Donovan’s Angel (4 page)

The electricity of the contact surged between
them, and their eyes widened with the knowledge. For a breathless
moment they clung to one another, marveling in the rightness of the
touch. Martie molded herself to his broad chest and knew that she
was courting disaster.

The shape of her burned itself forever into
Paul’s memory, and he wondered if discretion were, after all, the
better part of valor. For the first time since becoming a minister
he railed silently against the strict code of conduct that kept him
from whisking her off to his bedroom.

Reluctantly he lowered her to the ground,
knowing that he would be on his knees a long time trying to
reconcile himself to the agonizing slowness of developing his
relationship by the rules. He shoved his pipe into his mouth,
seeking solace in the familiar routine.

Martie was thankful that the waning daylight
prevented Paul from seeing how flustered she was. She didn’t quite
understand it herself. For Pete’s sake, it wasn’t as if she had
never been with a man. But not even Rafael, the scintillating
Spaniard who had taught her to fight bulls by day and introduced
her to fireworks of the flesh at night, had made her feel like
this. All trembling expectation and joyful music inside. And she
and Rafael had been engaged . Well, practically.

She stuck her hand into her pocket and
brought out the abused socks. “I’m afraid these are beyond repair,”
she said apologetically. “Baby thoroughly chews every gift that she
brings to me.”

“I noticed that about the marigold you had
tucked in your hair the day we met. Why don’t we just give these
purple socks a decent burial?” he suggested.

“That’s your line of work, isn’t it?”

Paul took a long draw on his pipe and stood
quietly for a moment before answering. “Partially. Marriages, too.
Would you like to talk about my work, Martie?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because my work seems to be a stumbling
block to our . . . friendship.”

“Nonsense,” Martie declared with a toss of
her head. “I’m as friendly as a puppy. I even climbed a tree to
return your socks.”

“So you did. And also to tell me about the
marigolds.”

She loved the smile in his voice. The
fragrant smell of his pipe tobacco blended with the music of
crickets in the October evening, and the peacefulness of the small
town wrapped around Martie like a benediction. She could almost
believe that she and Paul didn’t have irreconcilable differences.
Almost. “We even shared tea.”

“But not ourselves. I want to know why you
climb trees instead of going on the sidewalk the long way around. I
want to know what makes you love animals and bright clothes and why
you retreat when the conversation gets personal.”

“I do not retreat.”

He chuckled. “No. But you do make a
flamboyant exit.”

“Flamboyance is my style. Not. . .”

“Not what, Martie?” he asked gently.
“Convention? Dullness? Stodginess?”

“Those are your words, not mine. Furthermore,
if you’re going to preach, I’m going home.”

The rich rumble of his laughter filled the
evening air.

“It’s habit, I guess. Sometimes I get carried
away.” He shoved the socks into her hand. “Here. You hold these
while I get the shovel.” He disappeared into the growing darkness,
whistling.

“I’m not staying for the burial,” she called
after him. There was no reply. She looked down at the tattered
socks. “Well, darn. Pushy preacher.”

But she was smiling.

Paul returned with the shovel and started
digging in the marigold bed. “I love these Indian summer evenings.
Especially in Mississippi. Did you know that Pontotoc is an Indian
name?”

“I thought this was a burial. Is it going to
be a history lesson, too?”

“You don’t like history?” he asked, leaning
on the shovel and smiling at her.

“Yes,” she replied, momentarily blinded by
his smile. “I do. As a matter of fact, my mother was a history
teacher. The thing I remember most about her is holding her hand as
we walked through the enormous stacks in the library.” She paused.
“But I don’t want to talk about history this evening.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Nothing. I want to be still and listen to
nature’s music and just
be
.”

“Sometimes that’s the best communication of
all,” he said softly.

They worked together silently, with Paul
turning the soft earth and Martie bending down to place the socks
in the shallow trench. Their silence lent a kind of dignity to the
ludicrous occasion. Paul marveled that he was standing in a warm,
tag-end-of-summer evening burying socks when he would ordinarily
have tossed them into the garbage can. Instinctively he knew that
the woman standing beside him was the reason. She made everything
an occasion. Just being with her was a celebration.

Finally he stopped shoveling. “All done,” he
announced.

“That was such a lovely ceremony I think I’m
going to cry.” The moon sliver suspended in the darkened sky
illuminated tell-tale moistness in her violet eyes.

Paul looked at the upturned face, and the
shovel in his hand slowly drifted to the ground, forgotten.

“Martie?” It was half question, half plea as
he lowered his head toward hers. Nothing touched except their lips.
The first tentative sweetness blended and washed over them like
nectar from the gods, and in its wake came a yearning that ripped
through them with the force of a tornado.

Martie pulled back as Paul reached out for
her. “I think I had better go.”

He stood for a moment, collecting his senses
and gathering his patience. “I’ll walk you home.”

“No. I’ll take the short cut.” She turned and
headed for the overhanging limb of the oak tree. Then, realizing
that she couldn’t reach it, she looked over her shoulder at Paul.
“If you’ll just give me a boost.”

Without speaking he put his hands around her
waist and lifted her onto the sturdy limb. He heard the dry leaves
rustle around her as she moved back across the fence. And then, out
of the darkness, he heard her voice.

“Goodnight, Paul.”

He stood at the fence listening to the sound
of her feet running lightly across the yard, and only when he heard
her screen door slam did he respond. “Goodnight, angel.”

A pile of discarded garments lay on the
floor.

“What do you think, Aristocat?” Martie asked
the gray-blue Siamese sitting on the windowsill washing his face.
“Too funky?”

The indigo cotton shirt she wore hung almost
to the knees of the baggy knickers, and when she held up her arm,
the raglan sleeve fanned out.

“Can’t play ball in that,” she muttered.
Ripping the shirt over her head, she tossed it onto the colorful
heap of garments. She stepped out of the knickers, kicked them
aside, and walked to her closet. “You’d think I was going for an
interview with the queen instead of to a picnic,” she grumbled,
pulling a red flight-style jumpsuit off the hanger. “If I hadn’t
already said I would go, I can tell you that I would stay
home.”

Martie zipped the suit almost up to her neck,
then leaned over and lowered the zipper a fraction. She brushed her
hair until it shone and then wove a scarlet ribbon in the fat braid
that she let hang over one shoulder.

“But I guess one little picnic can’t hurt.”
She stepped into a pair of red tennis shoes and whirled to face the
cat. “This is absolutely, positively the last time that I see Paul
Donovan,” she told him. The cat switched his tail and jumped off
the windowsill.

“That kiss last night should never have
happened. I don’t care how good it felt, it’s just not right. Can
you imagine me with a minister? I’d smother to death in boredom.”
Obviously bored himself, the cat padded across the room and out the
door. “A big help you are,” Martie called after him.

Still mumbling to herself, she gathered the
clothes off the floor and hung them back in the closet. She’d half
a mind not to go, but that would be cowardly. And she was not a
coward. She might as well get this behind her and then forget about
the preacher. She shook the indigo shirt vigorously and shoved it
into the closet. Yessir, that’s exactly what she would do.

She banged her bedroom door shut and bounded
down the stairs singing, “I’m just a gal who can’t say no.”

“I certainly hope not.” The Reverend Paul
Donovan looked up at her and smiled. “The door was open. As a
matter of fact, the cat let me in.”

Martie clutched the railing with one hand and
tried to remember that she was already in the process of forgetting
this devastating man.

“He hates strangers,” she said.

With a haughty switch of his tail and a
baleful glare at his mistress, Aristocat stalked across the
spacious hallway and wrapped himself around Paul’s legs in a
shameful display of adoration.

Martie watched her cat with amazement.

“Judas cat,” she scolded, laughing.

“Why don’t you introduce us? Then we won’t be
strangers.”

Martie descended the stairway and peeled her
cat from around his legs. “Aristocat, meet the Reverend Paul
Donovan.”

He solemnly shook the cat’s paw. “You can
call me Paul.”

Aristocat acknowledged the greeting by
purring loudly.

“First my dog makes me a thief, and now my
cat makes me a liar.” Martie set her cat in the hallway and gave
him a playful shove. “Scat, you shameless old reprobate.”

Martie and Paul loaded her picnic basket into
his steady brown Ford, then laughed all the way to the church
grounds.

o0o

The red brick Faith Church with its white
Corinthian columns sat in a grove of trees beside a winding gravel
road. Many of the picnickers had already gathered, and festive
sounds of laughter and excited chatter filled the air. The sun cast
heated rays on the browning patches of grass, and several people
had already abandoned their sweaters.

Heads swiveled in their direction when Paul
helped Martie from his car. The buzz of conversation ceased for a
moment, then started back with renewed vigor as they made their way
across the picnic grounds. In her red outfit, Martie stood out like
a cardinal at a convention of sparrows.

Paul stopped along the way to make
introductions, and a curious crowd of children tagged along behind
them. She turned to smile at the children and instantly became
their heroine. They gazed with round-eyed adoration at her
beautiful face and hung on every musical word that flowed from her
lips.

“I think you’ve made some new friends,” Paul
observed, nodding with satisfaction from Martie to the
children.

“I hope so. I’ve always loved children. We
understand each other.”

He laughed. “I don’t doubt that. There are a
few trees around here if you and your new friends want to
climb.”

“Don’t think for a minute that I wouldn’t if
I wanted to.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Not
even for a second.”

A handsome young couple leading a chubby,
curly haired two-year-old between them stopped beside Paul and
Martie. Paul introduced them as Bob and Jolene Taylor and their
son, Mark.

Bob took Martie’s hand between his. “I’m so
glad to see the Reverend enjoying the company of a beautiful
woman,” he said warmly. “It’s about time he got out of that study
and had some fun.”

“Don’t let Bob fool you, Martie,” Jolene
warned, laughing. “His idea of having fun is staying in the field
two more hours to plow the back forty.”

Bob shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “What
can I say? I’m guilty. But I’m not without my social graces. I
grill a mean hamburger.” He paused. “Hey! Why don’t you two come
over next Wednesday? After we eat we’ll play cards.”

“That’s a great idea!” Jolene said.

Martie’s eyes widened as she looked at Paul.
How could she tell these two sincere people that this was just an
interlude, that after today the Reverend Paul Donovan would be out
of her life?

“Paul?”

“Give us a raincheck on that,” Paul said
smoothly. “Martie’s still moving in.”

Jolene sensed that there was more to the
interchange between her beloved pastor and the delightful woman at
his side than met the eye. She took Martie’s elbow.

“Here,” she said. “Let me show you where to
put this picnic basket, and then I’ll introduce you to my Thursday
morning sewing circle.” She gave her husband an affectionate pat on
the cheek. “Keep Mark occupied, darling, while I show Martie
around.”

Taking command of the situation, she led
Martie to a chattering group of young women. “I hope you can do
English smocking. We’ve been dying for somebody to join our group
who can teach us how.”

“I hardly know which end of the needle to
thread.”

“That’s all right. You can join us anyhow and
tell us how you got that perfectly fabulous figure. I might even
give up chocolate for a figure like that.”

Martie was delighted with Jolene. If she
hadn’t come to the picnic, she would have missed the opportunity of
making this new friend. “I’m starting a Jazzercise class next week.
Perhaps you’d like to join.”

“Can you promise that I’ll discover my
waistline?” Jolene asked wistfully.

“Only if you lay off the chocolate.”

Jolene led her into a lively group of young
women, some with young children, some newlyweds, and some still
looking. “Let me introduce you to six more aspiring goddesses who
haven’t seen their waistlines in fifteen years.”

“Speak for yourself, Jolene,” a boisterous
redhead called Sam piped up. To Martie she said, “You’ll have to
watch out for Jolene. First she’ll get you into the sewing circle
and then before you know it she’ll have you roped into five
different jobs at the church. She’s director of the youth
department.”

Jolene’s brown eyes sparkled as she looked at
Martie. “Do you sing?”