Playing the Player

by Lea Santos

  She loved it here, and she loved teaching, no matter how tiring it could be to stay “on” all day for the kids. It was only Wednesday, but her leg ached from three long days standing in front of her students. Part of her wanted nothing more than to go home and elevate it, veg in front of the television, maybe with a bag of potato chips by her side and the remote control all to herself. But she’d never lose this limp if she didn’t exercise—at least that’s what her old college friend and now colleague, Niki Montoya, had convinced her of in the few weeks since the school term started.

  Nik taught physical education and held a master’s degree in sports rehabilitation, so she should know. Thanks to her encouragement—and the fact that she had agreed to coach Grace—together they had clocked one to two miles around the high school track every day after school since the first week. Just knowing that Nik would be waiting for her every afternoon at four thirty sharp inspired Grace to tie on her Nike walking shoes, whether motivated or not. She didn’t want to disappoint her friend by showing less interest in her own recovery than Nik did.

  Speaking of her daily walk… Grace flipped her wrist and checked her watch. Cutting it close. Wistful about leaving her classroom now, when everything felt so synchronistic, she nevertheless filed away her attendance book and yesterday’s homework sheets and hurried into the restroom to change. As she traded her slacks for sweatpants, Grace ran her fingers along the ridge of the unsightly scar on her leg. It felt numb, much like she did. The past few days had been uneventful, which put her on guard. She couldn’t help but wonder if this lull in the upheaval was some kind of a sign. Calm before the storm.

  Her thoughts flew to the ongoing search for this “Samaritan Soul Mate,” and acid sloshed in her stomach. Her colleagues had been openly curious the first couple days after the story had hit the papers, but the furor had thankfully died down. Nothing new or exciting had been printed recently, which meant no new gossip fodder for the teachers’ lounge.

  Thank God.

  The only good part of the whole debacle was that no one had come forward as her Samaritan. Well actually…she hadn’t come forward, whoever she was. Lots of women had called the paper, which simultaneously flattered Grace and gave her the creeps, but none of them had known the key detail she’d given to Harold. One thing Grace knew for certain, the woman who’d been under that car with her would know.

  Where was she?

  Why do you care? another part of Grace’s brain rasped.

  Ignoring the insidious question, she knotted the waistband tie of her sweats, tucking the lace inside, then sat on the john to put on her Nikes.

  Why did she care? The question had floated to the front of her mind a lot lately, yet she hadn’t quite succeeded in formulating an answer. She figured this elusive woman was probably lying low until the whole thing blew over—and Grace didn’t blame her. If she were in the so-called Samaritan’s place, she’d probably quietly leave the state. Still…part of her wished that beautiful dark angel would identify herself.

  Grace’s life had finally jumped back on track, and the last thing she needed was some strange woman coming in and mucking things up. But Jesus…she’d been so sweet. Curiosity consumed Grace—plain and simple. And for some reason she cared enough to explain how this had all come about. Cared enough to apologize for pulling the stranger into this hot mess.

  Maybe the woman had been passing through town and would never even see the articles in the Denver papers. Relief and disappointment grappled for the upper hand at the thought. It would save Grace the embarrassment of having the woman think she was in love with her, but it would also deprive Grace of the chance to express her gratitude for all the woman had done on-scene to help her.

  Grace laughed softly at her fickleness.

  She wanted it all—was that too much to ask?

  She wished she could’ve found the gorgeous woman on her own all those months ago and avoided the humiliating publicity. Damn Lola. Nothing Grace could do about it now.

  Dressed and ready, Grace returned to the classroom for her briefcase and backpack. Flipping off the lights and waving good-bye to the tank of fish and the cage of hamsters on the far counter, she hefted her bags onto her shoulders and headed for the door. She had just wrestled her keys from the depths of her backpack when her classroom phone rang.

  “School’s out. Go away,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. She’d just decided to ignore it when her conscience tapped on her shoulder. She was her grandmother’s primary contact, and DoDo wasn’t getting any younger. Lately, DoDo’s blood pressure had picked up the habit of spiking. Grace wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she missed an important call from DoDo just because answering the phone had been inconvenient. It could be nothing, but was she willing to take the risk?

  Heaping her bags on the floor between the door and the jamb, she wound through the desks and snatched up the phone on the fifth ring. “Ms. Obregon, third grade.”

  “Grace. Glad I caught you. It’s Harold.”

  Harold. A split-second assessment of his tone told Grace he was merely checking in. He sounded the same as always, no more excited than usual. No reason to freak the hell out, even though she did. Automatically. She forced her shoulders to loosen. “Hi, Harold. I’m late for an appointment. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure.” Computer keys tapped in the background. “Let me ask you one quick thing first. The name Madeira Pacias ring a bell?”

  Grace re-tacked a finger-painted rainbow picture that hung from one corner on the wall and straightened some of the art supplies scattered on the counter while she was at it. “Nope. Should it?”

  “Maybe not. But I think she’s our girl.”

  Grace froze in the act of straightening a stack of construction paper. Our girl? Our girl! “Are you sure?”

  “Let me put it this way. She knew about Ms. Right.”

  “S-she did?”

  “Not only that…” He paused so long Grace felt as if she was underwater and couldn’t fight her way to the surface for a much-needed breath.

  “Yes?”

  “This Madeira woman has her.”

  “Has…who?” Grace blinked several times, slumping onto the edge of the nearest desk in a flat daze. Stars swirled before her vision, and her mind couldn’t seem to grasp a single coherent thought. The wind had been knocked so far out of her, her proverbial future kids would come out gasping. “This Madeira chick?”

  “You betcha.”

  “She has my Ms. Right?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But say it again,” Grace gasped, death-gripping the phone until her fingers went cold and corpse-stiff.

  His chuckle sounded unpracticed, as though he didn’t use it often enough. “Your new Ms. Right has your old Ms. Right.”

  “Yeah. Let’s get one thing straight. Madeira Pacias is not my Ms. Right.” Astonished despite the protest, Grace’s mouth dropped open, and her hands trembled. All thoughts of her daily walk vanished from her brain. “She kept my bear?” she marveled.

  “All this time. Ain’t it ironic?”

  “It’s wonderful. I can’t believe—” Suddenly, something didn’t seem right. Grace pressed the pads of her fingers to a tension point between her eyebrows and closed her eyes. A puzzle piece was missing. Somehow, she knew Harold held it. “Actually, wait a minute. Why didn’t she give my bear back to me a year ago?”

  “You won’t believe it if I tell you.”

  He did have the full story. Blood pounded and echoed in Grace’s ears. Her gut told her she didn’t want to hear all this, but her brain told her she needed to. “Give it a shot.”

  “When Pacias called the police department a couple days after the pile-up to try and find you, all she knew was your first name. Grace.” He paused, as though that said it all. “You with me?”

  “Not yet.” Her mind was grasping.

  Harold sighed. “The cops told her you were dead, cupcake. They ran the name Grace instead of Graciela and came
up with—”

  The teen from Lakewood who had died on the way to the hospital. “Oh my God, this Madeira thought I was Grace Mannerly, didn’t she?”

  “Bingo. Does this story just get more interesting with every layer we pull away, or what? I’m writing a piece about the woman as we speak.”

  Grace swallowed. “Tell me about her.”

  “Ah-ah-ah—a good reporter never spills, pumpkin. But the whole story will be out in the paper tomorrow, and for the bargain price of fifty cents or whatever they’re charging these days, one of those papers can be yours.”

  “Gee, thanks.” No matter. It was too much to digest, anyway. Details would only cloud the issue. This woman, this Madeira Pacias, had believed she’d died in the accident, and she’d kept Grace’s bear anyway. For a year. A gush of gratitude and emotion closed her throat as Madeira scored a whole slew of points in Grace’s mental tally. Madeira had no idea the gift she’d given Grace by keeping Ms. Right. For a split second, Grace pictured Madeira as a scantily clad warrior, riding to her rescue…

  Stop it. Grace didn’t need rescue. Excitement swirled inside her anyway. She focused on the more important matter at hand. “Did you get her? My bear, I mean?”

  “Oh no, sweet cheeks. My job was finding the Samaritan. Retrieving the bear? That’s your job.” The computer keys clicked on in the background.

  “How in the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  Clicking stopped. “Don’t worry. Pacias is more than willing to give you back your bear.”

  “Oh. Well, good. You scared me for a minute.” Grace grabbed a crayon and flipped over a torn piece of construction paper, scribbling at a deep angle to sharpen the little wax stick’s point. “Okay, what’s Madeira’s number? I’ll call her right now.”

  “Not so fast. Don’t forget your old pal Harold and what he needs out of this whole scenario.”

  “Would you quit being cryptic? What are you getting at?”

  He chuckled. “You’re going to have to get this bear from Madeira in person.”

  Grace’s heart thudded so hard, she felt certain Harold could hear it. “Fine, then. Jesus. Give me her address, too, but I’ll still need her phone number to set up a time for the pass-off.” She was still mortified that Madeira might think she wanted—ugh. She couldn’t ponder it right now.

  “I’ve already worked that all out. You can meet Madeira Saturday at six p.m., here at the newspaper offices.”

  Wariness wrapped Grace like a boa constrictor and squeezed. “Can’t I just go by her house or meet her at Starbucks, for God’s sake?”

  “I think the office would be a much better place for the press conference.”

  The crayon snapped in her quaking fingers. Grace heard the grin behind Harold’s words and wanted to pass out.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “No. Harold? Please. No press conference.”

  “Oh yes. Big-time press conference.”

  Grace clenched the phone in her fist, desperation screaming inside her. “Don’t make me do this. I’m begging you.”

  Harold tsk-tsked. “I’m too old to buckle under for a begging woman, gumdrop, even if you are a hottie. Alas, you bat for the other team, and romance ain’t my goal. Besides, you owe me.”

  She frowned. “How do you figure?”

  “I’m a newsman, and you’re news.”

  “I’m not news! I don’t want to be fucking news.”

  “Aw, come on, now. I did all the legwork and found Pacias for you. Where’s the love, Grace?”

  Damn the manipulative old—

  The old Grace would’ve flipped Harold off—or told him off—and said, “I’ve got your love right here, buddy.” The new Grace settled for covering her eyes with her palm and wishing all manner of evils on her sister, Harold, and the world at large. “Fine. Fine. But I’m participating under duress—I want that on the record.”

  “Duly noted. See you Saturday.”

  The dial tone droned in her ear like an air-raid siren.

  So much for the calm. Here came the storm.

  *

  “According to close associates,” Lola read, “Pacias is a confirmed single woman known as ‘The Thief of Hearts’—”

  “Wow, what a catch!” Frankly, Grace thought Madeira sounded like a hotrod car with too many miles on its engine. Fun to look at, hell to own…and one hundred percent impossible to insure. So much for the scantily clad warrior fantasy she’d conjured. She couldn’t imagine a woman like the one described in Harold’s latest article having enough compassion to hold on to Ms. Right, but…she had. Still, the “Thief of Hearts”? Gimme a break.

  “Hush. It’s cute. She sounds totally exciting.”

  “Oh, yes. A slut. Really exciting,” Grace muttered, rolling her eyes so hard her contact lens curled up on one edge. She blinked rapidly to get it back in place, trying not to recall how sweet and charming she’d found Madeira at the scene of the accident. Clearly, she’d been out of it and idealizing the chick. Grace didn’t know why it was such a letdown to learn about the real Madeira, other than the fact she’d conjured a much more admirable image in her mind.

  Grace had seen Madeira, and it didn’t surprise her one bit that women were willing to test drive this particular hotrod. Grace, however, had gone for all the “test drives” she could stomach in one lifetime. Next woman she took for a ride would be dependable, like a 4x4 truck with extra-strong roll bars. And all hers, free and clear, with no lien, emotional or otherwise. That meant any secret romantic hopes she might have entertained about Madeira Pacias were shot straight to hell. Once and for all. “She sounds more like a bad déjà vu than anything, Lola. I mean, I’m glad she kept Ms. Right, but—”

  Lola snatched up a sharp teaser comb and menaced Grace with its pointy handle. “Why are you so pessimistic?”

  “I believe the word you’re looking for is realistic. Trust me, I’ve been with sluts—”

  “Ah, not to mention you’ve been a slut.”

  “You think I don’t realize that?” Grace snapped. “I know what they’re like. Ergo, not interested.”

  Lola pouted. “You’re impossible. You’ll never find love with this attitude.”

  “Whatever. I’ll buy a dog.”

  “No, Grace, make it a cat,” Lola said, her tone openly sarcastic. “Or ten cats. You can be one of those eccentric cat women. In fact, take up hoarding, too. That way you’ll never have to worry about romance and passion as long as you live, guaranteed.”

  “Can’t you just let it go, Lola?” Grace huffed in disgust, glaring at her own black-caped, roller-bound reflection in the beauty station mirror. Giant rollers, of all things! Trapped—that’s how she felt. By the situation, her sister, her own emotions. Her initial inclination had been to refuse this trumped-up reunion-slash-press conference, but Harold kept reminding her Madeira had Ms. Right.

  Dilemma.

  Mama had given her that dime-store bear the final Christmas before she’d died. Every time Grace looked into Ms. Right’s mismatched button eyes, she felt her mother’s presence, and she’d felt Ms. Right’s gouging absence over the past year as if she’d lost Mama a second time. She’d done her best to keep her sadness about the bear inside, but clearly enough of it had seeped out enough for Lola to catch on. Oh well. No sense hiding it anymore. Truth be told, Grace would walk on a bed of nails to get Ms. Right back.

  Unfortunately, that preferable option hadn’t been offered.

  To reunite with Ms. Right, she’d have to reunite with Madeira, a wholly unsuitable woman who almost certainly believed Grace fancied the two of them in love, and all in front of the media’s invasive eye. How humiliating.

  Grace had grudgingly agreed to the reunion after a series of heated arguments with Harold, and then, in defeat, she surrendered to Lola’s styling chair coercion. She wasn’t up for any more of her sister’s pressure tactics, though. Not now. She had to face a confirmed player who believed Grace’s goal in life was to be some woman’s ball and
chain in exactly… Her gaze jerked to the salon clock. Ugh. Less than fifty minutes. Yet all Lola wanted to do was read aloud from the newspaper article Grace had studiously avoided all day long.

  Grace didn’t want to know about Madeira Pacias. She just wanted to survive the dreaded press interview, retrieve her beloved bear, and return to her regularly scheduled life with some shred of her self-esteem still intact.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Still, she hated that her realistic, albeit jaded, view of romance always dimmed the sparkle in her little sister’s eyes. Grace sighed, feeling martyred. “Lola, do what you must, but please hurry. I’m not Cinderella headed for the freakin’ ball, you know.”

  “Oh, be quiet.” Brightening, Lola smacked her on the head with the paper, but Grace barely felt it through the mound of massive Velcro rollers and styling products that increased her overall height by a good five inches. “I’ll just read while we’re waiting. There’s no hurrying a good set anyway.”

  “Then give me a mediocre set. I’ve got to get moving and I don’t really give a fuck what my hair looks like.”

  “Well, I care. You’re my sister and I own a salon. You can’t show up in the paper looking like a bad BEFORE picture. Christ. What will people think?” Lola patted the rollers that felt glued to Grace’s head. “Beauty is time. Beauty is an investment.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Take them out.”

  Lola pleaded with Grace’s reflection in the mirror. “Don’t you want to look your best to meet Princess Sexy and Charming?”

  Grace’s heart performed one deep thunk, hopes dashed, once again. “She’s not a princess, she’s a player. Whoopee.” She lifted one hand from beneath the cosmetologist’s cape to twirl her finger. “Been there, done that. Bought the tattoos. Read between the lines, Lola. Madeira is nothing more than the ghost of girlfriends past and I’m not interested.”