by Peggy Webb
“Great.” Paul unfolded his long legs and stood up. “I’m taking you to the Indian summer picnic this Saturday.”
“How do you know I want to go?”
“You just said that you love baseball. Besides, it will be a good chance for you to meet people. Thanks for the tea.” And he was out the door before she could say yes or no.
She twirled around in her kitchen, her hair flying around her in the sunshine. “Well, heck, why not?” she asked the cat, who had just come in to see what was going on. “What can one little picnic hurt?”
o0o
The next day Martie alternated between elation and moodiness. Why hadn’t she just told him no right away? She really shouldn’t allow herself to get close to him: he was too sexy. She whizzed around her newly purchased turn of the century home, attacking cobwebs on the ceiling and dust balls under the beds. She had a tug of war with Baby over the mop and finally managed to salvage enough of it to clean the kitchen and bathroom floors to a shine.
Pooh-poohing the old adage that Rome wasn’t built in a day, Martie waxed her wooden floors and washed her windows, stopping only long enough to stave off starvation with a tuna sandwich. The sun was sinking into the western horizon when she finally took a breather. She sat on her rickety back porch steps and listened to the cricket songs in her yard. After a few moments Baby nudged her leg to catch her attention and proudly dropped a prize at her feet.
“Well, hello, you old cuddle bum,” she cooed, scratching behind Baby’s ears. “What do you have now?” The minute she put her hand on the soggy, dirty object, she knew it was Paul Donovan’s purple socks. Or at least the remains. Smothering her laughter, she scolded her pet. “What am I going to do with you, you scalawag?”
For an answer, the golden retriever puppy licked her hand and then bounded off to chase a grasshopper.
Still smiling, Martie jumped up from the steps, shoved the socks into her blue jeans pocket, and raced to the oak tree. She climbed rapidly upward until she was a part of the brilliant sunset sky. Inching her way along a fat limb, she traversed the fence and flattened herself out on the branch just above Paul’s former marigold bed. A ring of fragrant tobacco smoke drifted around her head as she parted the leaves . . . and looked directly down into a pair of quicksilver-gray eyes.
Paul removed the pipe from his mouth. “The Cheshire cat, I presume?” he asked, smiling.
“No. Just Baby’s messenger mistress. I’m returning your socks.”
“Remind me to thank Baby.”
“Don’t be too hasty with the thanks. Just wait until you see the socks.” She clutched the limb, already regretting her impulsiveness in climbing up the tree. She was just asking for trouble. The best thing to do would be to drop the socks down to him and inch back across the limb to her own yard. Cautiously she let go with one hand and tried to reach into her pocket.
“Aren’t you coming down?” Paul asked, obviously amused.
“No,” Martie replied firmly. “This is not a social call. Just an errand.”
“Then perhaps I should come up,” he suggested.
“There’s room on this limb for only one.”
“Pity.”
“Besides, what would Miss Beulah say?”
“She would probably be upset…”
“That’s an understatement!”
“. . . because she’s missing all the fun.”
One of Martie’s legs slipped off the limb and dangled in the air. Deftly, Paul reached up and caught her ankle. “Don’t worry, Martie,” he assured her. “I won’t let you fall. You can turn loose the limb.”
Falling was the least of her worries. What really bothered her was how she could keep the flames that were licking along her leg from setting fire to the tree. “I’m not worried. You can let go of my leg.”
“And be responsible for you breaking a bone? Not a chance.” He gave a tug and Martie came tumbling off the limb into his arms.
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 pa
used. “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.”
CHAPTER THREE
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 be
tween 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?”
“Some,” Martie replied cautiously.
“I thought so. We’ve been searching to high heaven for a director of our youth choir. I’m so glad you came today.”
Paul appeared behind Martie and casually draped his arm across her shoulder. “I see Jolene’s already drafted you.”
The heat of his arm on her shoulder combined with the warm rays of the sun made Martie feel flushed.
