Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) (5 page)

“Come on, Harmony, let’s get some ice on that bruise. We’ll figure it out.” In a month of Sundays, I knew Pastor Bob, old Ab Normal, would have a cow before he’d let Harmony camp at church. We’d been through this when I’d suggested the gym might be a good daytime shelter, out of the heat, for street people. Nothing fancy, just water, chairs, and a place to be when it got into the 120s. He nixed that puppy pronto, so talking to him about Harmony wouldn’t work, and if she stayed without him knowing, he’d find out from one of the kids and probably have her arrested.

“Or I could put some blankets in the kitchen and sleep there, Pastor Jane. That way I could make the coffee for you first thing in the morning. Unless I’m not welcome.” An eyebrow arched, in a challenge I feared, but no smile came to her bowlike mouth.

“Wait.” I extended a hand, not trying to touch her. “Harmony, wait a second. Can you help me pull all the craft materials out of the cupboard for VBS? I’ve got a problem and really need to hire an assistant. I don’t have time to put an ad on the church website or the bulletin. Hey, do you know anyone who could help? For money?” This was a big, fat old lie. There was no budget, and if the church with its mega millions couldn’t find the money, I’d squeeze my paycheck a little harder. “I can pay ten bucks an hour. It’s from nine to mid-afternoon.” I saw her eyes widen, calculating a day’s pay. “I’ve got to make a few phone calls, and then we’re going to find you a safe place to live. You are never going back to that foster home, unless it’s to get your stuff.”

Like a feral cat, ready to dart, Harmony backed up and skittered out of my reach. She looked at me as if I were attempting to lure her into a car for some candy, but the ten an hour did the trick. “Yeah, I could use a job, and I got my stuff,” she motioned to the grimy, oversized backpack, like a hiker might use. “That bag lady ripped through it. Took my Bible, but I have clothes and things. Just things.”

I swear the bag wiggled, but then again, remember, I hadn’t exactly come to work rested. I handed her a Bible from the bookshelf in back of me. “This is yours now, honey.”

Okay, that was the start of my day, and while odds were not in my favor, the heavens opened and I swear, like in some mediocre movie made in the fifties, a string orchestra let the violins rip. As I went begging for some help about food for VBS, I struck the mother lode. The women who cooked for the Daily Bread were giddy about treats for VBS. Of course, they’d only do it if there were cookies, ice cream, and cupcakes. That actually cinched the deal as three or four gushed, “We never get to make desserts for our families anymore.”

As for the veggies and fruit? I’d cross that nutritional chasm later, gator. They’d have plenty of snacks, but their parents could purge the little darlings from those sugar highs when they got home.

Better yet, there were about a dozen teens loitering around the church, some doing maintenance and painting and a few others helping Vera with clerical jobs and others hanging. I used the three B’s to get them to help — begging, bartering, and blackmailing. Being new, bluffing would be required on the third B, but it worked.

Vera supplied the number for Harmony’s caseworker at Child Protective Services. Overworked and hassled more than even I sounded, the man was appropriately shocked, or so it seemed, about the foster home where Harmony had been staying, and assured me he’d find another for her soon. But for that night? No, not possible, not in any way could he guarantee her a new foster home before the end of the month. “Overcrowding, you know how it is.”

I did not know and would not know. She had three choices, the bureaucrat informed me: “Sleep at the foster home, sleep in a juvenile facility, or sleep on the street.”

I thought about the Good Book that Gramps had criticized me for always spouting and my “high preachin’ horse,” as the weary voice at the end of the phone line droned on. I snapped him off with, “None of the above. Make arrangements for Harmony’s temporary custody to be transferred to me.” I supplied the information to make it happen. “At least until her parent is released from jail,” or I left Desert Hills Church, but I didn’t add that I was only there temporarily.

Hey, it’s Vegas, baby, let’s call it a full house. Time I used the local lingo. Anyhow, I had a three-bedroom condo and now two visitors. Not roomies or boarders. Sure as I will fall for the next celebrity diet, Gramps was going to go back to Carlsbad, once he came to his right mind and picked up his guitar and self-esteem. Once he forgot he was forty years past the time of a midlife crisis, I was certain it would happen. Or I could continue telling myself stories of the Easter Bunny, the tooth fairy and how fat girls always have handsome boyfriends. Fool I always am, happily ever after rarely occurs in my world. This is what I was muttering mindlessly as I fished out my cell phone and shoved my purse into the desk drawer. There was a message on it — the phone not the desk drawer.

Nix the idea of it being music to my ears, although I did hear loud music in the background. Gramps listening to salsa or reggae? Visions of some smoky dive or a joint where everyone was smoking joints came to mind. Was he a lost sheep as well as addicted to gambling? The message was: “Listen, Janey girl, Granddaddy here. Meet me at Caesar’s Palace at five, near the main entrance. I’ll keep my cell on. Call if you can’t find me. There’s somebody you’ve got to meet. I
really
need you to meet her. You’ll love her as much as I do. Later, gator.”

• • •

I listened to the message again. Okay, this was good. Gramps was happy, unlike the night before when he dragged his slumping body, minus his favorite guitar, into my condo.

He’d said, “You’re going to love her as much as I do.” Who was the her?

See Jane be stupid. He was bragging about a floozy with bodacious hooters and a tiny brain who had seen a Sugar Daddy in my unsuspecting grandfather, a resident of Lonely Street.

No. Wait, they’d asked me to meet at a casino? Didn’t they have chapels and weddings at that hotel and resort as well as gambling? Ohmygoodnesssakesalive, he was getting married. He’d just announced he loved her. He was going to marry someone young enough to be my own child. Okay, at thirty-six I would have been a baby mama, but biologically it could have happened.

That floozy had tricked my grandfather into marrying her at Caesar’s Palace. A church wouldn’t be necessary for her, or a real pastor, and it wasn’t like we didn’t, duh, know one. Like, I’m a preacher, and I could marry you both. But I wouldn’t do it, and he knew it.

Even though I’d started the day fresh and spanking clean, when the box of colored chalk flew from the top of the arts and craft cabinet and willy-nilly-ed right on my head, face and shirt, I’d given up. Never thought about it until I got the call from He Who Was Marrying at Caesars. Apparently this … this
doxy
had already impressed him with her impressive chest and other bodily parts, of which as a minister I tried not to think about, but as a woman I certainly was aware of. And now was coercing my gramps to marry her without any regard for his own family, which consisted of only me.

Well, you’ve got to do more than that to shut up this minister, this granddaughter, this woman. I am woman, hear me snarl, at least when it comes to protecting my grandfather. I’d tell her a thing or three. Mark my words, I thought, dusting chalk from my bangs, it wouldn’t matter how I looked, even if I really truly wished I looked like a million bucks. I was ready to fight fire with a blaze of fury.

What kind of woman was she? Wait, make that a child. The answer could be spelled in four letters: S-C-U-M.

Get this. They had the supreme gall to just leave a message and invite me to be part of the ceremony. Not have me call back and tell me the news, no way, not even that consideration. I flopped back in my chair and thought how about I’d always harbored a secret hope that Gramps and my dear friend, Senator Geraldine English, would marry. What did Geraldine think? Did Gramps’ longtime friends from the university even know? Had he called the guys from the band? Would we all end up there to celebrate the nuptials of Gramps and an underage, wannabe
Playboy
centerfold?

Oh, those stupid, calming breaths that a yoga teacher tried to get me to do. I sounded more like the Little Engine that Couldn’t, and besides, they never worked, especially when I was jumping to conclusions. There was no doubt in my mind that I could now qualify for the Olympic pole-vaulting event, minus the pole. In and out, I breathed; huff and puff, the train went up and down. Whatever was going to happen at five that night was something I wasn’t going to like, that was a sure bet.

• • •

A Kansas, “Help me, Auntie Em” Tornado Alley tornado had nothing on me for the rest of that day. Dropping Harmony at the condo, she assured me she’d watch TV or sleep. “I didn’t get much last night.”

“Girls always love bubble baths, so help yourself to the stuff in the bathroom.” Nice way to say, “You need to freshen up, girlfriend.” I thought so, then added, “Frozen dinners you can microwave and popcorn and stuff like that. You’ll find ice cream and yogurt. Oreos and chocolate in the cupboard, too.” See, I can share.

These were my favorite cozy comforts, so I thought they’d work for her, maybe. I lead a pretty clean life, but hey, okay, I didn’t tell her about the stash of Godiva chocolates with only two pieces left in the second box. A girl has to have something to come home to.

“Not hungry.” She was far too skinny, but I had more on the George Foreman grill that was my life than to get a teenager a square meal. She’d have to wait for a future date if there was going to be a lecture on nutrition.

“If that changes, Harmony, help yourself. We’ll eat when I come home with my grandfather.” And I didn’t add, “And his new child bride.” She waved. I waved and made a quickie U-turn on the cul-de-sac, sped along the lines of tan stucco, red-roofed condos of the same ilk as mine, and headed toward the Strip.

I may stretch the truth, but the gridlock in Vegas is so bad, the male crap dealers who shave before they head for their shift have stubble when they arrive at the casinos. That sizzling afternoon was no different. Traffic moved like a snail on Tylenol PM. I shunned I-15, where there was even gridlock at the on-ramps, and inched to Caesar’s Palace on the surface streets. Tires squealed as I pulled in front, I tossed my keys to a cutie-pattootie valet, took the ticket, and said, “Park it with the Beemers.”

I heard him laugh as I blotted my face. Sweat spewed down my back. I dashed into the casino before I was a total sopping mess, rather than half of one.

With the light playing with the sparkles in yet another cowboy shirt, I could not miss Gramps. I wanted to. I longed to snap my fingers and get beamed into a parallel universe where everything was hokey pokey, where chocolate had no calories, size 14 was trim and bathroom scales were forbidden by law.

No luck, but praise the Lord. The bridegroom was alone, sitting on a tall bar stool at the coffee cart, chatting with the blonde little wisp of a barista. He was laughing, and she nodded and spoke to him. Seemed to me that he was pretty chummy with the gal, who he’d probably befriended during his three-week under-the-covers pity party. Maybe he’d come here a lot, and with only our eventful talk the previous evening, I hadn’t even thought to ask if he’d gambled away his 401K, the IRAs, and the house in Carlsbad, like that would have instantly come to mind, but it should have because I was thinking it now.

Like it or not, and I did not like it at all, in another few minutes, I’d be making slapdash chitchat with my grandfather’s paramour.

“You’re a good girl, Jane. Knew you’d come. Would have called you back, but the battery on the cell died.” He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a kiss on the cheek. His breath only smelled like coffee. Good sign. At least he wasn’t adding alcohol to assault and injury upon the shreds of our relationship in an attempt to find his path down some yellow brick road to ruin.

“Traffic was, well, you know traffic.”

“You’re here now,” he interrupted, and it was just as well because I had no idea what to say next. “Thought you might not want to hang around with this old dude after my confessions.”

“Never thought — ”

“Baloney. Hey, want you to meet someone special. You’re going to love her as much as I do,” he said.

“You said that before, Gramps. Let’s just get this over with.” Okay, I wasn’t playing nice, or fair, as I sputtered this and twisted around. Where was his woman? People strolled and dashed, depending on their mood, through the casino, off to dinner, a show, or the Strip. There was a line of ladies of a certain age, none under eighty, making love to a row of slots. Then there were the cool ones, dressed in leather and black silk. Sprinkled here and there were giddy first timers straight from Embarrass, Minnesota. Change girls teetered on high heels that would have given me a nosebleed. Cocktail servers balanced trays of drinks, offering cocktails as twenties stuck out of their Wonderbras. Still, there was nary any eye contact from anyone who might fit the depiction of Gramps’ Lady Love.

My head twisted right and left until I spotted her. A few feet away there she stood with bright platinum blonde hair piled to a height that an air traffic controller would admire, wearing six-inch, cherry red stilettos. I could have picked her out a mile away; besides, she made eye contact. I screamed, “Gramps, get your eyes checked. She’s forty if she’s a day.” He didn’t hear because a Slot Momma hit the jackpot and started screaming way louder than I did when I found the lizard in my car.

Gramps’ bride-to-be was dressed bosom to bloomer in latex leopard fabric, but it was the bosom that got my attention. The knit stretched across breasts the size of watermelons. If she’d toppled, the silicone would’ve bounced her back up. Diamonds flashed on her wrists, and a studded dog collar dripped with gold hearts. Her earrings dribbled down her husky neck.

Gramps’ lady friend switched from one foot to another. Killer shoes had to be the reason. Or maybe she was waiting for me to speak up, or for Gramps to usher us across the three-foot span of carpet that separated the happy couple and my first introduction to my step-grandmother.