Donovan’s Angel (21 page)

“I guess the preacher’s laundry will have to
wait,” she announced breezily. “Make yourselves right at home,
gentlemen, and please excuse me while I change.”

At last she pivoted around to face Paul. She
couldn’t tell whether he was suppressing anger or laughter.

“Did you offer our unexpected guests some
tea, Paul? They look . . . thirsty.”

She heard Victor’s enraged bellow the minute
she left the room.

“She does laundry on Sunday!”

Shutting her ears to the rest of the hubbub,
she hurried to the bedroom, shucked her leotard, and climbed into
the shower. As the water cascaded onto her flushed face, she
decided that it would take something more than patience and keeping
up appearances to placate these witch hunters.

o0o

After the committee had gone, Martie rejoined
Paul in the parlor. She stood quietly at the door for a moment,
hating the people who had caused the pain she saw on his face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, moving across the
floor to kneel beside his chair. “I didn’t mean to make things
worse for you.”

“You didn’t, Martie.” His hands cupped her
cheeks, and he smiled down at her.

“I think you just told a lie, Reverend
Donovan. It’s probably the only lie you’ve ever told in your
life.”

She hoped that banter would lighten the
burden he was carrying.

“Well, maybe I did gloss the truth a little,”
he admitted. “You’re wrong about one thing, though.”

“What?”

“It’s not the first lie I’ve ever told. When
I was ten I vowed I knew nothing of how Mr. Kirkland’s cows got
into our corn. But my brother, Tanner, saw that justice was served.
He told Papa that I had left the gate down. I got a sound thrashing
for that one.”

“Thrashing is not what I had in mind for
you.” She stood up and lowered herself into his lap.

“Just what did you have in mind for me, Mrs.
Donovan?”

“This.” Tenderly she kissed the tip of his
nose. “And this.” Her next kiss landed on his cheek. “And this.”
She lingered longest over his lips.

“Do you know what I think?” he murmured,
tracing the slender line of her throat with his forefinger.

“What do you think?” She arched her neck as
the finger moved downward, burning a trail to her cleavage.

“You’re much better than a thrashing.”

He lifted her and carried her into the
bedroom.

Their lovemaking was fierce, as if their
passion could drive away the outside forces that threatened them.
Afterward they clung to each other, each taking courage and
strength from the other’s nearness.

o0o

Martie needed that strength the next day when
she was confronted by a scandal-sniffing woman at the laundromat.
The parsonage dryer was still on the blink, and a light mist had
prevented her from using the outside clothesline. She had put her
towels into the dryer and was loading her sheets into the washer
when a red-faced woman she didn’t know approached her.

“Ain’t you Rev’rend Donovan’s new wife?” The
woman shifted her laundry basket from one hip to the other, causing
her calico print dress to hike up and reveal her slip.

“Yes.” Martie smiled a greeting. “I don’t
believe I’ve met you,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m
Martie.”

The woman took careful aim and spat a stream
of tobacco juice at the tin wastebasket.

“Ain’t necessary for you to know me. I seen
them pitchures of you. It ain’t fittin’ and proper for a man of the
cloth’s wife to display herself like some Jez’bel.”

Martie withdrew her hand. She was almost
certain that this woman was not one of Paul’s parishioners. Was all
of Pontotoc condemning her?

“My husband had nothing to do with the book,
and it should in no way reflect on his ministry. As for the
pictures, they are not meant to entice. They are simply
illustrations of exercises.”

“Call ‘em what you want. They’re the work of
the devil. Ain’t no preacher gonna overcome what that sinful book
done.” Without another word she hitched the laundry higher on her
hip and left.

Tears of anger and frustration stung Martie’s
eyes as she hurried through her laundry. She wanted to go after the
woman and make her see the truth. She wanted to run down the
streets of Pontotoc with a bullhorn and shout that nothing she had
done or would ever do could touch Paul’s integrity.

“Oh, Paul,” she whispered. “You’ve asked too
much of me. I can’t change what I am, and I can’t wait patiently
for these people to deem me suitable.”

o0o

Her Thunderbird made a slash of red on the
streets as she barreled home. The spectacle set already wagging
tongues to further activity.

Her first impulse was to pour out the whole
story to Paul, but he was visiting one of his ailing parishioners
at the North Mississippi Medical Center. Upon reflection, she
decided she was glad he wasn’t home. He didn’t need further
evidence that she was destroying his career.

o0o

Martie’s conclusion was reinforced everywhere
she went that week. In the library, at the grocery store, on the
sidewalks, people were engaged in speculation about the impact her
Jazzercise book would have on Paul’s career. The consensus was that
he would lose credibility, that he would never be asked to move to
a larger church, and worst of all, that he would be drummed from
the ministry.

On Saturday evening, one week after the
scandal had spread, Martie sat with her arms around Baby’s neck,
waiting for Paul to come back from a district meeting. She knew
what she must do. As she saw his car pull into the driveway, she
wiped the tears from her eyes. Then, putting on a brave smile, she
greeted him with a kiss and led him inside the parsonage. He must
not suspect her plan, for he would never agree.

She had never been one to use subterfuge, but
because she loved so deeply she put on a performance worthy of an
Academy Award. Having made up her mind that leaving Paul was the
only way to save his career, she made the most of their last
precious night together. The memories had to last a lifetime. Paul
never suspected that their passionate lovemaking that night was
Martie’s way of saying good-bye.

o0o

Pleading a headache the next morning—which
wasn’t exactly a lie—Martie stayed behind when Paul left to preach
the morning service. As soon as his car was out of sight she began
her preparations.

“I know I’m right, Baby,” she said to her
tail-wagging pet. “I love Paul too much to ruin his career. That’s
his life’s work. He loves it. I won’t put him in the position of
having to choose.”

She sat cross-legged on the bed,
rationalizing to herself and to Baby and making lopsided stitches
on the front of her blue sweater.

“We’ll go somewhere we’ve never been. Maybe
Alaska. Somewhere that doesn’t have marigold beds. We’ll go so far
away that nothing I do will ever touch Paul again.”

She hurried with her work lest she change her
mind. Although she usually acted on impulse, she had carefully
planned this scenario. She was afraid that if she didn’t do it
quickly, she would never have the courage to do it at all. Telling
her pets that she would be back soon, she donned her shocking
costume and headed for Faith Church.

o0o

She could hear the dying strains of the
offertory as she parked under an oak tree. Her timing was perfect,
she thought. Willing herself to smile, she entered the small
church.

Paul was the first to see her. He was
standing behind the pulpit getting ready to preach his sermon, the
sermon he had wrestled with for nearly a week. Everything flew out
of his mind except the large scarlet A on Martie’s sweater. His
knuckles turned white as he gripped the pulpit. He could guess her
intention, and for the first time since their marriage he was
afraid of losing her.

He watched the heads turn, one by one, to
gape at the spectacle. He heard the collective gasps, and there was
no doubt whatsoever in his mind that everyone in the church knew
the import of that damning scarlet A.

The pulpit was like an anchor in a storm, and
he held it in a death grip to keep from running to Martie and
stopping her performance.

“There’s no longer a need,” he wanted to tell
her, but he saw the stubborn tilt of her chin and knew that she had
to have this chance to make her statement in her own way.

For the first time since she had entered the
church, Martie looked at Paul, but then she quickly turned her head
away. Seeing him almost made her lose sight of what she had to do.
Hastily she made her way to the front of the church and turned her
back on him. Facing her flabbergasted audience, she scanned their
faces, trying to make eye contact with every person who had
condemned her.

“Many of you have labeled me unfit.” Her
voice rang out in the stunned silence. “My actions, past and
present, have been laid at my husband’s door. Overlooking the
wonderful work he does and the generosity of his heart and spirit,
you have chosen to threaten his career because of me.”

She stopped until the murmur from the
audience ceased.
You’ve come this far
, she told herself,
you can go the rest of the way
.

“Reverend Paul Donovan is a good man, and he
is not responsible for my actions. I am. Today I’m taking all the
disgrace upon myself. Because I love him, I’m leaving.” Her voice
almost broke on the words, but she thrust out her chin and
continued bravely, “I hope you will give him a chance to heal the
breach I’ve caused.”

Shocked whispers filled the church as Martie
started toward the back door. Quiet arguments broke out among
members, and Sam cried out boldly for her to stay.

Paul’s voice resounded like thunder in the
midst of the hubbub.

“Martie, wait!” He bounded from the pulpit
and caught her arm. “Come with me.”

His voice was quieter now, but it still
carried throughout the church. With his arm around her, he led her
back to the pulpit.

Calmly he ripped the scarlet A from her
sweater. It settled to the carpet like an accusation in full view
of the audience.

“‘As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.’”
Paul’s eyes seemed to pierce into the very souls of his attentive
audience. “The measure of a man is what he is inside. The woman who
has been stoned, my wife, has a heart filled with love and joy and
kindness. I ask that each of you examine your hearts.”

His arm tightened around Martie.

“I have decided that I can no longer
effectively serve this parish, and I offer you my resignation.”
Keeping a tight hold on his wife, he stepped down from the
pulpit.

Martie turned to look into his face. “I can’t
let you do that, Paul,” she whispered.

“I already have.”

Victor Cranston was the first to speak.

“We can’t let you do that, Reverend.” His
face was red with embarrassment, but he plunged boldly on. “I’ve
been one of the ringleaders in this sorry business. I’m afraid
we’ve been too hasty in our judgment. We’ve been so busy condemning
her because she is different that we haven’t bothered to look
beyond appearances. Today you’ve made me realize the enormity of my
own failing. If your wife will let me, I’m going to make up for
some of the grief I’ve caused.”

Victor took the minister’s hand. “I hope
you’ll accept this public apology.”

The rest of the penitent parishioners
followed suit. Even Miss Beulah, after much fidgeting and
rationalizing, came down the aisle. But once having set her mind to
this reconciliation, she put her whole spirit into it. Pumping the
minister’s hand, she beamed at him.

“I do vow and declare. Sometimes it takes a
downright
tornado
to get some folks to see the light. Your
announcement just left me speechless.
Speechless
! Why,
we’d be lost without you. And who else would we find who could put
away as much fried chicken? Why, the picnics wouldn’t seem right
a’tall without you. And as I was saying to Essie Mae, the other
day. . . Essie Mae, I said, we need to do something nice for that
Reverend’s cute little new wife. Why, Essie Mae, I said—”

“Beuler!” Essie Mae interrupted the endless
flow of words. “Why don’t you move over and let somebody else talk
a while?”

The laughter broke the tension, and with the
crisis finally over, peace was restored to the little red brick
church.

o0o

In the quiet of the parsonage, Paul took his
wife into his arms.

“Would you really have left me?” he
asked.

“I don’t know, Paul.” She pressed her cheek
against his chest so that she could hear the steady, reassuring
beat of his heart.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”

“You’ll never have to find out.” She grinned
impishly up at him. “You’re stuck with me now, Reverend
Donovan.”

“I think this calls for a celebration.”

“Haagen-Dazs ice cream?” she asked
innocently.

“I had something else in mind, but if you’d
prefer ice cream . . .” The sentence trailed off as Martie reached
up and removed his clerical collar.

“The ice cream can wait.”

Even the newly installed ceiling fan couldn’t
relieve the torrid heat. Sweat trickled down Martie’s bare arm as
she reached up to drape the Christmas bells across the parlor door
frame. Every now and then she stopped to rest.

Baby and Aristocat paraded grandly through
the parlor, stopping long enough to sniff the cedar tree and to
stare at themselves in the mirrored ornaments that festooned its
branches. Baby soon grew bored with her image, however, and padded
across to Martie’s sagging chair for her daily quota of
petting.

Martie scratched behind her ears. “You’ll
soon have some competition,” she told her pet. “What do you think
of that?”

Baby thumped her tail on the polished floor,
then blithely left for the flower garden.