Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) (7 page)

He was right. However, two things were stopping me from agreeing, and they were my feet. I’d never been comfortable dancing, never had any desire to get on the dance floor, other than fantasizing with
Dancing with the Stars.
“Are you sure?”

“Come on, Janey. Class is in an hour. We don’t have much time to get to the center.”

Within an hour, I was being instructed to hold my arms in a certain way, wiggle my hips to loosen them up, and bend a bit at my knobby knees. Imagine this vision of grace and poise. Don’t even bother. There I was at the senior center, shaking my booty and, surprisingly for those who know me and have seen me in jeans, even with my bountiful backside, booty shaking doesn’t come naturally for yours truly.

“Please, Madam, Miss Pastor Jane, relax.” This was Petra. “Feel the music. In your bones. Don’t look at your feet. Your muscles will work better if you count.”

At break time, when everyone else was getting coffee or a soft drink, Gramps pulled me aside. “Talk with Petra, will you? She needs some girl talk, honey. Something’s troubling her.”

“I just met the woman, Gramps. As you may recall, especially when you stare at the coffee all over this shirt, my actions spoke louder than my words. Forget the sterling first impression, because she knows I’m a screwball. And I have principles. I usually wait at least two hours before I meddle in someone’s business.”

That wasn’t entirely honest. I have been nosey quicker than that and he knew it, so after getting a grandfatherly shove I trotted over toward the woman I’d recently insulted.

I smiled, stayed a few feet away in case she hadn’t forgiven me and said, “Hey, Petra. Thank you for getting Gramps to come here. This is good for him.”

“Dancing is good for us all.” She nodded, like a delicate bobble head, and slipped the paper she’d been reading into the pocket of her electric blue crinkly peasant skirt, which would have made me look as big as Texas.

I replied, “I’m a good listener if you ever want to talk. Gramps thinks you might have something weighing on your heart.”

“It is a big thing, Pastor. Too big for you.” She inhaled sharply and then straightened her shoulders. “It’s too big for me.”

“It’s not too big for our God, Petra. Call me Jane. Our God is a specialist in really big problems. I don’t have any more of a direct connection with Him than you do, but I’ve solved some huge problems in my day, in and out of the ministry, and maybe I can help you find some answers.” I didn’t tell her that I’d created colossal quandaries single-handedly; no need right then for full disclosure.

She looked down her feet, which by the way were in the sweetest, softest taupe pumps, beyond adorable with a tiny strap across the top. It was enough to make me sick since I lusted for the shoes, and feet that size. We both looked up at the same time. “With permission, may I call you later?” she said.

“That works for me.” I patted her hand. In 120 minutes or less, I’d gone from making horrid, spoken accusations that Petra was a gold digger to attempting to console her.

To add a bit more drama to whatever had stirred her up she wiped a tear from her eye and patted her pocket where she’d hidden the paper I’d seen her reading. She flicked a switch on the portable CD player, and we went back to attempt the foxtrot with “You Make Me Feel So Young” crooned by Frank Sinatra pouring over the crowd.

Gramps didn’t wince more than twenty times as I crushed his toes, amazing through those alligator-skin boots he was sporting. Everything was rosy, until Petra called out, “Now everyone, it’s time to twinkle.”

That did it. I stopped dead. “Tinkle? Gramps I never have and never will tinkle in public.”

“A twinkle. It’s a twisting side step, a running in motion dance move,” he said and called across the room. “Petra, I can’t handle this.”

As if they had a secret code, she rushed over and replaced Gramps in the man’s position. The music got louder.

I’m a preacher and in the miracle business, which is a preachy line I use, but this had to be an honest-to-goodness one.

You see, as Petra took my partner’s position, I was transformed into a swirling, gazelle-like ballroom dancing professional. Twirling, twisting, and twinkling, it didn’t matter one whit that I was dancing with a girl, who happened to be a trained dancer. In all my born days, I never ever thought I’d feel light as a feather, feel the music to my marrow. It coursed in my veins. I was as free as a butterfly, free as falling leaves in an autumn breeze, light as Cool Whip on Jell-O and nary a toe came between my size eight feet and the dance floor. It was heaven. It was sublime. It was what my body was made for. I was going to throw off the preacher’s garb to scoot straight for Broadway. Look out chorus girls, look out Rockettes, and look out for Jane Angieski. I spun, smiled, and wiggled in all the right places, since I do have an abundance of those “places” to wiggle. The music turned to a polka, and my Polish blood surged. I let go of Petra’s hands. I was born to dance and dance I would, with nothing to stop me.

For a good ten seconds.

What happened next was not my fault. As I shouted, “I’m twinkling.” I took to the air. I flew straight at, not into the arms of, one of the handsomest hunks of manhood I’d seen in a good long while.

Carl Lipca. That name seemed to erupt from every other mouth in Las Vegas. I heard about him first in a gushingly, girlish, dishy kind of conversation between Vera and one of the teens. I swear Vera had to wipe drool from her mouth as she ogled Carl’s photo, which appeared next to his editorial in the newspaper. Vera has a crush on Carl, I wanted to taunt, but I was too mature for that, even though I sang it in my mind. He was young enough to be her grandson. Oh, yuck.

I shoved that ick-o piece of too-much-information to the back of my mind.

Carl was this straight-arrow journalist for the local paper who seemed to be one step ahead of every issue, a homegrown celebrity and the city’s most eligible bachelor. Talk around Vera’s desk had been that he might run for mayor, might try out to anchor CBS News, and had been seen at the Academy Awards on the arm of a starlet. As to whether they were an item, Vera said, “Not at all, but he has been taking acting lessons,” certain as all get out.

For about two seconds at the most, I wondered what a card carrying AARP-age church secretary and cuddly, most definitely hunky journalist would have in common. I tossed that tantalizing thought through the window with some of my more obscure romantic fantasies and realized it was probably pubescent infatuation on Vera’s nipped and tucked face.

Yes, these life-in-front-of-me flashings were circling my brain whilst I was airborne.

So picture this: Me, Little Miss Twinkle Toes, making an impression on the suave Carl Lipca. Boy, did I do it. Imagine if you will, while pondering my look-away embarrassment, a pleasingly plump pastor parading in a precarious polka as I became a potent projectile zeroing in on this picture of pulchritude and perfection. Yep, I made a donkey’s south end of myself.

“You okay, lady?” he said between puffs of ragged inhalations.

Love at first sight? My heart was racing, my pulse pulsating. His luscious lips were close to mine, and all I had to do was scream straight at him, “Um, yeah, my, um, foot slipped.” My foot may have slipped, but the bottom line was that my backside was now squarely straddling him in a variation of the missionary position. If we were alone and hadn’t had clothes on … Oh, dream on. Yes, I planned to do just that, at length, when I was thoroughly alone.

When I write my book on ways to get guys to notice a woman, this will not be in the manual. “Stay still. Are you hurt?” I asked as I lifted my buttocks off his lower-than-the-waist midsection, if you get my drift, and tried to balance with my hand on the floor. Unfortunately my palm was sweaty. Unfortunately the floor was slick, and I flopped down in his face with an, “Ohhhh.” And for your information, our mouths touched, and he’d probably have a fat lip since my teeth collided with the aforementioned lip. I tasted blood. It wasn’t mine.

Hands grabbed me around the waist. I think it was Petra, and I rolled off his body. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Carl dashed to his feet, terrified that I’d heave myself at him again, and pulled Petra between us. Her tiny size wouldn’t help much, but I guess it made the guy feel safer because I’m certain he considered me a Looney Toon. Make that a dangerous Looney Toon.

“Jane, oh, my, please let me help you to a chair.” Petra wrapped an arm around me. “You’ll be fine, you slipped. It can happen,” she said, cooing as if she were talking to a baby.

I would have gobbled it up; I’m a sucker for sympathy, but I saw Carl retreat, placing a tissue over his mouth. He pulled it back, saw the blood, and clasped it to his lip again. Gramps dashed over to me. No sad and worried look on his face; my grandfather was quaking with laughter. He’d had two belly laughs in two hours. That was beyond his legal limit, especially since they were both at my expense.

He motioned for the journalist. I swear the guy cowed. Heck, would you blame him? Yet Carl obeyed and came within ten feet of me while every other bystander in that entire room took ten giant steps back. Who knew who I’d throw myself at next? They feared for their lives and reproductive organs.

“Carl, my friend, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Pastor Jane Angieski. You two certainly hit it off.” Whatever else he was going to say dissolved into laughter, and now the entire class, middle-aged and older, was joining in, suddenly less fearful of Rocket Girl, Jane the deadly projectile of the dance floor. I guess because I was sitting.

Carl was the genuine article, all arm candy and even better looking when I wasn’t piercing his lips with my front teeth. His eyes were not too bad, either, sultry brown like bitter chocolate, the kind that melts on your tongue. He might have a Polish last name, but he was one hundred percent American male in my book.

He nodded and looked at me — not too close, mind you. He dabbed his lip and said, “Wait. I know you.”

Words to make a girl’s heart turn to jelly? Yeah, until he said, “You’re the fighting minister, aren’t you? Love to get an interview while you’re in Vegas. Make a great feature piece. You pack a wallop.”

I dusted my hands. “I’m a lethal weapon,” I said, and then it hit me. “You know me?”

Carl’s smile was sly. “Blame everything I know on Henry. He and I found our families lived in the same area in Poland and we talked about you, too. I’d like to hear some time about your efforts in Los Angeles since I saw you on the Internet. You’ve got a story, Pastor.”

“Really?” I cooed much like some cooing I’d overheard Vera doing in the telephone one day. The thought momentarily made me queasy.

“You’re some minister always digging up dirt. I want to be kept in the loop, okay? So if you hear anything, just call me.”

What
had
Gramps told him? In a highly caffeinated moment I might have forgotten the slip from grace straight at his lower-than-middle and grabbed the hunk’s arm for a spin around the dance floor, minus the deadly twinkles. Then I happened to look at Petra, who was looking at Carl, who was looking at Petra. It was goo-goo, ga-ga all around. My fears that Petra was about to whisk Gramps off to the honeymoon delights of Aruba seemed as non-reality-based as my unexpected talent for dancing.

I rubbed my knees and dusted off my backside. “I’ve hung up my Super Minister cape and mask. I’m going to become a professional dancer.” Heads spun in circles as the entire class looked in horror.

I always say why make a fool of yourself unless there’s a really good crowd? I tried that giggling, joie de vivre sounds you hear actresses do on
Access Hollywood.
“Just kidding, Carl. Nice meeting you. Let’s hope we bump into each other again.” I wiggled my hips and heard him gasp. Then added, “In different circumstances? Gramps, isn’t dance time over?” Like the parting of the Red Sea, a path cleared between me and the exit and I boogied. Can’t blame them. When I dance, people are harmed.

We waved our good-byes, and I attempted to leave with whatever dignity I had still intact. Attempted is the operative word because I assumed I was stepping toward an automatic door. My nose will tell you that wasn’t the case.

I was still rubbing my forehead as I walked into the condo, with Gramps limping behind me. He was still laughing — not all the time, only when he looked at me. There was no sign of Harmony. I called her name and then the place exploded. It was filled with a yapping dust mop hitting my shins at four hundred miles an hour. Wait, make that a shag carpet on steroids.

“Tuffy.” Harmony screamed, dashing from the kitchen. “Oh, Pastor, you’re not supposed to see him yet, not until I could tell you about him.” She chased it in circles around my feet, in a futile attempt to capture the wiggling creature. “Stop, Tuffy, stop. He just rushed out when he heard the key in the door.” The faster she ran, the faster the shag carpet dashed. If it had been happening to someone else, I would have squealed with laughter.

“I promise you he won’t be a bother,” she yelled as
it
leaped over the sofa and then continued making laps around the living room, yapping as it ran.

“What
is
it?” I bent to snag it and bam, just like that the thing bounded and flung itself into my arms.

“Jane, you must’ve hit your head when you attacked Carl. It’s a dog.” Gramps ruffled the dog’s head, and he nearly kissed it. I think we both picked up the smell in the same second. Make that a wet shag carpet on steroids. Wait, make that a wet rug on steroids who’d been Dumpster diving.

“Harmony, is it yours?” I was using my righteous “high preachin’ horse” voice again. I’m cringing as I admit that it grated on me. I smashed my lips. Might this be why I was boyfriendless and childless with the big four-oh ever looming? Was I that bossy? That quick to criticize? I might ponder my self-righteously wrong mindset at some future time, but at that second, I had a filthy dog nesting in my embrace. He seemed to love me, even if I wasn’t keen on myself.

I looked at the girl and gone was Harmony’s armor, replaced by tears, like sprinklers, great lines down her face. “I’ve been taking care of him. Tuffy’s his name. He’s been with me, secretly, since Dad went to jail. The woman at that last foster home went into convulsions when she saw him, sent him to the pound, but I bailed him out. I’ve been hiding him. She said she’d make sure I never found another foster home if I brought in another dog.”