Bad Friend

by Carmen Falcone

  When she made it to them, they all hugged her.

  “We’re so proud of you,” Nikki, newly pregnant, said.

  “Well done.” Lara raised her glass of champagne. “You deserve all this.”

  “Thanks, guys,” Brit said.

  Violet looked at her, her eyes beaming with approval. “Just promise me when you’re on first name basis with Scarlett Johansson you won’t forget about us little people.” Violet had moved to a new place, not too far from the home Brit shared with her soon-to-be husband Damian.

  A chuckle floated up her throat. They were giving her too much credit, but she’d take it. “Never. Amanda and Libby already made me promise I’d take selfies with whatever teen idol I manage to rub shoulders with.” Brit glanced around the room, searching for them. “Where are they by the way?”

  “Over there.” Violet pointed at the two girls dancing excitedly by the DJ’s booth. Thankfully, Amanda had welcomed Brit into the family, with her only condition being she kept calling her Aunt Brit, which Brit thought was sweet.

  A waiter wearing all black approached them with appetizers.

  Brit skimmed the room, appreciating the great turn out. When she found Damian, striding past the entrance, she excused herself and walked up to him. Wearing dark jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt and jacket, he looked delicious. She launched into his arms, excited, despite the fact they’d seen each other—and made love in the shower— that morning.

  “Hey, look who’s here at last,” she said.

  He kissed her cheek, close enough to the corner of her mouth to send thrills down her spine. “Sorry, baby. The surgery took longer than expected.”

  “It’s okay. I missed you,” she said, using the stapler phrase they used to each other, no matter how much time they spent together. Lara had once called them nauseatingly cute together and she was right.

  “Me too. Now I’m all yours.” He glanced around. Pride twinkled in his eyes, and an invisible blanket of warmth cloaked her. He’d supported her during the last few months, any way he could, even if he was busy with work and his own project, which was now happening. The hospital he’d dreamed of for so long. Thanks to Bill and Candi, who hadn’t gotten pregnant, but they had applied to adopt a child and seemed happy at last.

  “Good. I’ll show you off first, then I’ll take you to the backroom so you can see, hhmmm, some improvements we’ve made there.”

  He dipped down his head, and gave her a passionate kiss that got her tingling from her hair to her feet. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  * * *

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  “Please, have a seat.” Violet gestured at the empty chairs around the oval table. She’d asked Principal Clark to use the conference room for this very awkward conversation she was about to have with this very unsettling man. “Thanks again for coming, Mr. Brodeur.”

  “Theo, s'il vous plaît,” he said, and the simple words sent a hum between her legs. Within the couple of months she’d worked at the French language private school, she’d only seen him a couple of times—in passing, when he’d picked up his daughter Marcelle early.

  It’d been enough to never want it to happen again. She had a lot to deal with, and a man didn’t enter the equation. Especially a hot man with a strong accent that coated every word with sensuality, expressive chestnut eyes and a tall, broad frame that hinted of trouble.

  Snap out of it, lady. She blinked and glanced at the folder sitting on the table. Of course, the principal hadn’t wanted the dirty job of telling Mr. Big Shot that his daughter was failing not only one, but two classes. He’d given this daunting task to Violet, who was still on a probationary period. Violet, who really needed this job to pay for her endless medical bills from the mental breakdown she had a year ago. She shuddered. He’d given it to her because no one else wanted to do it. Still, she couldn’t lose this job—she needed this meeting to go well. “Theo, I’ve learned that your daughter joined us last semester,” she started, with a professional voice.

  Theo gave her the slightest nod, his eyes watching her intently. “That’s correct.”

  She could have sworn someone had turned off the air-conditioning, because suddenly it felt oddly warm and stuffy in the room. “As you know, she’s been failing a couple of classes.” Unredeemable. Violet sucked in her breath. Ah, how she hated that word. She’d returned to Tulip, California, after almost a year away from family and friends. She’d thought herself unredeemable for a long time, which was why she’d received mental treatment on the East Coast.

  “Yes, and I’ve talked to the principal about it. She’s under a lot of stress—”

  “She hasn’t complied with mandatory homework and has refused to attend some classes. Her French Literature grades are the worst of them all. They are”—she cleared her throat—“helplessly low.”

  “So what? Put her in the intervention program. Get her to do extra credit.”

  She opened the folder and produced a couple of class worksheets with nothing but the child’s name filled in, and pushed it to him. “We have.”

  He barely looked at the paper. “Who are you again? You’re not her teacher, or the principal, or the school’s counselor.”

  “I’ve been acting as Principal Regent while the principal is out of town,” she said, thinking Clark had timed his one-week trip to San Francisco strategically close to this meeting. Most people in school feared Mr. Brodeur, not only because he was assertive and moved around with a cocky swagger, but because he’d made a substantial donation to the school to get his daughter enrolled. And now, six months later, they were about to let her go.

  “Okay, cut to the chase,” he said with the pragmatism of a man in his early thirties. Thirty-three. She’d read it on the student’s file. “Do you need a bigger check to make her stay here more palatable to the staff?”

  “Not at all,” she said. Warmth spread across her cheeks. “That’s not how we operate. As you know, L’École is a century old school with emphasis in the French culture and we would never—”

  “French, yes. But Americans love money,” he cut her off.

  Hell, she could use more money. After cutting ties with her family and being disowned financially from them, not to mention divorcing her surgeon husband, Violet was not only starting over at twenty-seven, but starting for the first time in her life—all on her own. Sure, Damian had been generous to buy her a home not too far from his so their kids, Amanda and Trevor, so they would have a safe environment to live in. He also paid her child support, but she spent the money on whatever the kids needed and put the rest in a savings account she’d opened for them. She didn’t use the money for her own personal troubles, and currently there were many. “Not a lie,” she said. “But that’s beside the point.”

  “Then what’s your point? Must be bad news for them to get a newcomer to deliver it, non?”

  She swallowed. Was it possible to look deep in his eyes and not get disoriented, despite the fact he was an ass? “We’re sorry, but at this point, we believe we can no longer accommodate Marcelle in our school.”

  “Do you hear yourself? My daughter lost her mother less than two years ago. She’s still healing. And you want to kick her out?” He surged to his feet, restless.

  Not me, personally. “I’m so sorry for your loss—”

  “Stop saying you’re sorry, and do your job. What kind of teacher are you?”

  “I teach French Literature to first and second grades.” At last, she’d made use of years of studying in a privileged private school in upstate New York and graduating top of her class. “We can’t teach her if she’s not willing to learn,” she said. “I’m about to say something above my pay grade, but from her file, I believe she needs therapy and not more classes.” Principal Clark would kill her when he found out she gave Theo a personal advice while acting on behalf of the school. But she had to be honest. “The few times she’s visited the couns
elor we have on staff weren’t enough to make a change.” And the way Marcelle behaved in class, always challenging teachers and making students uncomfortable, had the staff and parents complaining. At least that had been what Principal Clark had told her.

  He paced the room, anger radiating from him. “I brought her here because I thought with all your century-old experience nonsense you’d be able to get through to her.”

  She opened her mouth to apologize again, then hesitated. What good would it do? The man had his reasons, and he hated her right now. “Trust me, I’ve been through some rough patches and I know losing your wife then dealing with all these emotions can’t be easy,” she said, and immediately wondered if he noticed the tremble in her voice at the end. Dark ghosts from her past had haunted her when she’d had left Tulip to seek help, she remembered with a shudder. But she’d gotten help and learned how to be okay with herself.

  “You don’t know anything,” he said, throwing his words at her like swords. “You accepted the role to give me the bad news, and expected me to just roll with it? How do you think my daughter will react knowing one more school has given up on her?”

  Tension crackled in the air. The thumping of her heart managed to escape her body and fill the space. Damn it, she agreed with him, but she had a job to do. She couldn’t afford to lose her position—it’d been hard enough to land given the fact she had not worked for several years. She couldn’t go back to her mother and stepfather or ex-husband for money. “I hope your daughter will find the help she needs. She seems to be a brilliant child otherwise.” She retrieved a document from the stack of paper and showed it to him. “I need your signature. This is the proof we’ve had this conversation and your tuition payments will stop.”

  He grabbed the document from her and shredded it in small pieces. “Go to hell,” he said, before storming out of the conference room.

  ***

  Theo strode through the hallways, unable to remember the last time he’d told a teacher to go to hell. He’d thought it before several times, no doubt. Now, anger and frustration squeezed his heart so hard he felt the muscly organ floating up his throat, pulsing wildly. In the past two years, Marcelle had hopped from school to school, not fitting in any institution.

  L’École had seemed like a godsend—one of the few institutions in Tulip where French was the spoken language, a sure bet to continue her education in his native language. He’d promised his wife Celine, before she lost her battle to cancer, to make sure their daughter didn’t lose the fluency of their birth language, from the small kingdom of Vonevell.

  And now, his journey ended. Again.

  What a bad father he was. He hadn’t been able to save his wife, and his life had turned upside down after Celine’s death. Now, he wasn’t even able to keep his daughter enrolled in a prestigious school despite all the money he’d donated to the blasted place. He cursed under his breath. If he hadn’t acted like such an ape, maybe she would have considered his situation. All those years chastising his father’s short temper, and he had grown to be just like the old bastard.

  “Dad?” Marcelle said, sitting on the long steps. She’d waited for him there, which he now appreciated.

  He gestured for her to follow him. “Allons-nous, ma chère.” He grabbed her backpack and flashed her a smile. “Time to go home.”

  “What was the meeting about?” Marcelle asked in English, no matter how many times he’d asked her to speak in French. Ever since her mother died, she rarely spoke in her language, a fact that bothered him more than he cared to admit. Every day he lost a little bit of the daughter he had from before, and in turn, a little bit of himself. His heart squeezed.

  “Your grades. We need to work on them,” he said. Later tonight, he’d tell her the truth—but here, while they slid into his Mercedes, in the parking lot, didn’t seem like the right place.

  She glanced down in silence, then took a seat in the back and slid on her seat belt.

  He clenched the steering wheel before starting his engine. He wished he was alone in his office, with a copious amount of scotch. But for now, he’d have to pretend everything was okay and then come up with a plan. He hadn’t become a successful restauranteur by not being thoroughly focused. With five Celine’s in Tulip and neighboring cities, he’d become a known name to those who wanted to taste French cuisine with the Vonevell flair.

  He began to reverse his car, slowly, when a huge thump made his heart skip a beat.

  The noise propelled him forward, but the seat belt kept him restrained with an almost painful accuracy. The airbag ballooned in front of him, and sweat formed on his forehead. A fraction of a second later, he looked over his shoulder frantically, to find his daughter safe on her seat. “What was that?” she said, touching her belt.

  “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He shoved the airbag out of the way and slid out of his seat, checking on her before anything.

  His daughter lifted up her hand. “I’m fine, Dad. Just surprised.”

  “Don’t get out of the car.”

  He closed the door and strode toward the back of his car, a quick video playing in his head. As he reversed, he’d checked his rearview mirror. That sedan must have come from nowhere. He approached the vehicle, the figure of a woman on the passenger’s seat.

  He knocked on the shaded window. Was she okay? The stranger didn’t move, and he knocked again, this time a tad harder. If she didn’t lower the window, he’d have to—

  She swung the door open, slamming into his abs, a stab of pain temporarily coursing through him. What the fuck? Did the culprit want to make amends or finish what she’d started? “I’m sorry,” she said, and when she got out of the car, he recognized her.

  The same lady who had kicked his daughter out of the school. The one the weasel principal had used to do his dirty work.

  Shock gleamed in her eyes. They’d seemed a lighter blue inside, but maybe because of the bump, her eyes reached a darker shade. Gorgeous.

  “How are you?” he asked, barely registering the emotions beneath his flesh. A part of him wanted to shake her for endangering his child’s life, yet strangely, he also wanted to give her a hug.

  She ran her fingers down her blonde hair. “I was pulling out my car, and I swear I didn’t see you,” she said. “The last thing I need is to aggravate you even further today.”

  The last thing indeed. His anger shifted into a cooler emotion, leaking into his veins. His lips curled into a smile, and the ache in his stomach flared up again, to remind him of the leverage he’d just won. “That’s right. What’s your name again?”

  “Violet Manning.”

  “Violet,” he repeated. A frisson traveled down his spine. He preferred his women curvy, brunette and with stronger morals. Violet’s body was petite, sinewy, and had he not been directly affected, would make up for her lack of compassion “My daughter is in the car. You know, the one you just expelled from school.”

  Her eyes widened, then her gaze flew to the car. “Oh no. I-is she okay?”

  He held up his hand to keep her from stepping toward the car and speaking to Marcelle. “Shaken, but not hurt.”

  Violet’s shoulders dropped a notch, and she sighed. “Listen, you must hate me right now and I don’t blame you. If there’s any damage to your car, I’ll pay for it. If we could work out payment plans, I’d be super grateful. I don’t want this to go through my insurance.”

  “You don’t.”

  “My rate would skyrocket, besides…”

  “Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t want Principal Clark to know you had an accident with a parent while the student was in the car?” He bet that didn’t bode well for job security. After all, for all accounts his daughter was still enrolled in l’École. Theo hadn’t signed the paper that proved otherwise.

  Color drained from her face. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Interesting. Hmmm.” He scratched his chin. Winning had been his strategy ever since leaving his poor neighborhood in Vonevell. Against his father�
��s wishes, he’d left with nothing more than a natural talent for cooking and a dream in his mind. He’d paid a hefty price for his choices, but wouldn’t be where he was today if he had stayed there. “I wonder if I’ll be able to help you.”

  She switched her weight from foot to foot. “Tell me what you want.”

  He perched his hands at his waistline. “My daughter isn’t leaving the school. You’ll find a way to convince the coward principal to let her stay.”

  “What?”

  He lifted his hand. “I’m not done. You will personally tutor her, to help improve her grades.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I’ll pay you handsomely, of course.” The idea solidified in his mind. Why not? She’d have an extra motivation to help Marcelle succeed. She was a teacher. She should know enough to tutor his daughter.

  Specks of silver flickered around her blue irises. “How do you expect me to convince Principal Clark? How do I go from not expelling her to tutoring her?”

  Not my problem. “I’m sure an intelligent person such as yourself will find the perfect excuse.”

  She quirked up her chin. “What if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll call the cops right now about this unfortunate fender bender and might as well let the school know.” And he knew she’d be finished. A newbie at the school who had hit the car of a student’s parent? The fact he had become persona non grata didn’t matter. It’d look bad for L’École. And this woman didn’t want to have to pay for his damage, let alone have her insurance rates increase. She needed him, as much as he needed her.

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot, glancing down. “I can’t believe this.”

  “You better believe it. Which one is going to be, oui or non?”

  * * *

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  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, THANK YOU to Christine Glover—what a generous critique partner, editor, friend and work wife you are! I appreciate having you in my corner, and thank my lucky stars daily.