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

biceps as big as my leg because he was still hovering over Petra, paralyzed by her beauty and petite form. Or maybe it was that he thought he’d seen her in a magazine, with staples in her middle. I talked fast, to Petra. “I don’t know what got into me. Forgive me, Petra. You came to talk with me. Can we start over?” I attempted to withdraw my feet from my mouth as she sighed and sat down on the chair offered by her hulking admirer.
    I looked up at the football player, handed him a five-dollar bill, and said, “Get something lip-smacking at the counter, pal. She’s not available.”
    “But, lady, you said she was a porn star.” His eyes glassed over and his nostrils flared. “Can I have her autograph?”
    “Mistake, my friend. Just kidding. We always tease so much. You know how women are. Oh ho ho ho,” I tried and then pulled Petra back to the table.
    “No, Jane, it’s me. I am hard to understand, I know. But you speak no Polish, is that correct?”
    “Yes, that is correct, honey. I can understand a lot of it. My grandparents spoke the language fluently, but I’ve never learned the mechanics.”
    “Mechanics? You want to talk about cars?”
    “Mechanics, like grammar and syntax.”
    “Yes, I see, yes, we will speak English, but forgive me if I am awkward.” She nibbled the cookie; the bite was the size an ant would have taken. “I studied English in Warsaw.”
    I took a bite of the cookie let saliva melt the chocolate sweetness. The rush of cocoa and sugar streamed into my veins, so when Petra said, “I am an orphan,” I was ready with: “Oh, I am sorry. Did you ever know your parents? Do your birth parents, your biological ones, the ones who created you, live in the States?”
    Her perfect forehead crinkled. “No, they gave me up for adoption when I was born. I have a letter.” She produced it from her purse. The edges were soft and the color was like almonds. Slowly, Petra unfolded it on the tabletop, smoothed it, and caressed it with her hand. I couldn’t read a word of it. It was in Polish. We looked at each other. “It says that they loved me but wanted the nuns at the orphanage to give me to parents who could take care of me. They had no jobs. They barely had food for themselves or their other babies. They could not feed me and could not raise me.”
    “So the nuns found a good home for you?” I made my voice bright and chipper. It was disgusting.
    Her teeth were straight. Her complexion was like a dewy morn, all softy and creamy. Please don’t make me go on. You get the picture, don’t you? Since she worked in the casino, even at the coffee cart, she had to be in her twenties.
    “A happy home? No.” The words were spoken in a huff. We were in a bubble of our own, created by the words she’d said.
    The din of Starbucks customers and the grinding of the coffee machines continued. “They did not care for me. I was bad.”
    “You? I can’t imagine anything you could do, especially as a child, to be bad.” She looked rather like an angel on a Christmas tree, but then again, some angels have dark sides.
    She placed the cookie in the center of the paper napkin, taking each corner, folding it toward the cookie. “I am, what is the word, retarded. That is it. I couldn’t move or sit up like the other babies. No one wanted to adopt a baby who was not healthy.”
    Unless there was something terribly amiss under that postage-stamp-white T-shirt that exposed her middle, or the hip-hugging Capri pants, with a neon green and navy sash tied around itty-bitty hips, I couldn’t imagine this woman to be disabled. I’d seen her dance like a feather, too.
    “You look normal to me.”
    “I have a terrible secret.” She inhaled deeply.
    Oh, now, Lord, here it comes. What could be worse than pornography or gambling? Murder. She’s killed someone and is asking for forgiveness. No wonder she’s pale, no wonder she was crying last evening. I held the edge of the table.
    “The nuns sent me, when