

  “When you’re dealing with adolescents, headaches are a given,” Layla said primly.

  “Well, I don’t get them in my job, so I don’t see why you have to get them in yours.”

  Because I take things more seriously than you do!

  Sam set down the bag and came to perch on the edge of the sofa, clasping her hands together in her lap. “I don’t quite know how to say this, but…Layla, I don’t think you’ve been happy for a long time.”

  Layla opened her mouth to protest, to talk about professional gratification and the value of sacrifice—to defend her choices for the past decade and a half—but Sam cut her off before she got out more than a syllable.

  “I know what you’re going to say. I know exactly what you’re going to say. But stop. Just stop. Okay?”

  She seemed to be waiting for a response, so Layla nodded.

  “You are on the cusp of something. You got fired for a reason and now you need to explore options—”

  “Turn lemons into lemonade?” Layla interjected bitterly.

  “Lemonade?” Sam said, wrinkling her nose. “No. You have the chance to investigate other opportunities and you should damned well take it. And maybe go back and clip Melinda’s bumper while you’re at it.”

  “I…” Have no idea what to say. “What options?”

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to be something other than a teacher? An astronaut or a cowboy?” Sam held up a hand. “I was being facetious with those choices. But, really. Have you ever thought of trying something else?”

  “No.”

  “Or dating another kind of man?”

  “I date stable men.”

  “Maybe you should try to date fun men. Men who aren’t husband material, but who can give you some most excellent experiences without being The One.”

  “Experiences…”

  Sam shrugged. “Yes,” she said simply. “More numbers in your equation.” She leaned forward and grasped Layla’s wrist. “Take advantage of this. Yes, look for a job. But…don’t just jump back into your old life, because you may well be there forever. Shop. Experience.”

  “Eat, love, pray?”

  Sam nodded. “If that’s what it takes.” She glanced at the watch hanging on a chain around her neck. “I have to go if I’m going to open on time. Are you coming?”

  “Not today. I have a few things I should do at home.” Layla pushed the afghan aside. “But I am going to consider what you said.” Because it made sense, which kind of frightened her.

  “Good.” Sam hoisted the bag into her shoulder. “You don’t want to turn into Grandma Bonnie.”

  “Whose careful saving habits bankrolled your business. And Eric’s business and Derek’s fire academy training.”

  “And who never smiled,” Sam said, starting for the door. “Think about that.”

  Layla did think about that. For the rest of the day. She also fought fear of never being gainfully employed again, and anger at having her lessons stolen. And shame. She fought the shame. How was she going to explain to people about losing her job?

  Perhaps she could say she was going back to grad school. This would be the perfect time. For one tiny insane split second she thought about begging Ella for a second chance. That was the old Layla talking. The new wounded-yet-determined-to-grow-stronger Layla told her to shut up. No begging.

  She thought about Sam’s advice to date a guy just for fun instead of searching for The One. Layla wondered if she could do that. Dating in that way seemed to lack purpose. Why waste time just having fun with someone who was going to disappear from her life? Such as Justin.

  Why not?

  She could come up with a few pat answers, but the fact remained that Justin stirred something in her, made her believe that there were adventures to be had merely for the experience—something she’d never considered before. Experiences needed to serve a purpose. Be built upon. Be sensible.

  That was how she’d lived her life—which was crumbling around her—up until now.

  Could it be that, for the first time in recorded history, her sister was more in line with reality than she was? That she honestly did need to discover a life in which she smiled more?

  JUSTIN LEFT THE KITCHEN eight hours after arriving. It was one of those rare days when he didn’t have to stay late to get everything on his list accomplished. He stood next to his car for a moment and rubbed the tense muscles in the back of his neck.

  Did he go home and deal with the nagging anxiety and dark thoughts in the way he was most tempted to—with beer? Give his friend Donovan a shout to see if he wanted to do something? Head on down to Ceol, his favorite Irish pub, to see what was shaking on a Tuesday night?

  Really torture himself and drop by Reggie and Tom’s place and play with his niece?

  He’d go home. He didn’t like the way Reggie had been studying him of late, as if trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He’d never kept many secrets from his sisters—serious ones, anyway. The only secret he’d kept was this one, because at what point did he tell? Years had passed, years during which he’d assumed things would get better for him.

  He drove to his condo and let himself into his very empty place. This was what he wanted, though. A private space. A retreat. So why did his home feel so uninviting?

  Because he lived here alone with his thoughts, which were getting out of hand.

  He was on his way to the fridge, to see what he had in the way of nonalcoholic beverages, when someone knocked on the door. A light, almost tentative sound. Probably that kid from the third floor selling cookies or wrapping paper—a one-girl sales machine.

  He opened the door and found himself facing Layla.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “THIS IS A SURPRISE,” he said, standing back in case she wanted to come inside.

  One corner of her mouth lifted slightly at his ironic tone. “No doubt. We’ve seen each other maybe five times in the past five years and three of those have been in the last week.”

  “Exactly. Did you lose something else?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, but instead stood studying his face, as if trying to find the answer to some riddle. Or perhaps a clue to what exactly had happened the night before.

  “I want to apologize for last night,” he said. It seemed the proper thing to say. It might even be the reason she was here, but somehow he didn’t think so.

  “Then it follows that I should do the same,” she said, eyeing him calmly. The breeze lifted her straight dark hair, ruffled her bangs. She pushed away the strands that blew across her face.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Sure.” He and Layla were beyond politeness-for-the-sake-of-politeness.

  Once he closed the door, she stood without moving, her hands in her pockets.

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  His heart jumped at the point-blank question. “Damned if I know.”

  “I guess that makes two of us.” She shifted her weight slightly, telling him she was not entirely comfortable, but then, neither was he. “And I don’t like things I don’t understand.” She bit her lip in a considering manner as she continued to study his face. He could not for the life of him come up with a flippant rejoinder.

  The foyer where they stood was dimly lit, making the pale leather sofa in the living room shine like a welcoming beacon in the glow of the reading light. Layla kept glancing over at it and finally he said, “You want a beer or something?”

  “No…” She looked up at him, her expression more candid and vulnerable than he ever remembered. Usually the force fields were up. “But I wouldn’t mind staying for just a minute, if it’s all right.”

  “Have a seat,” Justin said, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on, why she was here.

  She walked ahead of him to the sofa, hands still in her
pockets, then sat down, closing her eyes as she leaned back against the cushion. The tension in her shoulders eased until he sat down next to her, and then they went rigid again. This was the Layla he knew and was comfortable with.

  She opened her eyes, turned her head on the cushion to look at him, her dark hair fanning over her shoulder with the movement. And still she didn’t say anything.

  Wow. Was she in shock? He’d never seen Layla silent for so long. Or maybe he’d never given her a chance to be quiet. He’d always been prodding for reaction.