by Liz Ireland
“Of course not…Although it was a shock when Brad first told us. I hadn’t thought you’d ever do such a thing,” her mother chided softly.
Shame for having lied to her parents, especially about her supposed “marriage” to her boss made Jayde lower her gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“Oh, now, honey, it’s not the end of the world,” her mother soothed. “These are modern times, after all. Still, I don’t mind saying that your daddy was a little upset. But you’re sitting pretty now, that’s all that matters.”
Was her mother saying that her lies were okay? That didn’t sound like the mother Jayde knew. “Mom, what are you talking about?”
“About the baby, of course.”
The baby? What baby?
Dear Reader,
What better job could we hope for than to get paid for sitting around the house? Just kicking back and daydreaming by the pool. Actually, that’s how some people interpret what I do for a living as an author. And they’re right, but don’t tell them, will you? They’d just be jealous.
So, after writing, my dream job would be as a house sitter to the rich and famous. There I’d be, all alone in a tropical climate somewhere, just me and the furniture, with books to read, a car and money at my disposal, living the high life…until everything went wrong at once. Wait a minute…that’s not my life. That’s what happens to Jayde Green, the heroine of this book—but she handles it about the way I would. Read her story…then ask yourself if you’d do anything differently.
Because…it could happen to you!
Enjoy,
Cheryl Anne Porter
Books by Cheryl Anne Porter
HARLEQUIN DUETS®
12—PUPPY LOVE
21—DRIVE-BY DADDY
To Etheleen and Bill Oster, sitting pretty out there in Bartow, Florida.
1
THE FADING WAIL of the ambulance siren deepened the already deathly silence that held in its grip the shocked front-office staff of the Homestead Insurance Company. The scene more resembled a corporate-world Stonehenge than it did the normally tidy and efficient Kansas City-based headquarters. Around the room, desks were scattered in disarray, having been shoved aside by paramedics hastening to get to the victim. Drops of blood—Mr. Homestead’s blood—dotted the carpet.
Big-haired, bespectacled, and beside herself, Mrs. Lattimer stood in front of Jayde’s desk. “This is the last straw, Ms. Greene. You’ve worked here a total of three months, and those three months have been marked with one harrowing incident after another—all of your making.”
Jayde grimaced. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was all that bad—”
“You wouldn’t?” Mrs. Lattimer shrieked. “You have been nothing but trouble. In October, it was the water cooler. Then in November, it was the janitor. Somehow we all managed to get through December unscathed. But now this—”
“Okay, the water cooler was my fault,” Jayde admitted. “Although, stuck out there in the hallway like it was, anybody could have tripped over it. It just happened to be me. And, if you ask me, the carpet needed cleaning, anyway. But the janitor wasn’t my fault. Well, not in principle. The man should not sneak up on people who are working late.”
“Mr. Rosario was not sneaking, Ms. Greene. He was mopping.”
“Exactly. But in the women’s washroom. Inside a stall. It was like…there I was, and then, poof, there he was. I did what any—”
“You yanked his mop out of his hands and beat him on the head with the handle.” Mrs. Lattimer crossed her chunky arms over her bosom and raised an eyebrow. “He suffered a concussion and spent Thanksgiving in the hospital.”
Jayde raised her chin defiantly…and a bit guiltily. “I said I was sorry for that. And I did take a homemade pie to his family, remember?”
She nodded. “I do. It made them all sick. Mr. Rosario quit right after that. He remains convinced you tried to kill him and his entire family.”
Jayde exhaled tiredly. “Look, I’m sorry about Mr. Rosario, I really am. And the water cooler. But what do those have to do with today and Mr. Homestead? I just don’t—”
“Allow me to tell you, then,” Mrs. Lattimer interrupted. “You have three strikes against you, that’s what. And that means you’re fired. You are no longer my assistant. I will contact the employment agency that sent you and tell them they can expect your final paycheck in two weeks. But right now, you are to gather your belongings and leave the building immediately.”
Jayde’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as she stood up, preparing to do as she’d been ordered…in front of a roomful of very quiet employees. Tension and sympathy seemed to flavor the heated air flowing from the vents overhead. Jayde had befriended several of the women here, but she certainly didn’t expect any of them to stand up for her in this instance. Besides, there was nothing they could do. They knew, as Jayde did, that Mrs. Lattimer had wanted Jayde gone from the moment Mr. Homestead first laid his womanizing eyes on her. And now apparently she was to be gone.
But not quite yet. Mrs. Lattimer wasn’t finished with her. “Under the circumstances, young lady, you should be glad that all we’ve done is fire you. You should be arrested for assault. If it weren’t for Mr. Homestead’s wishes, which he made plain—before he passed out—you would be. If it were up to me, I’d already have you locked up and the key thrown away.”
Jayde didn’t doubt it for a moment. The woman was a jealous dragon. “It was an accident, pure and simple, Mrs. Lattimer. You know that—” Just as Jayde knew that Mrs. Lattimer, a widow, was secretly sweet on the very married Mr. Homestead. “—and I told Mr. Homestead I was sorry—”
“You seem to think that a simple ‘I’m sorry’ will clear up everything—including assaults on people and equipment—Ms. Greene. Well, it won’t. Besides, I doubt the dear, sweet man heard you, considering he was unconscious. But it doesn’t matter. You’re fired, and you’re to leave this instant.”
Her heart pounding, her hands clenched in dread for her immediate future, Jayde could only stare at her boss. Well, her boss’s secretary. Okay, her former boss’s secretary. Apparently, the man didn’t have the guts to fire her himself. Jayde swallowed guiltily. The truth was the man barely had any guts left at all…because she had just, well, run him through. One erratic and fateful swing of her arm with a letter opener. How was she to know the darned stubborn sticky manila envelope would give at the exact moment that Mr. Homestead was coming up behind her desk? People, including janitors, should announce themselves.
Still, it wasn’t as if she didn’t feel badly about what had happened. She’d been hysterical and had even tried to staunch the flow of blood from Mr. Homestead’s big belly. Unfortunately, compounding the disaster, only important company documents had been close at hand.
So, in less time than she would have thought possible, Jayde found herself on the icy street. Frozen emotionally as well as physically, she clutched the small plastic trash bag into which she’d stuffed the few personal belongings she’d kept at work. Nestled amongst the tissues and lipstick was a cheaply framed picture taken last month of her family around their Christmas tree. The only face missing from the photo was Jayde’s own.
And now, here it was, the middle of January, and she had ten dollars to her name. Yes, she’d sent too much money home to Kentucky for Christmas gifts. She’d known it then, and she knew it now. But how could she not have, with three younger sisters and two even younger brothers to buy for? Not to mention her parents. She knew they wouldn’t spend a dime on themselves…so she’d tucked in small gifts for them with her check. They’d wanted her to use the money to come home for a visit. Jayde would have loved that, too. But she knew better. The kids needed new shoes and coats more than they needed to see her.
Her phone call to them on Christmas Day had proven that. Hearing how happy they were with their new clothes had been Jayde’s present to herself. She sighed. The only thing the Greenes ever had in abundance was love. Her parents worked hard, but without education
and marketable skills, they didn’t have a chance to even break even. So, even though their pride suffered, they depended on Jayde’s monthly contributions. She knew that. And she was happy to send what money she could. It wasn’t much, because she was still paying back the loan she’d taken out when she’d been accepted two years ago at the prestigious Kansas City School of Art and Design…from which she’d flunked out recently.
Don’t go there, girlfriend, she warned herself. You had to attend classes, work a forty-hour week and somehow find time to paint. You were killing yourself with that routine. Something had to give. Jayde’s expression threatened to crumple. She wiped at her eyes, fighting against the tears threatening to spill over. Okay, but did it have to be school that crashed? She’d loved it. Every minute. There she was, the first Greene to attend any institution of higher learning. Her whole family had been so proud. And look what had happened. She’d flunked out. That doesn’t mean you can’t be a successful artist. Jayde made a scoffing sound. Yeah, right. You flunk out of art school and go on to be a great artist. It happens every day. A great example I am. “Just watch me,” I said to the kids. Yeah, right. Just watch me freeze to death standing here on this corner.
Shivering and ready to chuck her lifelong dream of being an artist, Jayde stamped her feet to get the circulation going in them. She had to figure out what she was going to do next…besides feeling sorry for herself, that is.
But all she seemed able to do was to torture herself with her shortcomings. This wasn’t the first time she’d lost a really good job. The one she’d had before joining Homestead Insurance had been yanked out from under her, too. How could she forget that day last September?
She and about two hundred other people had been let go, without warning, from the restaurant-supply company they’d all worked for. It had just suddenly been shut down. By the FBI. Embezzlement, she’d heard. Top management had gone to jail, and the rest of them—the innocent, unsuspecting employees—had gone either to the unemployment office or, like Jayde, back to one of the various employment agencies around town.
And now she was unemployed…again. Could it be worse?
It began to snow. Well, you ask a question… Totally demoralized now, Jayde raised her face to the oppressive gray sky. Big, fat, wet flakes gently assaulted her, melting like tears on her face. It seemed even Mother Nature wanted to take a shot at her. Jayde exhaled sharply. Standing here and freezing to death was getting her nowhere fast. She looked up and down the street, as if an answer to her dilemma would suddenly come lightly tripping by. But all she saw were people scurrying from one place to the next. No doubt employed people.
Feeling alone as she never had before, Jayde tried to put a brave face on her situation. She certainly wasn’t among the employed right now, so she didn’t need to be standing here in the cold and the snow with all the poor working slobs, now did she? Heck, she could even avoid rush hour by catching a bus and going home. Home was a tiny studio apartment in which she could curl up with a hot drink. It sounded lovely. But then, her snug little scenario crashed with her next thought. Home was where she could also cry over her slim options and the even slimmer balance in her checkbook.
Switching her bag of belongings to her other hand, she rubbed distractedly at her forehead, a part of her brain noting that her bare fingers were freezing. What am I going to do? I have no money, no car, no family here, no real friends to speak of, a loan to repay, and no money for rent. Jayde knew that her last paycheck from Homestead, the one Ms. Lattimer was forwarding to the employment agency, would be applied to her outstanding placement fee there. Which meant she’d have no money for rent or groceries. She’d be homeless. Unless a miracle came from up above.
Could it?
Jayde looked up again at the gunmetal-gray sky. No miracles. Only snow. Lots of snow. Jayde quirked her mouth, deciding she’d make her own miracle happen. But first, she needed to get across town to see the irrepressibly snooty Ms. Kingston. Jayde swallowed hard, thinking of the young, chic and snobby placement counselor at the employment agency—which Ms. Kingston also owned. The woman wasn’t the least bit friendly, but she was efficient and had certainly found Jayde two jobs already in the year she’d been in Kansas City. Maybe the woman was good for one more.
Great. I get a guardian angel with an attitude.
Half-frozen, feeling as low as she ever had, Jayde approached the knot of huddling people at the bus stop and looked down the street. Of course, the bus was nowhere in sight. And, with the way her luck had been going, Jayde wasn’t surprised when the wind picked up and the snow changed to stinging ice pellets. She snuggled down into her inadequate coat as best she could and tried to sort through her problems one by one. The most immediate one, of course, was that she was slowly turning into a Popsicle—an unemployed Popsicle. She couldn’t make her rent and she couldn’t go home. But the worst thing was that she was no closer to realizing her dream of becoming a successful artist. But, darn it, how could she be? It wasn’t as if she’d ever had the opportunity to indulge her desire to paint. Desire? It was way beyond desire. It was destiny. It was what she’d been born to do, just like Picasso or Monet or even Grandma Moses. She could feel it. Truly feel it. Deep down inside.
Vibrant images filled her head, just as canvases and paints crowded her studio apartment. Painting with oils. It was the one and only thing she truly wanted to do. Why was she given this desire if she wasn’t supposed to do something with it? An ironic smile claimed Jayde’s mouth. Well, maybe she was making progress. After all, now that she’d lost her job, she could officially become a starving artist. That was progress, right? Her smile faded. How could she paint when she couldn’t even keep a roof over her head and food in her belly…which chose that moment to growl.
Jayde clutched at her coat, pressing her fisted hand against her stomach. Just then, the crowd around her quickened to life. She looked down the street. A lumbering city bus slowly but blessedly wheezed its way toward them. Taking that as a sign of better things to come, Jayde found herself suddenly overcome with a sense of well-being. The bus was coming, she’d get another, better job, maybe at an art museum, and she’d have the money to paint wonderful pictures. And then people would clamor to buy her Impressionistic renderings of Kansas City’s unique fountains, her true passion and the reason she’d moved here in the first place.
And then she’d have the life she wanted, and she’d give her family everything they needed—and things would be okay. It could and would happen…if only Ms. Kingston didn’t throw her out the minute she walked through the door—yet again—of Your Dream Job Employment Agency.
“YOU AGAIN.”
Jayde swallowed nervously and felt her smile slip a notch. Since she hadn’t yet been invited in, she stood in the doorway of the warm and plush office she’d been escorted to by the receptionist, Tasha. Like everyone else in this place, the young girl had a way of making Jayde feel no better than the doormat she’d just wiped her feet on. She didn’t like that feeling. After all, she was a paying client here and not a beggar…at least, not yet. Striving to seem cheery, Jayde said, “Yes, ma’am. Me again. How are you, Ms. Kingston?”
Ms. Kingston…with no small show of resignation…removed her wire-rimmed glasses and put down the file she’d been reading. The slender woman, her short red hair fashionably cut, frowned. “I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me ma’am. I’m the same age you are.”
Well, she sure didn’t seem as though she was twenty-five. In fact, to Jayde, she didn’t seem to have any age at all. She’d never been able to picture Ms. Kingston doing anything like cooking or dating or watching TV or visiting family—or having any problems. Much less a first name. In Jayde’s mind, the woman’s name was Ms. Kingston and she only existed here in this office. “Yes, ma’am—oh, I’m sorry. You just asked me not to—”
“Mrs. Lattimer has already called me.” The woman’s blue eyes resembled ice chips.
Jayde’s heart thumped heavily. “I see. Then you know
why I’m here.”
“Of course. I expected you. You may as well come in and sit down.” Ms. Kingston indicated a chair across from her desk.
Jayde entered and sat. Perched on the edge of the cushion, she felt totally inadequate. As she watched as Ms. Kingston raised a mug of steaming coffee to her lips, a chill chased through her, making Jayde wish she had such warmth rushing through her own cold body. She couldn’t look away, not even when Ms. Kingston caught her staring.
The woman thunked her mug down atop the blotter on her desk and pursed her lips. “I suppose you’ll want a cup. Although, I don’t know if there’s any coffee left at this late hour. But I can have Tasha see if—”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Jayde’s stubborn pride rose up. “What I would like is for you to find me another job. And quickly. Please.” Jayde tried to smile but her facial muscles were stiff and uncooperative. Ms. Kingston continued to stare at her. Accusingly. Suddenly Jayde’s pride deflated. “Look, I didn’t try to kill Mr. Homestead,” she blurted. “It was an accident. And the paramedics said the wound wasn’t all that deep…”
Ms. Kingston managed a thin smile. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” She tapped a painted nail atop the folder she’d been reading when Jayde had come in. “I have your file right here. But, tell me, Miss Greene, why do you continue to come to this agency?”
She was tempted to reply, Because of the warm and fuzzy prison feel to the place, Warden. Instead, she said, “Because of the name. Your Dream Job. I like that. And because I know you. And because—” Jayde looked down at her lap, at her hands knotted together atop her pathetic trash bag of belongings…and thought of her huge loan and of her family and how they needed her. This was no time for pride.
She looked up, meeting Ms. Kingston’s waiting gaze, and fought the hot tears that were gathering in her eyes. “The truth? Because I don’t have anywhere else to go. And my rent will be due soon. And my last paycheck from Homestead won’t even cover the remaining part of your placement fee. And I don’t have any choice but to ask you to find me another job that has yet another fee I can’t afford—”
