Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) (8 page)

With lips pushed forcibly into a smile, I managed, ”Well, you’re here now. Along with your little dog, too.” And yes, I did think I sounded like the Wicked Witch. That dog needed fumigation.

Gramps stuck out his hand to Harmony. “Hello, I’m Henry, Pastor Jane’s grandfather.” I thought for sure he was going to try to hug Harmony. I had a feeling she’d let him, this girl who constantly shied away from me. He took the dog from my arms, wrinkled his nose, and handed it to Harmony. “I bet Jane has some really fine shampoo in her bathroom. She usually does. Let’s give this little dog a bath. Been a while since I’ve bathed a dog.” He reached out and took Harmony’s hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and said, “Some like it, some don’t. We’ll close the door so we can find out what kind his royal dogness is.” He was jubilant, bouncing as the threesome headed down the hall. To wash a dog. Men. Who can understand them?

God brought us all together for some reason other than to bust the seams of this pint-sized condo. At least that’s what I thought before it sunk in that they were going to use my extravagant twenty-nine-dollar-a-bottle shampoo, which my hairdresser swore would keep my hair color as shiny as gold dust. I dashed down the hall as the door slammed shut. I yelled at the closed door. “His fur better not look nicer than mine when he’s finished.”

It was three hours past my bedtime when I finally got to sleep. Takes time to blow dry a pooch. I swear, they even tried to use my curling iron on him. Okay, I’ll admit it, the mutt was cute, especially after I trimmed his face and we could see his little brown, almond-shaped eyes. We all worked together with Gramps and Harmony cooing and coddling his chinny-chin-chin.

Then, everything slowed. Harmony went to one guest bedroom, Gramps tramped to the other. The dog? Sleeping, finally, after making 651 mad dashes around the house. He was glued to my hip and in my bed. It won’t shock you to know I’d hoped for a male, even a snoring one, but a male pooch wasn’t not what I’d had in mind.

• • •

In less than two days’ time, I had gone from being miserably, pitifully lonesome to cohabitating with two of the sloppiest humans on the face of God’s green earth, plus a canine, in a condo that had shrunk to the size of a peanut. Speaking of Tuffy, he never walked anywhere, but sped like Satan himself was about to pull that little stub of a tail.

The place was a pigpen. It might even stink. And the funny part? I could not remember being happier, most of all because my grandfather was smiling. As my Polish grandmother used to say, “Have fun now, Jane. Those dirty dishes aren’t going anywhere.” She was right. It had been too long since I’d had family that I didn’t recognize the emotion of joy when it landed on me like I’d landed on the newspaper reporter.

Around me, of course, Harmony was still the kid who clammed up. Yeah, it was me, because with Gramps? She was Miss Motor Mouth, a real Chatty Cathy. They seemed to have their funny bones in the same location, joking like buds. Standing at the breakfast bar the next morning, I swallowed more coffee, not wanting to think that a few years ago, I was his only pal. I was now a grown-up minister, I told myself, and only half listening to Gramps sketch their plans for that day.

“Janey, we’re goin’ to the doggie park. I just Googled them, and we’ve got a choice of four.” He pointed to the patio where Harmony and Tuffy were romping in the early morning heat.

“How did Harmony think she’d be able to hide him from me? Didn’t matter. The dog was out of the closet so to speak. He’s shampooed, fluffed and … ” I finished the coffee. “Don’t you think he’s some kind of ratty terrier in that squirming body?”

Gramps fished his keys off the counter and Harmony and the dog joined us. “After the park, we’re going to the super pet store for some super pet food for this super dog, maybe get him a new leash. Yeah, a new leash on life, that’s what this pooch needs, right, Miss Harmony? I understand, because he’s a lot like me, Jane. We’d probably better buy a comb. Unless it’s okay that he keeps using yours?” He turned to me, and I stuck my tongue out in reply. “Didn’t think so. Get his old leash, Harmony, will you? Oh, yeah, Harmony and I decided the dog needs a real name. Yep, it’s going to be Tough E. Angieski,” Gramps rattled on, spilling breakfast dishes in the sink, splashing water on the oatmeal that would turn to mortar. He high-fived Harmony before she dashed down the hall.

“Our last name?” I did a double take from the mess in the sink to my grandfather’s face. While I was still sighing over the fact that I wasn’t going to have a new step-grandmother, giving a dog with our last name was creepy.

“Lighten up, Jane baby,” he growled in a whisper and I snapped to, just like when I was Harmony’s age. “That’s what she wanted. She said you’d go postal, but I argued you’d be okay. She worries what think of her, you know.”

“She likes me … ” I trailed off, thinking that she didn’t hardly say anything to me, didn’t initiate conversations. On the plus side, her dog’s fur was fabulous. My hairdresser would love this.

I’d just finished the above lie to myself when Harmony walked back into the room. Gramps turned to her. “Ready for the park and the store, Miss Harmony?” And she nodded as Gramps said, “We’re off, and eventually will head to the market. We need snacks. Thought we might stop at the Senior Center to see if Petra’s there.” Gramps gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Harmony.” I smiled as brightly as a toothpaste commercial. “I think your dog’s new -name is perfect.” And with that I won a flicker of a smile. My day was made, at least for another twenty minutes.

Tough E. Angieski yapped, making victory laps, then dashed to Gramps’ Mustang. I stood on the porch, waving until the car turned out of the neighborhood, feeling empty and lonely and, okay, weird. I wanted to go with them, like a family, and have fun. “Get outta here, girl,” I said to myself, and the grown up took charge because in ten minutes I was on my way to church.

A church on Saturday is bliss, quiet and people-less. There was a boatload of work to be done for Vacation Bible School, and like it or not, it’d barrel into the station marked “Jane’s Responsibility” on Monday. Moving into the left lane to enter the church, what I saw nearly made me swerve, make a U-turn, and run away.

Pastor Bob’s spanking new Lexus was hogging two handicapped parking spots near the entrance. Odd? Not the hogging, but that he was there on a Saturday. Why did I have such an aversion to him? Paranoia? Always over-caffeinated?

I slowed the SUV to five miles an hour, but eventually, even at that speed, I’d have to park among the BMWs, Hummers, classic Corvettes, and five Mercedes so new they still with temporary plates. Through the huge, glass front doors I spied a crowd with Pastor Bob in the middle. I swear they were doing a cheer, like, well, cheerleaders.

My first, second, and third choices would have been to totally avoid the perky pastor and his precocious surprises. Gosh, I hate being a adult at times, I thought as I headed into the foyer where Pastor Bob was holding court, encircled by adoring fans, huddled with their arms circling each other.

They yelled, slapped each other, and the laughter rang in the cavernous foyer. I inched around the crowd, but I’m rather tough to miss because of my pleasing plumpness.

“Look who’s here, everybody. Pastor Jane, perfect timing. As usual. These are my personal prayer partner, Ms. Delta Cheney. Yes, my goodness, it’s our new youth minister. We are getting really huge things done around here with Pastor Jane on board.” Pastor Bob’s face shined, moist with sweat. He started patting me on the shoulder. “You should hear this woman talk to those teenagers. And now the news. God has great plans for our VBS, especially with Jane in charge. Real PR move getting neighborhood kids here, lots of new faces, to um, bring to the Lord, and to help beef up the coffers so we can launch new programs. Right, Jane?”

They clapped and cheered, like a high school pep rally, jumping for joy at whatever Pastor Bob said. It was spooky. There I stood in my Saturday “ensemble” of baggy jeans, hot-pink scoop-neck T-shirt, down to my flip flops, pumping hands with the movers and shakers of Las Vegas.

The weirdest thing happened after that. Maybe not as spine-chilling stuff as from the last forty-eight hours, including nearly having Carl Lipca in a position where in some states we’d have to marry, but with these bashful baby-brown eyes, it looked a heckava lot like Ms. Cheney and the good pastor were in cahoots, cookin’ and plannin’. They were chummy. Like that Supreme Court judge said about pornography, you know it when you see it.

My niggling whisper preceptor was on red alert because something weird and creepy was going on, which was perceptible in a body-language, Patrick Jane on the
Mentalist
sort of thing. It was disturbing and perturbing. I tried to smile like I didn’t have a care in the world but the thought occurred to me that I could be slightly psychotic. Or is that like being slightly pregnant? Hopefully it was just the heat. Or perhaps it was from being in close proximity to the ever-surprising, always-something-up-the-sleeve Pastor Bob Normal.

Ms. Cheney was, as Jerry Seinfeld says, “a close talker,” in breathing distance and in my face although I knew she was ignoring me. She smelled of cigarette breath, which spilled on me like a douse of Taboo perfume. She was tall, muscular, and athletic as if she’d been in sports, like a forward for the Chicago Bulls.

I started a string of small talk, weather, my move, the price of peanuts in Peoria. She wasn’t really listening or looking at me. Her eyes were only on Bob, for whom she’d seductively licked her lips. He turned briefly and she caught his eye. I had front row seats to it all, and I swear, before Bob smiled, there was a hint of something other than adoration for Delta Cheney crossing his face. Now, I’ve been all wet about relationships but you know about looks. Pastor Bob may have been gushing good gravy about Delta Cheney, but his eyes didn’t reciprocate. Just FYI, Bob is married, which of course, didn’t stop some men — didn’t bother a few preachers, either.

Suddenly something I had said got her attention. “What? What did you say?”

Apparently even though she was inches from me and discounted that I was there, she had heard me say that I’d been raised by the Amish on a turnip farm in Toledo. We both knew she wasn’t listening so I asked, “Which teen in the youth group is yours?”

With a coquettish, toothy smile, Delta fingered the bracelets cascading up and down her arms, like someone might an abacus. I was hypnotized by the fat sapphires that sparkled on her ears, the ring of diamonds and rubies around her neck, and the opal as big as Rhode Island on her thumb.

“Jane. Delta. Glad you’re getting on like a house on fire.” Pastor Bob broke the trance just as I was pondering why the woman didn’t have that pushed up, prefab boob look, like some with her style. Plastic enhancement is big business in Vegas, or so I’d been told by a telemarketer who had called the evening before last.

We certainly hadn’t been talking about fires or houses, but Pastor Bob sounded like an on-the-take politician running for reelection. He pulled our elbows, gathering Delta close to me, and spouted about building for God in a way that would have made God blush. Talking louder, he touched Delta on the shoulder, and the woman glowed. Bob? Again, I could have been wrong — I often am — but a tiny corner of his upper lip slipped south.

“Our Delta is the CEO of the Philemon Society of America, locally known as PSA. For five years, right? Know you’ve heard of it. Just had a feature in a parenting magazine. Got a call from our local newspaper guy, the
Las Vegas Review Journal
, about it, too. Why, don’t you know, rumor has it
People
magazine is going to run an article. A few weeks back,
60 Minutes
even sent a scout out here to get some background information. All hush-hush, mind you, Pastor, top secret, I suppose, since the producers wouldn’t say why they wanted to know. Gosh, those television people frown a lot.”

He rambled, then took a deep breath, and I thought he’d stop. Wrong again. “We’re certain it is because they’ve touched hearts and placed children in God-loving homes. Oh, yes, hallelujah and oh, boy, here we have real live angels working in this sinful city of Las Vegas. The angels sent by God have created one of the best faith-based adoption organizations in the world, right here, I say, right here. Right in this little old dusty city, yes, I say, right here. These are great times, say hallelujah, brothers and sisters, great times for forgotten orphans, I tell you, great times, and for our city, too. I am proud to be a small part of your work and the work of our Lord who is directing you, Delta.”

Two waved their hands skyward, another shouted, “Amen.” With the fervor he’d created, it’s surprising they didn’t start rolling on the floor and speaking in tongues. I’d seen the good pastor at the pulpit. The guy had been called charismatic; I called it overly dramatic for my traditional tastes, but he was certainly spirited with this group. Looking at the glowing glances of his adoring fans, I had a feeling Pastor Bob was about to jump with both feet right onto the sermon box.

Delta Cheney yelled, “Oh, yes, Bob, yes, oh, yes,” in a way I didn’t even want to connect with anything outside of his preaching. It creeped me out, big time. Or so I thought until she reached one manicured index finger, touched his chest, and the man became mute. That was creepier by far.

“Oh, Bob, don’t go filling this little pastor with such stuff. We’re just a-doing what we can.” The southern accent poured out, like gravy over biscuits with a Denny’s breakfast. “You’re doing God’s real work in here.” Then she looked down at her perfectly polished fingernails and twisted the bracelets. Fluttering mascara-laden eyelashes, she dipped her chin and whispered something to Bob. It was too much for me to stare this time. I turned and gagged.

Bob glanced at his Rolex. “Off you go now. Know you have to all get going. Hallelujah. Brothers and sisters, I say hallelujah. Good to have you here. We’ll do it again soon.”

As the crowd filed out, I stood like a bump on a log, although my eyes were glued to the cozy chat between the pastor and Delta Cheney as they walked to her cream-colored Mercedes. He bent close. He cocked his head. I wanted to dash to the restroom and scrub my hands, face, and entire body with antibacterial soap.