Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) by Eva Shaw Page B

dusty church right here is as good as it gets. Oh, what a help she is. You understand that she’s on call 24/7, busy with the PSA.” He looked at his steepled fingers and added, “I pray one of these days Delta’s heart will change. Jesus is speaking to her. I can tell these things, Jane. I’m praying hard. Hallelujah.”
    Could he tell? Could anyone tell what was going on in another person’s spiritual walk? When would the hallelujahs stop?
    Pastor Bob bounced in his overstuffed chair, which quivered but stood fast to its task of holding up the pastor. He leaned forward in the leather chair the color of butter, re-folded his hands in a steeple on the broad desk’s polished mahogany surface, and seemed to inhale something that smelled bad. He looked down his nose and became pious. Not a good look for him.
    I sniffed the air — politely, mind you. But all was well in my air pocket.
    Then he turned over the papers scattered on his desk so that prying eyes, such as mine, couldn’t see what he was working on. His sermon? Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise for Sunday? Perhaps he was working on his stock portfolio? I didn’t care, until he looked at me, swallowed, and shoved the papers into the top of his desk drawer. My limited interest flipped into overdrive. It revved again as he locked the desk. “Now, back to dancing.”
    I wanted to ask, “What are you hiding?” but managed, “Ms. Cheney is going to teach ballroom dancing for the VBA or youth group?” Visions of a statuesque chorus girl complete with humongous purple feathers cha-cha-ing in the church multipurpose hall tangoed around my brain.
    Pastor Bob clasped his hands in front of him with a slap. “Why, hallelujah, Jane, you are a team player. I knew it. This has to do with our precious teens. It was just dreamed into reality by those folks you’ve met. We’re going to raise money by auctioning off dance partners from the elite of our little desert community. Brilliant or what?” He rubbed his hands together and grinned like he’d just had a visit from Publisher’s Clearing House.
    Oh, my goodness, and could it be that his plans included me? Is the pope Catholic? What I thought really didn’t make any difference. First of all, I knew a steamroller when one hit me. I’d been squashed. Second, my service as youth pastor at Desert Hills would be for just six more months and then I’d be off to another location. The previous youth pastor would be back after maternity leave, and she would deal with Pastor Bob’s ever-enthusiastic ideas. “You’re going to host a dance?” Logic screamed, “Head for the hills. Get out while you can.”
    Good manners, a regular paycheck, and the A/C kept me glued to the chair. Besides, it was about the kids. They needed that center, and if I could help raise the money so they’d have a place to congregate, rather than the mall or worse, then I wanted to be counted in.
    “Not just any old dance with crepe paper roses and strings of lights or disco balls. Get with the program. Delta has clout. Why, we have real stars — yes, celebrities — in this old town out here in the wilds. Don’t need the mayor or the stuffed-shirt governor when we can get the hot ticket names. You know Gladys Knight? Yep, Delta’s pals with her, but she’s peanuts compared to Madonna, Cecile, or Rosie.” He was standing now, flailing his arms, preaching to some unseen congregation and me. “Bundles of celebrities come and go, playing the huge shows here. Why, Pastor Jane, go on, really, name anyone, and I bet Delta knows them. Jennifer Lopez? Yes, she knows her. Matt Somebody. Brad? How about that little blonde gal that the teenagers are so wickedly wild about, what’s her name? Whatever. Yes, yes, yes. Why, think of the Blue Man Group, or would that be Two Blue Men, which doesn’t sound grammatically correct, but that’s show biz. She knows them. Knows them all. How about Carrot Top? We went out to dinner, Delta and I, with the