From the Heart Page 6

  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 admi
t 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.”

  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 rat
her 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.