Donovan’s Angel (16 page)

“Why don’t you come with instructions?” she
asked as her flour coating floated off the chicken and swirled
around the top of the pot. “Oh, well, all that crust is fattening,
anyway.”

While the chicken was frying she attacked the
mountain of dishes she had dirtied in preparing Paul’s surprise.
She decided that the parsonage kitchen looked as if fifteen chefs
had used it to prepare a banquet for two hundred. But she didn’t
mind; it was a small sacrifice to make for her beloved. She could
hardly wait to see his face when he saw that platter of golden
fried chicken.

o0o

“I’m home.”

Martie whirled around, slinging suds across
the kitchen and causing a small whirlwind of flour to rise from her
apron.

“Paul! You’re early. I didn’t expect you for
another twenty minutes.”

Paul gazed longingly at her through the fog
of flour. He wanted to kiss the flour off the tip of her nose and
smooth the damp curls off her forehead. He wanted to cup her
flour-sprinkled cheeks and devour that smiling mouth. But he didn’t
do any of those things. Instead, he leaned against the door frame
and hid his feelings behind light banter.

“The Pillsbury Doughboy, I presume?”

She crossed the kitchen and took one of his
hands. “Close your eyes while I lead you into the parlor. I don’t
want you to see the surprise.”

He laughed. “I’ll just pretend I don’t smell
anything frying.” He took her small sudsy hand in his and allowed
himself to be led to the sofa. Still holding her hand, he opened
his eyes. “I’m an expert dish washer. Are you sure you don’t want
some help in there?” he asked.

Martie shook her head. “It would spoil the
surprise.”

“What have I done to deserve this?”

“It’s not what you’ve done: it’s what I’ve
done.”

“If you’re referring to the luncheon today,
forget it. You did nothing wrong.” His fingers massaged the
soapsuds on her hands. “I’ve never believed women should be
muzzled.”

“But preachers’ wives . . .”

“Preachers’ wives or otherwise,” he said, his
face almost grim. Martie suspected that some of his colleagues had
given him a hard time about her, and her eyes grew troubled. Seeing
her concern, his face softened. “But I’m pleased about the
surprise, angel. I can hardly wait.”

“Ten minutes, Paul,” she promised, and
practically skipped out of the room.

o0o

She did a little jig at the kitchen sink and
hummed as she washed dishes. Suddenly she saw smoke coming from the
chicken pot. “Good grief! I forgot all about you!” she cried.

Grabbing a long-handled fork, she lifted the
charred remains of the chicken from the hot oil.

“Oh, no!” she wailed, staring at the funeral
pyre of chicken in defeat. “Why couldn’t you be golden and
beautiful? I wanted you to be wonderful for Paul. Why couldn’t
you?”

Resolutely, she pushed defeat aside and
marched to the refrigerator. Taking out a carton of sour cream and
a bunch of parsley, she returned to the chicken and began work.
When she had finished, she decided that it was a masterpiece of
camouflage.

o0o

Paul had to bite the inside of his mouth to
keep from laughing when he saw her surprise. He knew that it had
started out as fried chicken, though what it was now only Martie
knew. He watched her lean over and light the candles on the small
table.

She did everything with such zest! He hadn’t
known it was possible to love a woman as much as he loved her. He
had racked his brain for a way to make this marriage real, but so
far he had come up empty. If he didn’t get a breakthrough soon,
there wouldn’t be a shred of carpet left on his bedroom floor: he
had paced the poor thing to death.

Martie turned off the lights and looked at
him across the glow of candles.

“Surprise, Paul! Fried chicken with a new
twist.”

“You didn’t have to do all this for me,” he
said, smiling. He saw the burned skin peeping through the sour
cream and parsley, and he dreaded taking his first bite. He would
eat it and grin if the effort killed him. Not for all the tea in
China would he disappoint her.

He put the first bite into his mouth and
almost choked.

“Hmmm.” He shuffled the chicken from one side
of his mouth to the other, trying to get up enough courage to
swallow. “Mf’s mfrrent,” he mumbled as the bite finally went
down.

“What did you say?”

He took a hasty sip of tea. “It’s
different.”

“Good.” She beamed at him. “I thought it
would be. I know how you love fried chicken, so I thought, what
would be a better way to please Paul than to make his favorite
dish? It’s to sort of make up for the luncheon. Oh, I know you said
it didn’t make any difference, but I don’t want to complicate your
life any more than I already have.”

She put a bite of chicken into her mouth.

Paul reached for her hand across the table.
“Martie . . .”

“Paul,” she wailed. “It’s awful! Why didn’t
you tell me this chicken is awful?” She raised stricken eyes to his
face.

“It’s really not all that bad,” he said
gently. “It’ll just take a little getting used to.”

A tear trembled briefly on her eyelashes,
then rolled down her cheek.

“I wanted it to be wonderful.” Another tear
spilled over, and another, until her cheeks were wet with
crying.

Paul went to her in such haste that his chair
toppled over. He pulled her up into his arms and cradled her head
on his chest.

“It was wonderful, angel. The thought was
wonderful and . . .” He stopped before he said, “I love you for
it.” Instead, he said, “And I appreciate it.”

“You’re just . . . saying that . . . to make
me feel . . . better.” The words came out between sniffles, and the
tears rained, unchecked, onto the front of his shirt.

Every sob was like a knife plunging straight
into his heart. He would have walked on nails rather than see her
hurt by anything. Pressing his face into her hair and murmuring
soothing sounds, he lifted her and carried her to the sofa.

She curled into a ball against his chest and
cried until the sobs became hiccups. She cried for the burned
chicken and the sweater with feathers and the broken parsonage
dryer. She cried over the Hawaiian shirt and the shared bath and
the separate bedrooms. Most of all she cried over a love unspoken
and a marriage not real.

When the sobs had stopped, Paul gently
brushed her hair back from her face.

“Better now?” he asked.

She nodded and hiccupped.

He bent and placed a tender kiss on her
forehead. “We’ll get through this together, angel. I promise.”

o0o

The promise was still echoing in Martie’s
mind the next night as she sat on the front pew of Faith Church and
waited for Paul to come out of his study and begin the prayer
meeting. She would be glad when he came out. Her favorite piece of
jewelry, a clunky, hand-crafted brass-and-copper necklace, had
attracted so much attention that she was beginning to feel like a
mannequin in a department store window.

Her heart leapt when Paul entered the
sanctuary, and she reflected that each time she saw him was just
like the first. He had the impact of a dynamite explosion, and she
wondered anew how she had been able to live in the parsonage for
nearly a week without giving in to the desire that swamped her
every time he walked into a room. She stirred restlessly on the
hard bench and tried to elevate her thoughts to more appropriate
topics.

Paul’s smile was like a balm over the
congregation.

“I thought I would be rather informal tonight
and conduct the Bible study from here.” Shunning the pulpit, he
stood near the front pew. “I want my new wife to feel very much at
home in this church, and I know that you will support her as I do.”
He reached down and squeezed Martie’s hand. “And now, let us
begin.”

o0o

Paul’s guidance was so inspiring, Martie
thought, that it brought tears to her eyes. The small group of
parishioners were moved and involved and participated eagerly. As
Paul was concluding the study group, Baby streaked through the
door, ducked under a pew, and ran through Miss Beulah’s legs.

“Somebody catch that dog,” cried a member of
the congregation.

Baby leaped over Jolene’s feet, dived around
the pew, and ran straight up the middle of the aisle. “What’s that
in his mouth?”

“It looks like . . .”

The naughty pet trotted around the nave
waving Paul’s shorts—the pair with bright red hearts, of
course.

Martie gasped. “Oh, dear,” she said aloud
without thinking, “Baby’s got your shorts, Paul.”

Paul tried to rescue his shorts and Baby
decided to play tug-of-war. By the time he had pulled them out of
her grip, everybody at the prayer meeting had gotten a good view of
the telltale red hearts. Hastily he stuffed the gaudy shorts into
his coat pocket.

“It seems,” he said smoothly, “that our dog
has no respect for proper conclusions to our Bible study
group.”

He smiled broadly, and the Faith Church
emptied quickly. Everybody wanted to congregate outside and swap
versions of the story.

Paul and Martie, with Baby between them,
stood in the empty church and looked at each other.

“What are we going to do?” Martie asked.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to
laugh.”

She joined him, and they laughed until Baby
grew tired of all the hilarity and pranced off to scare up another
adventure.

o0o

Outside, the story grew and grew until it had
assumed an importance out of all reason. The consensus of those who
remained behind to talk, those sage minds who ought to know because
they thoroughly discussed everything of significance that happened
in Pontotoc, was that the preacher’s wife was converting him to her
scandalous ways, and not even the sanctuary was safe from her
influence.

o0o

The day after the incident of the valentine
shorts, Martie watched the rain wash against the parsonage windows
and thought that things couldn’t get more complicated. She was
wrong.

She saw the van pull into the parsonage yard,
its tailpipe dragging and its painted rainbows peeling. Yelping
with joy, she ran through the house, out the door, and into Booty
Matthews’s outstretched arms.

“Booty!” she cried ecstatically. “Where did
you come from?” Ignoring the rain, she clung to his arm and gazed
into his dear, grizzled face.

“Hi, sugar.” He flashed her a smile that
showed his two gold molars. “Got your note. My heart’s done broke
plumb in two about missin’ your weddin’, but I said, Shoot, me and
the boys will mosey on up there and see what this bridegroom’s
like. So here we are.”

“We?” asked Martie.

“The band. Come on out, boys,” he called.

A bass player, the fiddler, the pianist, and
the drummer all piled out of the van.

“Don’t just stand there gawkin’, boys,” Booty
told them. “Get your gear and get in out of the rain.”

Holding Martie’s arm, Booty sprinted for the
parsonage. The musicians, with their assortment of fiddles and
drums and suitcases, followed close behind.

Seeing them again brought back all the
excitement of the road tours, and Martie completely forgot to
wonder about the suitcases piled among the musical instruments. She
dispensed hugs all around and clapped her hands with glee.

“Are you still playing
Jambalaya
?”
she asked.

“Shoot, that’s still our specialty,” Booty
said. “Crank it up, boys.”

“It hasn’t been the same without you,
Martie,” the bass player told her.

“I’ve missed you, too, Rod. Give me that
intro again.” Martie tapped her feet to the beat of the music and
started to sing.

An hour passed, and then two as the old
friends laughed and sang and swapped stories of their exploits.

o0o

The rain stopped, the sun came out, and Miss
Beulah passed down the street, walking Falina Theona. Hearing the
music, she stopped.

“As I live and breathe,” she informed her
Persian cat, “they’re having a hoedown in the parsonage.” She
scooped Falina Theona up in her arms and hurried home to call Essie
Mae.

o0o

Paul heard the music the minute he entered
the driveway. Smiling, he parked the car and bounded inside to see
what wonderful surprise Martie had for him this time.

When Martie saw him come through the door,
she stopped singing right in the middle of
Kawliga
and
yelled, “Hey, everybody! Meet Reverend Paul Donovan.”

The fiddle twanged to a stop as Paul supplied
the rest of the information.

“Martie’s husband.” He shook hands all around
and, seeing the suitcases, made a discreet inquiry. “You’re here
for a nice long visit?”

“Overnight,” Booty told him. “We’re headed
for a gig up near Memphis.”

“We’re a small town,” Paul said, “but we have
very good accommodations. The Pontotoc Inn—”

“Shoot,” Booty interrupted. “We didn’t come
all the way from El Paso to stay at no inn. We’re bunking with
Martie.”

Martie’s eyes widened as she thought
frantically. Her own house was sparsely furnished, and had only two
beds. That left three people to share the two guest bedrooms at the
parsonage. And that meant. . .

“That’s great,” Paul said. “We’re always
delighted to have guests.”

His eyes met Martie’s over the heads of their
unexpected guests. If looks could have started a fire, the
parsonage would have gone up in flames. For tonight, at least, it
seemed the wall between them would come tumbling down, and both
were having the same vision.

o0o

It was well past midnight when the band was
finally tucked away. Paul and Martie faced each other across the
double bed in the master bedroom and tried to act naturally.

“You take the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair,”
Paul said.