Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) (24 page)

“Soon as they find out I’m a cop, they smile politely. Some look guilty and comment about parking tickets. Then I’m history.”

“Try being a minister. Guys run. Every time it seems I’ve met Mr. Right, his first name turns out to be Always. He’s not reserved about that, either. Seems I’m meant to be a widow for the rest of my life, which is okay.”

“Widow?” He frowned. Like that meant something to him.

“Yeah, long story. Heck, it’s tough to counsel couples on marital problems when I’m single and childless, but when they find out my pilot husband died just months after we were married they know I have no on-the-job experience. Oh, way TMI — too much information. My mouth doesn’t stop, especially in awkward situations. That sets off a silent alarm in men.”

“I look like I heard any alarms?”

“You’re a cop. You’re not supposed to be scared.” I laughed again. So much for not telling too much too soon.

He studied his hands, rubbed the bruised knuckles, and said, “Don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy out there. If a cop stops being scared, he or she is usually dead. Will ya knock off staring across the street? Okay, and now, answer this: Have you seen anything in me that would be frightened by a woman of conviction? A woman who was confident and smart?” He put down the iced tea.

A bear-like hand stretched out. It moved toward mine. It was either going to touch my fingers or I’d have to take my hand off the table. Quickly.

The world and my breath stopped.

Have you heard of deciding moments? Have you ever felt your next actions might, just might, change your life? No, me either, but as if it had a mind or heart of its own, my left hand stayed put, with the palm up. Decision made.

If it’s true that there’s a season for every purpose under heaven, was this where my heart would be restored? Or smashed to smithereens?

Tom’s palm was calloused, his fingers muscular, and his grasp felt just right, rather like settling into an overstuffed chair. Not that Tom really looked all that much like furniture, although he had a few to lose. Heck, if I were equally honest, so did I, but we’re not talking about me here.

One touch, and I was ready to flip through
Brides
magazine. Just what does a nicely padded preacher wear to her own wedding? When that question settled into my pea-sized brain, I pulled my fingers out of his grasp with the same speed used when you touch a boiling pot.

He jumped too. Electricity between us? Sheer fear, my guess. “Tom, we’ve known each other for, what, four days? I’m an adult, a solid citizen, a woman with a doctorate in religion and so much on my plate right now that it’s all spilling over onto the floor and getting splattered on my shoes.”

He pulled his hand back, empty as it was. He took a long drag on the straw connected to the iced tea. “Forget it. I’ve always moved too fast for my brain to catch up. Four days? Yeah, I’m the fool, but it felt as if I’ve wanted to know you all my life.” He gulped, clenched and unclenched his jaw. “My folks were married fifty years. They married after knowing each other two days. Thought it might run in the family. If you laugh, Jane, I swear, I’ll be emasculated for life.”

For the first time, I heard the Spanish lilt, and I gulped. I was Silly Putty in the guy’s hands. I reached across the bright yellow table and grabbed his hand. “I’d never laugh at you, Tom. Besides, we have lots in common.” But luckily, I didn’t say, “And someday maybe I’ll tell you about my revelation about
Brides.
”

We both looked at our hands, and he asked, “Think we might go on a regular date sometime, Preacher? Movies or dinner?”

“Will you issue me a citation for a rain check, Policeman?”

“No.”

I swear tears sprouted to my eyes. “What? Just like that?”

He looked about a zillion percent more comfortable and laughed. It sounded as smooth as Ben & Jerry’s Brownie Batter ice cream. I’ve done plenty of research on that variety so I know smooth. “It’s going to be your turn to ask me. That’s the rule, from now on. Ball’s in your court.”

Was it that easy to fall in love? Pshaw, not me. I was too old, too tough, too religious, and I lied to myself too often.

Tom checked his watch. “Break time’s over, got a mountain of paperwork to go through.” He took the pile of adoption forms with PSA’s pretty logo and said, “I’ve got to make some sense of these. You need them back?”

“Yes, I want to proceed. But before you go, how’s Mikel? I met the woman who found him when I was at the Daily Bread Mission.”

“Did you meet the gal, Eddie, who could be a professional wrestler? Seems she runs the place. There’s always one. Yeah, we talked to them all. Mikel is okay. We’re still trying to find a Polish psychologist to talk with him, but the three we know of happen to all be on vacation or down with this flu stuff. All at once. Ought to be a law against that.”

We walked toward the doors. “My grandfather is a kind person, Tom,” I said, “and speaks fluent Polish, but he’s not a psychologist. Hey, there’s a Polish Social Club meeting tonight after dance class. Would you like me to ask if there are any psychologists in the group?”

“You’d do that? You liked that kid, didn’t you?”

“Call me Saran Wrap, see right through me. Will you tell me if there’s anything odd in the forms? Can you have somebody drop them at the church tomorrow? I’ll be there all day.”

Driving back toward church and sitting in my office, I tried to think about VBS, tried to focus on the report that waited for my attention — tried, but heck, trying didn’t cut it. By a quarter to six, I was back in the SUV and heading to my six o’clock dance class date at the East Las Vegas Senior Center. As I pulled into the lot, Gramps called me, double-checking my arrival time. He was giddy. Some redhead he’d been dancing with had invited him to the coffee klatch afterward. I couldn’t tell if he was starving for female attention or the kolaches or honey cakes they served.

• • •

I found a spot in the shade of a spindly tree as Petra pulled in next to me. She locked her battered gray Toyota then waved calling to me, “Jane, I heard news in the berry vine.”

“Grape?”

“No not about grapes. About a young boy, just five years old walking around in the bad section of town. Limping. You must understand. This could be important. My friend Drexel’s nephew had a limp, and he is about five or six. The records from the Child’s Play Home said that the boy had a severe knee ailment. He was born with only one kneecap.” Her delicate lips formed a pained straight line and her forehead, the color of vanilla ice cream, actually wrinkled. She put a hand up, shielding the sun so she could see me.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Drexel and Greta sooner?”

“They wanted everything to keep as secret. I know Drexel and Greta talked with you today, but this berry vine talk came from the
buscias
, the grandmothers. They talk a lot — too much sometimes. They think it’s bad for me to be here to fight the PSA all alone. They’re going to help, but what can a group of little old ladies do to fight these criminals?” On cue, one headed straight toward me. Petra scooted, at full speed, in the opposite direction. The girl was no fool.

“I am a buscia. Do you know what that means?” said the one who charged at me first. She was fierce, and I knew better than to try to grab back my arm.

“Yes, Grandmother,” I responded in Polish.

“Good, then you know I am serious. Stop the PSA or we will.” She extended an arm, motioning toward the door.

I turned back to see. Five endearing grandmothers were standing there. “Look over there. That’s the Buscia Brigade. There are more of us, too, more around the country.”

“I will do my best.” She let go of my arm and I rubbed it. That’d leave a bruise, I thought. “A phone call I have to make might even help. May I go now?” I sounded about five years old, but this lady looked like my own buscia. Dangerous.

“You’ll come back after.” It wasn’t a question. “We’re having social time and there are nice men for you to meet. You are not married, says your sweet
dziadek
— ah, grandfather. He’s not married, either, is he? Oh, this is good. You will help us, and we will find you a good, strong husband to give you many babies,” she said and slapped me on the backside. “You are a good fat woman. Good to have babies.”

“Let’s see if I can help you first, shall we?” I jumped away before she could slap me again. “Get the guys to line up, and I’ll check them out to see if they’re worth marrying me.” I tried to laugh, but the buscia pulled me down to her level and smacked a kiss on both cheeks, whispering, “I am glad you’re here,
dziewczynk
. That means baby girl in Polish. Help us stop the PSA, and we’ll find the right
maz,
that is, a husband for you.”

The buscias kept circling me like sharks, but I managed to move through their lines. What would they do to me if I didn’t help them stop PSA? Violence would be the answer, I had no doubt. You’ve heard about mama bears being separated from their young? They’re regular pussycats compared to Polish grandmothers. It would not have shocked me if they’d decided to storm the PSA office and tar and feather Delta Cheney if she refused to stop the black market baby business.

I opened my cell and pushed the numbers for Tom’s office only to get his voice mail. I pushed the numbers for his cell phone and got another one. I was standing there wondering how in the world to find him when my phone rang. “Jane here.”

“Jane, it’s Tom. Are we okay?”

“Are we a ‘we’?” I was way too confused about our relationship or what it might be or even morph into to encourage this line of talking or thinking so I snapped, “Tom, what exactly is wrong with that little Polish boy Mikel?”

I could hear sirens in the background. Again. Tom responded, “His foot, a malformation in his ankle and knee. The docs seem to think it can be surgically repaired, but I have got the Feds breathing down my neck and I can’t worry about that kid right now. Sorry.”

“You sure?” I trembled then I asked, “Not a hip or an ankle? Or a kneecap?”

“Awfully curious about that kid’s bone structure. Yeah, why?” The sirens were getting louder. “Hey, Jane, looks like I have to take off. In my business, there are interruptions.”

I swear I heard a crash and what sounded like, “Put your hands against the car,” but then I have been known to have a fertile imagination. “Is everything okay?” Those sounds were beginning to grate on my under-caffeinated nerves.

“Part of the job. Why?”

The siren ended it for me and fantasies of snuggling with Tom. I’d buried one lover who thrived on adrenaline, and each time an F-15 flew overhead out of Nellis Air Force Base, I saw Collin’s jet burst into flames and heard the sirens on the airfield. Period. No more “we.” I mumbled, “Yes, yes, it was the noise.”

“You’ve got to loosen up, Jane, especially if we’re going to see more of each other. Do you? Can we?”

Changing the subject was safer than heading down that dead-end highway. “Which knee? Which foot?”

“I’ll have to check. Something from trauma to his mother before his birth. Probably beat when she was pregnant. But the doctors only checked him out to make sure he hadn’t been physically abused.”

“And, was he?” I held my breath.

“Physically, other than the limp, he’s good. Breaks me up. He loves playing catch. The kid’s pretty good. Maybe we can take him to the park. Or something?”

I didn’t answer his question about getting to know me better or the park, but ended the conversation by closing my phone as I walked out. I felt queasy. Could the doctors be wrong? Could Mikel be Drexel’s long-lost nephew? There were a million reasons why this wasn’t possible and about a million more why it could be. Sweat popped out on my top lip, bottom lip, armpits, and in the crevice between my breasts. Some from the heat, but most because coincidences do happen. Could I make this come true by holding my breath, keeping my fingers crossed, or sprinkling salt over my shoulder?

I was a-wishin’ and a-hopin’ and a-prayin’ as Carl Lipca touched my arm, circling his fingers around my elbow. “Jane, have a second? There’s something I wanted to ask.” He looked down at his soft-soled dancing shoes, then up at me with gooey eyes, the bedroom kind he’d flashed at Petra just before I had wrestled him to the dance floor.

“Is Drexel still around? I have some news,” I said.

He looked hopeful and stepped six inches closer. “Tell me something I can print that’s going to throw mud on the Philemon Society.”

“There was a Polish boy found walking the streets this past weekend. Drexel said he was looking for his nephew, and I thought it could be the same boy. But there’s no real way of telling.”

Carl continued to look at me, as if I should be saying something more, then he said, “You mean Mikel?”

“How do you know? Of course, you’re a reporter. You know everything, right? Probably more than I do.” He laughed, and again, I felt uncomfortable with the guy. “What else do you know about the PSA?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in. Just stuff. Petra probably told you, too,” he said.

I was certain, or my favorite chocolate isn’t chocolate, that the man was not being honest with me because once again, I got an irritating, itchy feeling about Carl, like wearing a wool scarf on an August afternoon. My brain instant messaged my mouth, and my woman’s intuition screamed for me to listen. I obeyed.

I could see Gramps whooping it up with one buscia after another; he waved, but I turned around, away from Carl. “I forgot something in the car,” I muttered. I needed air, needed to not feel obligated to hang out with Carl and possibly say something about Drexel and Greta and especially how I’d met them.

“Get your dancing shoes and come back. We can talk more about the PSA,” he said.

I was on information overload, but still, as I walked from the center, I saw a shadow. Have you ever turned and felt someone there? It was that creepy feeling, but then again my entire day had been creepy to the core. Nonetheless, I slipped my keys between my fingers to protect myself, just as I’d read in some safety article in
Cosmo.
I’d never tried it. Yet, when that grip landed on my shoulder and I flipped around to maul my assailant, I knew I could. The assailant, however, was none other than Pastor Normal.