Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) Read Online Free Page A

room as I mumbled, “Help me because I may just do something I regret.”
    Miracles were real. “Thank you, Jesus,” I yelled and waved my hands above my head just like an old-fashion revival meeting.
    He was gone. As anyone who knows me will gladly tell you, I have a fertile imagination, so I could nearly believe that he’d left or been Raptured, but the crispy bacon calling my name from the stove told the truth and nothing but it. Plus the table was set for two. At one place were chocolate chip waffles and tall OJ. The coffee smelled strong; the mug was steaming. The newspaper was folded to the comics.
    What’s a girl to do? I dove in to the feast. If I was wrong and I had been Raptured, I was thrilled to see that the food was yummo.
    As I pierced the last forkful, using it to wipe up a puddle of Log Cabin syrup, Gramps limped through the front door with a plastic grocery sack in his hands.
    “So, they were edible?”
    “I should have waited.” My mind raced to the “situation,” as I’d named this catastrophe sometime between 3:15 A.M. and 4:30 A.M.
    “No way, Janey girl. I figured coffee would get you up. I’m not sleeping well and been up for hours.” He poured a mug of coffee, took the carton from the bag, and added enough milk to make this java junkie cringe. “Before you start haranguing an old handicapped geezer about how I don’t need milk in coffee because it just takes away the real coffee taste and blah blah blah, you’ll want to know the church secretary, Vera, has been calling you every fifteen minutes since the crack of early.” He lifted the coffee mug and said, na zdrowie, which as everyone of Polish descent knows is the right toast for any drink.
    “Forget the ‘to your health.’ I want to know why you didn’t holler for me when I got the calls.”
    “I’ve been around a few churches and found that the preachers need their sleep as much as their flock needs to talk with them. Besides, she said it wasn’t that urgent. Isn’t Desert Hills like the rest of them, and if someone stubs their toe they’re popped on the prayer chain, or is it more a gossip mill?”
    I wasn’t going to fuss, although the stubbed toe crack clipped a nick too close to the quick. The prayer chain at Desert Hills did spread the word about illnesses, deaths, and various folks entering rehab. That said, I sometimes thought people didn’t pray, but preyed off the info. I’d noticed whispering during the hospitality time and how people quieted when I walked by. Hey, maybe they had me on the prayer chain for God only knew what. A bad hair day? I chalked it up to an ugly part of human nature, and that some folks are uglier than others.
    I dialed the church’s number and reached Vera. She cracked a “Good morning, honey,” and then said, “First off, the District Council is visiting next Friday and requested an appointment with you, but that’s not why I’ve been calling. Pastor Bob says he has a surprise for you and the youth group.” I could tell by the tone that her eyes were rolling and her head was making circles. Vera had been the secretary for Desert Hills Community Church for decades, seen other preachers come and go, and little except Pastor Bob’s “surprises” fazed her.
    There was more to Vera than met the eye, which was plenty considering she looked about as much like a church secretary as sixty-ish Sarah Jessica Parker if she stumbled into Desert Hills, forgot any fashion sense, and plunked her keister behind a computer. The only secretary-like item was cat’s eye glasses that perched on her nose. She smelled as if she were marinated in Smuckers jam, which wasn’t appealing when mixed with the essence of Marlboro on her breath.
    “Any idea what it is?” Did I need a surprise with my beloved grandfather on the lam from God, taken up with an adolescent deviant, and the District Council waiting to slip my neck through a noose? Not.
    “You’re not going to like it, Pastor Jane. But heck,