Donovan’s Angel (19 page)

“Mrs. Donovan, you have roses in the most
interesting places,” he said, and those were the last words spoken
until all the roses had been scattered across the bed and their
passion was spent.

Paul picked up a crushed rose and rubbed it
lightly across Martie’s breasts.

“Do you think that fifty years from now you
will still be surprising me?”

The wicked grin she gave him made Paul
smile.

“Unless I grow tired of you.”

“And how long do you think that will take?”
Smiling, he tore the petals from the rose and scattered them across
her torso.

Martie reached up and brushed a lock of dark
hair away from his forehead.

“I think it’ll take me seventy-five years to
tire of your hair.” Lightly she traced his lips with her
fingertips. “And two thousand years to tire of your lips.” Her
hands moved down his throat and played across his chest. “Three
thousand years here.” The hands journeyed downward, stopping to
caress strategic points. “Four thousand here . . . and one million
here.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Is
that fifty, Paul?” she asked softly.

“Let’s go back to one million.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

She sat up and pushed him lightly onto his
back. Through a thick haze of passion he saw the rose petals fall
from her hair and drift around him. His quicksilver-gray eyes
burned across her face, memorizing every line, as she leaned over
and fashioned a careful garland of petals. Her hair made a moonbeam
curtain on his chest as she lowered her lips to his body and one by
one nibbled away the garland of rose petals.

She lingered longest over the last petal,
taking him into her mouth with it. The carousel music that was
Martie surged through him, and when it became a wild,
uncontrollable rhythm, he lifted her hips and fitted her over him.
The music played on for a million years, or so it seemed, until the
carousel wound down to a quiet melody.

“Paul,” she murmured into his damp chest.

“Hmm?”

“You’re better than a roller coaster
ride.”

He smiled. “I hope so.”

“And do you know what else?”

“Don’t tell me there’s more?”

“Yes. You’re better than fighting bulls and
skydiving and doing seventy-five in a forty-mile zone.”

“Does that mean you like me?” he asked
playfully.

“Enormously, Reverend Donovan.”

“In that case, Mrs. Donovan, you can
stay.”

They ordered room service, then after bacon
and eggs called his family to break the news of their marriage.

“They’re going to love you, “ Paul said.

After talking to Mr. and Mrs. Donovan and an
assortment of brothers and sisters whose names she tried to keep
straight, Martie felt as if she’d finally come home.

Over coffee they talked about their future.
He was thrilled she wanted children, and she was ecstatic that
they’d have grandparents and lots of aunts and uncles - Tanner and
Jacob, and Paul’s twin sisters, Hannah and Hallie.

“Maybe we’ll have twins, too.” Martie bubbled
over at the idea. “It runs in families, you know.”

“Anything you want, angel, but first I want
to explore every inch of the amazing Mrs. Donovan.”

“Do you need a map?”

“Just a little time.”

The spent the rest of the day making
remarkable discoveries about each other.

o0o

Most of those discoveries were made in the
bubble bath they shared.

“Paul, I didn’t know you had a mole
there.”

“Come closer, Martie, and I’ll show you
another one.”

“Paul! That’s not a mole.”

“What is it?”

“I think it’s a rose petal.”

“You win the prize, angel.”

“What is the prize?”

“This.” Grinning, he hauled her, bubbles and
all, over his rose petal.

When the rose petal had finally wilted and
the bubbles had been scattered, Martie rested her head on Paul’s
wet chest.

“I may stay in this tub forever,” she
sighed.

“That’s a splendid idea.” He kissed a stray
bubble from the top of her head. “It’s a great place to learn
everything there is to know about my remarkable wife.”

“There are some things that bubbles and rose
petals don’t convey.” She lifted her head so that she could look
directly into his eyes.

Seeing the serious look on her face, he
stroked her back and asked gently, “What don’t they convey,
angel?”

“Last year I wrote a book.”

“I think that’s wonderful. Why the serious
face?”

“It’s an exercise book, Paul, and I posed for
the illustrations.”

“In that fetching little outfit you call a
leotard?”

“Yes,” she replied hesitantly.

He smiled and squeezed her tight. “I don’t
know anybody else who could pose better than you.”

“You’re not upset?”

“No,” he said, caressing her. “Should I
be?”

“I just thought. . .” Her voice trailed off,
and she let her hands slide dreamily across his chest.

“You just thought what?”

“It’s hard to think when that rose petal
keeps doing that.” Her hands drifted under water to capture the
object under discussion. “With you being a minister . . . the
leotard is skimpy . . . the pictures aren’t exactly. . .” Her
breath caught in her throat as Paul shifted to join them once
more.

“What will people think?” she managed to
ask.

“There’s nobody in this tub except you and
me. And I think you’re splendid. Unless you want to invite an
audience?”

The question went begging as the Reverend and
Mrs. Donovan became totally immersed in their quest for remarkable
discoveries.

o0o

Finally they were driven from the tub by the
fear that they would shrivel away to nothing. They sat in the
middle of their curtained bed, and Paul recited love poems to
Martie as he towel dried her hair.

“How did you memorize all that poetry, Paul?”
she asked admiringly.

“Terror.”

“You’re kidding. You’re not afraid of
anything.”

He smiled. “You didn’t know my seventh grade
English teacher.”

“I wish I could thank her.” She leaned her
head forward as Paul massaged the soft curls at the nape of her
neck. “Hmm, that feels great. You’re rather useful as a hair dryer,
Reverend Donovan. I think I’ll keep you.”

He tossed the towel across a chair and pulled
her into his arms. “And I think I’ll keep you.”

“Even after my sensational exercise book hits
the stands?” she asked playfully.

As she smoothed his tousled hair off his
forehead, she had no doubts about her husband. He was a forever
kind of man, and she was the luckiest woman in the world.

“Longer than that,” he replied.

“How long?”

He smiled. “Long enough for you to patch all
my shorts.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And deck my fence with
roses.” He kissed her eyelids. “And teach me how to score
ninety-six on a par thirty-seven putt-putt golf course.” His lips
seared down her cheek and captured her mouth. “And long enough to
have all my children,” he murmured into the honeyed warmth that was
now his for the taking. He thought his heart would burst with
joy.

“That’s a long time, Paul,” she said when he
came up for air.

“It’s forever, angel.”

There was no more talking as the shadows
played in changing patterns over the honeymoon suite at The
Peabody.

o0o

While Martie took a late afternoon nap, Paul
arranged a surprise. He went about his preparations whistling and
wondering why he had been singled out for all this happiness.

Finally Martie awakened, refreshed and
smiling.

“I’m so hungry I could eat the curtain around
this bed,” were the first words out of her mouth.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Paul said, laughing.
“And cheap, too. I’ll call down for catsup. Or would you prefer
mustard?”

“Both. With a side dish of lobster.”

“How about black bottom pie oozing with
chocolate and whipped cream?”

“You’re making me crazy.” She hopped out of
bed and headed for the bath. “I haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird
alive today.”

He leaned against the door frame and watched
her draw a bath. “As I recall, madam, you had other things on your
mind.”

“So did you.”

“I’m getting ideas right now.”

She marched across the tiles and firmly
closed the door in his face.

“Not until after I eat,” she called through
the door.

When she emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed
and shining, Paul was initiated into the joys of fastening a
woman’s back zipper. That small chore took ten minutes because he
kept stopping to lower the zipper and kiss the smooth skin
underneath.

“Paul, that’s the fifteenth time,” Martie
finally protested.

“Are you counting?”

“Yes. You’re dealing with a starving
woman.”

“Is there no romance in your soul?”

“I’ll tell you after dinner.”

“Then put your shoes on, angel. I know just
the place.”

Paul made her close her eyes as the elevator
whisked them to the roof of The Peabody.

“Give me your hand, angel—and don’t
peek.”

“I don’t hear any dishes rattling,” she said
as they stepped off the elevator. “I don’t even smell food.”

“You will.” He led her to the center of the
roof, where a wrought-iron table had been set for two. Candles
flickered on the white linen cloth, and a smiling waiter stood
beside a serving cart waiting for Paul’s signal to uncover the
steaming lobster. “You can open your eyes now.”

Her eyes sparkled as she viewed the private
paradise he had created. Twinkling Christmas lights festooned the
rooftop, and a hundred heart-shaped mylar balloons, each
proclaiming, “I love you,” floated above them.

“Balloons! Paul, I adore balloons.”

He untied one of the rainbow colored balloons
and secured it to her wrist.

“I’m going to fill your life with balloons
and Christmas lights and music.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck.

“You already have, Paul.”

At a signal from Paul, the waiter punched the
start button on a tape player and strains of
Stardust
filled the air.

“May I have this dance, Mrs. Donovan?”

“Now and forever, Reverend Donovan.”

As they waltzed around the roof, the balloon
on her wrist came untied and floated upward toward the stars.

The magic of their honeymoon was still with
them when they returned to Pontotoc. Paul scooped her into his arms
and carried her over the parsonage threshold.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Donovan.” Still holding
her in his arms, he bent his head and gave her a very thorough
welcome-home kiss.

“I wanted to do that the first time you
entered this parsonage as my wife.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asked.

“Foolish scruples.”

“I’m glad all that’s behind us, Paul.” She
peppered his face with nibbling kisses. “Reverend Donovan, did
anybody ever tell you that you’re good enough to eat?”

“Did anybody ever tell you that you have the
appetite of a truck driver?”

“We’ve been home only two minutes and already
you’re becoming a mundane old married man. Not an ounce of romance
in your soul.” Playfully she nipped his ear.

“I take that as a challenge, madam.” With
long strides he carried her to his bedroom and kicked the door shut
behind them. “I’ll show you romance,” he said, and lowered her to
the bed.

“How about Christmas lights and music?” she
asked as he undid the buttons on her blouse.

“This is a package deal.” He lowered his
mouth to hers, and there were no more words as the Reverend Paul
Donovan properly welcomed his wife home.

o0o

After the lights had stopped spinning and the
music had become a quiet melody in their hearts, Martie ran her
fingertips lightly across his bare chest.

“Does this mean I get to move into your
bedroom?” she teased.

He propped his hands behind his head and
smiled lazily at her.

“I’ll think about it.”

“If your answer is no, I could always rejoin
Booty and the band or take up bullfighting again.”

Her eyes sparkled with mirth, and she thought
she had never been as happy as she was at that moment. She was
married to the man she loved, and nothing would ever keep them
apart again.

Never one to dwell on the past, she didn’t
think about the gossip and public opinion that had parted them once
before; she looked ahead, counting all the ties that bound them
together.

His arms snaked out and pinned her against
his chest.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve wanted to
kick down that wall that stood between us?”

“Do you know how many nights I lay awake in
my bed hoping you would?” she replied softly.

He crushed her to his chest and buried his
face in her hair. “Now that I have you, angel, nothing will ever
come between us again,” he vowed.

A loud pounding on the parsonage door sent
Paul scrambling for his pants. “Stay here, Martie. I’ll see who it
is.” Hastily he donned his shirt and shoes and left his wife among
the tumbled bedcovers.

Martie heard the door slam, heard the deep
rumble of Paul’s voice as he welcomed their guest. She smiled.
Bending over the edge of the bed, she picked up her lace teddy and
twirled it around her fingers.

“I’m just a girl . . . la, da, dee, da. . .
.” She sang and hummed and whistled as she dressed, stopping every
now and then to stretch her arms over her head like a contented
cat. Suddenly she stiffened.

“A dis-
grace
!”

The voice was unmistakably Miss Beulah’s.
Martie stood very still in the middle of the room, angry color
flooding her cheeks as she caught snatches of Miss Beulah’s
tirade.

“Posing half-naked . . . an embarrassment to
the entire community. . .”