Donovan’s Angel (14 page)

“Well.” Paul felt like a tongue-tied
adolescent as he stood smiling at her.

“Well?” Martie spread her arms wide and
shrugged her shoulders.

“You were wonderful.” He crossed quickly to
her and put an arm across her shoulders. “Let’s go to my office for
a cup of coffee.”

“A celebration?”

“With you, everything is a celebration,” he
replied softly.

o0o

Paul’s office was a small, book-lined
cubbyhole that smelled like sandalwood because of the scented
candle burning on his desk. Martie ran her hand over the book
spines as Paul measured coffee into the glass coffeepot. As she had
expected, the shelves contained several volumes of poetry. She
pulled out a dog-eared volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

“Would you read for me, Paul?”

“You wouldn’t rather talk?”

“No.”

“What would you like me to read?” he asked,
leafing through the slim volume.

“You choose.”

He chose
Shall I Compare Thee to a
Summer’s Day.
The candle burned low as Martie sat beside his
desk, enthralled by the sound of his voice. When the reading was
finished, she flung her arms wide in ecstasy, trailing the sleeve
of her caftan across the candle. They both froze as flames licked
her sleeve, igniting the caftan.

Neither of them could have related what
happened next.

But Miss Beulah Grady could. Unknown to them,
she had come all the way back from the parking lot to have a
heart-to-heart talk with the minister. Hearing voices as she neared
his study, she had stopped to listen. Not to eavesdrop, of course,
she had assured herself, but merely to find out who was in there
and how long they might stay. Recognizing Martie’s voice, she had
inched closer, hoping to catch the words. Plain as day she had
heard the minister tell that brazen woman she had “darling
buds.”

Miss Beulah’s mouth went slack. For a minute
she was too shocked to move, then she leaned over and put her eye
to the keyhole. She had to maneuver a little to get a clear view of
both of them.

To her utter amazement, she saw Reverend
Donovan rip Martie’s caftan down the front and throw it on the
floor. And that scandalous honky-tonk woman was wearing a wisp of
scarlet lace held together with scarlet ribbons. Miss Beulah was
agog at the amount of flesh she was showing, and every inch of it
tan. She looked like something straight out of an Old West
saloon.

While Miss Beulah was still making that
comparison she saw the Reverend Donovan’s arms go around that
hussy. He pulled her so close it was a wonder he didn’t break her
ribs. And such kissing! Miss Beulah pressed her face closer to the
keyhole. She hadn’t ever seen anything like that. It was a wonder
they didn’t swallow each other.

Sweat streamed down the side of Miss Beulah’s
face, ran down her neck and between her heaving bosoms. She had
never felt so overheated in her life. She thought she might have a
prostration attack when all this was over.

The two people inside the study moved away
from the door, toward the small love seat—and a good thing they
did, too, because if they hadn’t, she might not have been able to
see what happened next. That shameless woman unbuttoned the
preacher’s shirt and ran her hands over his bare chest. Miss
Beulah’s eyes practically popped out of her head. She had never
dreamed the preacher was hiding a chest like
that
under
his robes.

The saints have mercy! She glued her eyes
still closer to the keyhole. The long-suffering door gave way under
the added pressure, and Miss Beulah catapulted into the room.

For a moment the two people merely looked at
their unwelcome intruder in surprise; then Paul swiftly bent down,
picked up Martie’s caftan, and draped it over her.

“This is not what it seems, Miss Beulah,” he
said quietly as he moved away from Martie.

Both Miss Beulah’s chins were trembling with
the excitement of it all. “Reverend Donovan, in all my born days
I’ve never witnessed anything like this. Why, I thought my eye
would pop right through the keyhole!”

“You were watching us through the keyhole?”
Paul asked, his voice tight.

“I saw it
all
. And I must say that
I’m shocked,
shocked
at what was going on in this room.
When I tell the pastor-parish relations committee what I saw—”

“Be sure to tell them that you were the first
to know,” Martie broke in. She was so angry that her voice was
shaking. How dare Miss Beulah spy through the keyhole! How dare she
plan to ruin Paul’s career by misinterpreting what she saw! It was
one thing for Miss Beulah to talk about her misdeeds, but it was
another thing altogether to drag Paul into a scandal. Martie
couldn’t let it happen. “We’re going to be married,” she blurted
out.

Paul sucked in his breath and Miss Beulah’s
mouth dropped open.

“We were going to announce it soon,” Martie
continued, “but now you can do that for us.”

She stopped and shivered. Oh, dear! Now she
had done it. They would never extricate themselves from this
mess.

Paul put his arm around her and drew her to
his side. “We were planning to surprise everybody, Miss Beulah, but
now the cat’s out of the bag. By the time you see us again, we will
be Reverend and Mrs. Paul Donovan. I’m counting on you to share the
good news with the rest of the parishioners.”

The knowledge that she was the first to know
took the edge off Miss Beulah’s self-righteous indignation. She
swung her mountain of flesh out the door without saying
good-bye.

“Just wait ‘til I tell Essie Mae,” they heard
her say as she disappeared down the hall.

Martie raised stricken eyes to Paul’s face.
“Oh, dear! What will we do now?”

“Get married,” he said, smiling.

They had a small ceremony in the church with
Jolene, Bob, and Sam as witnesses. Reverend Tom Stegall, a friend
of Paul’s who served a small parish in nearby Saltillo, officiated.
Afterward Paul helped Martie move into the parsonage.

“You don’t think it’s necessary for me to
sleep over there, do you?” Martie asked, looking up from the box of
books she was packing. “Maybe I could just putter around the
parsonage in the daytime to keep up appearances and slip quietly
through the gate at night.”

She didn’t know if she could be under the
same roof with him at night without making a fool of herself. They
had a paper now that made sleeping with him all nice and legal, but
it didn’t make a bit of difference. She knew that he had married
her to save his career and that his scruples would keep him from
consummating a marriage that was not real.

His heart turned over at the forlorn look on
her face. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her how much
he loved her. He wanted to drop down on his knees and take her hand
and tell her that he had meant every word of his wedding vows. He
wanted to call his family to celebrate. He wanted to carry her over
the threshold and into his bedroom and make her his wife in every
sense of the word. But he couldn’t do any of those things. He knew
that she had married him out of unselfish generosity. She had made
it perfectly clear that she would never willingly choose the
conventional life of a minister’s wife. As much as he wanted to
make love to her, as much as he wanted to bind her to him with
passion, he would never take unfair advantage of her.

He leaned against the bookshelf and took out
his pipe, small consolation for the frustration he was feeling.
While he was filling his pipe, he carefully considered his answer.
He wanted to reassure her without closing the door to other
possibilities. Lifting the pipe to his mouth, he took a slow draw.
He was determined to move heaven and earth so that someday they
would truly be man and wife. But he was a patient man. For now, he
would wait.

“I’m afraid you have to move in full time,”
he replied slowly. “But don’t worry. The parsonage has more than
one bedroom. And I promise not to bite.”

“I’m scared I’m the one who will bite.”

Seeing the gleam in his eyes, she hastened to
steer the conversation toward safer topics.

“I’ve never had a housemate, Paul. I’m not
sure you’ll be able to stand me. I get up early to jog and I play
my music loud and I leave wet towels on the bathroom floor.”

“You also eat cow food.” He smiled at her.
“I’ll take these boxes across while you pack your clothes.”

She watched until he was out the door and
then she kicked a box. Why didn’t he know that she loved him? The
big galoot! Did she have to hang a sign around her neck?

She raced upstairs and began slinging her
lingerie into a suitcase. A lot of good it did to own sexy
underthings. That thick-headed, oversized, wonderful, remarkable,
marvelous, gorgeous man would never even see them.

She pressed her hands to her hot face. She
wanted to just march right into the parsonage and shout, “I love
you, Paul. I’ve always loved you and I always will.” But she
couldn’t do that. It was bad enough that he was saddled with the
most unsuitable minister’s wife the world had ever seen. She
wouldn’t complicate matters by hanging around his neck like an
albatross.

She dragged another suitcase from her closet.
She didn’t know whether to pack all of her clothes or just a few.
She decided on a few. Maybe Paul would think of a way out, and she
could move to Outer Mongolia to get over her heartbreak.

She heard him whistling as he came up the
stairs. She sat on her suitcase to snap the lock, wishing there
were something to whistle about. The lid refused to close. She was
still sitting on the bulging suitcase, struggling with the lock,
when Paul came in.

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to hitch a ride
to the parsonage on your suitcase. I don’t know if I’m up to that,
ma’am.” He leaned in the doorway, aching to devour her.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Why,
honey-pot, I married you for your muscles. You’re not going to
disappoint me, are you?”

“No, indeed.” He strode across the room and
scooped her up, suitcase and all.

She laced her arms around his neck to keep
from toppling off the suitcase. “Paul!” she protested, laughing.
“Put me down. You’re going to break your back.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. You’re no heavier than a
bale of cotton.”

“Does the parsonage have bars? I married a
crazy man.”

He loved the way she laughed, with her eyes
crinkled at the corners, not worrying about making wrinkles, and
that husky, throaty music resounding in the room as if she felt the
mirth all the way down to her toes.

“You married a man . . .” He stopped. He had
almost said “who loves you.” Half heartedly he finished the
sentence. “Who is hungry.”

“The way to a man’s heart?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then put me down and we’ll have tofu by
candlelight. A real wedding dinner.”

She wasn’t aware of how her voice caught on
the word or of the wistful look on her face. She didn’t know how
Paul almost chucked his scruples and carried her to the bed. She
never suspected that, at that moment, her bedroom almost became a
wedding bower.

Only his eyes betrayed his turmoil. “How
about Haagen-Dazs ice cream by candlelight?” he suggested.

“Paul? The Hilton?” Her pleasure was mirrored
in her radiant smile.

“Yes. Steak and lobster and potatoes swimming
in butter.”

“And the glass elevator?”

He nodded. “That, too.”

“And afterward a ride in the go-carts?”

“There I draw the line,” he said firmly. “It
took me three days to get over the last ride.”

“You’re in luck, mister. I give a first-rate
massage.” She held up her hands. “Magic fingers.”

Grinning, Paul set her and the suitcase back
on the bed. “Suddenly this thing weighs a ton.” He put his hands on
his lower back and stretched. “I’m feeling a mighty bad
twinge.”

“My massages come with a price,” she warned
him.

“Name it.”

“Haagen-Dazs ice cream.”

“It’s a deal.”

o0o

They remained in high spirits through the
drive to Tupelo, the sinfully rich meal, the trip on the glass
elevator, and the ride back home. It was not until Paul had parked
the car and they’d walked through the parsonage door that reality
hit them. They felt a shyness and a constraint that they’d never
before known with each other.

“Well, here we are, Martie.’’ Paul hoped he
didn’t look as foolish as he sounded.

“I guess you can show me which bedroom will
be mine,” she said, unable to look at his face. She was afraid he
would see how much she wanted his bedroom to be hers. How could he
help but know? She glowed like neon in his presence.

“You can choose,” he told her. “Down the
hallway there’s a spare bedroom next to mine and one across the
hall.”

“Which one is yours?”

“The one with the purple socks on the floor.”
He grinned at her. “The last one on the left. I’m afraid there’s
only one bathroom. It adjoins my bedroom and the one next to
it.”

For practical purposes—because of the
bathroom, she told him—Martie chose the bedroom next to his. What
she didn’t tell him was that she wanted to be as close to him as
possible. Even if there was a wall between them, she thought, maybe
she could hear him breathing or moving about or even snoring. She
didn’t care what she heard as long as it was a sound that connected
her to Paul.

He stowed her suitcases in the bedroom, and
they made stilted conversation for a while, skirting around each
other, tense and nervous, like two people walking on eggs.

Insisting that she have first bathroom
privileges, Paul paced the floor while she showered. The roar of
the water sounded like whiplashes to his overwrought mind. He could
imagine each drop of water that touched her smooth skin, and he
could picture exactly where it landed. He buried his face in his
hands and groaned.