Donovan’s Angel

by Peggy Webb

Letting her silk robe drop to the floor, Martie slid between the sheets. “Tomorrow I’ll put him out of my mind,” she promised herself. She gave her pillows a mighty whack and tried to fall asleep.

  o0o

  She sat in the back row of pews and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. Heaven only knew why she had come. She had tried to stay away; all day long she had ignored the church chimes and the tugging of her heart. But finally she had given in. Just one last glimpse of him, she had told herself. After all, she had never even heard him preach. Maybe he would be one of those pulpit-pounding, hellfire-and-damnation preachers who would make her want to leave and never see him again. She sat on the pew rationalizing as the choir filed into the loft.

  A few friendly glances were cast toward her, and there were rustlings and whisperings all around. Suddenly an expectant hush fell over the crowd as the Reverend Paul Donovan stepped into the pulpit. His rich voice filled every corner of the small country church as he read the scriptures. Martie glanced around at the rapt, upturned faces of the Sunday night worshipers. There were farmers in clean, starched overalls and businessmen in three-piece suits. Good country women in plain navy dresses and pillbox hats held the hands of bright eyed kids with freshly scrubbed faces and slicked down hair. Stooped grandfathers with sparse white hair shared their Bibles with gangly legged teenage grandsons. Adolescent girls with bright red lipstick and layers of makeup covering their fresh crop of pimples covertly watched their teenage sweethearts.

  Martie’s eyes were drawn back toward the pulpit. She felt the strong current flowing between Paul and his parishioners. It was more than the hypnotic beauty of his voice and the warm sincerity of his clear gray eyes. They were bound by a common purpose, a mutual seeking for the peace and strength and joy that comes through faith. She closed her eyes as Paul’s compelling words swept over her, and she knew that nothing must ever separate him from his work.

  Although she loved to sing, she didn’t join in the final hymn. She had already determined to make a hasty exit before Paul spotted her. After the benediction she tried to blend in with the homeward-bound crowd, but Paul had seen her and was rapidly working his way toward the back of the sanctuary.

  She had almost gained the door when a cheerful voice hailed her.

  “Martie! Wait!” Jolene sprinted up the side aisle and stood before her. “I saw you from the choir loft. Gosh, I thought you were going to leave before I could catch you.” She took Martie’s elbow and propelled her back into the church. “I meant to talk to you about the children’s program last Tuesday, but it slipped my mind.”

  She stopped talking long enough to signal frantically to Paul. “Look who I’ve found,” she called to him.

  Paul extracted himself from the crowd and joined them. “And none too soon,” he remarked, beaming at Martie. “I think you’ve just rescued Jolene from a desperate situation.”

  Lightning jolted through Martie’s body and thunder crashed in her ears. If Paul felt the electrical storm, he certainly didn’t show it. How could he be talking about desperate situations while she was being electrocuted? Why had she come here, and how much longer could she endure this storm without touching him?

  “Desperate?” Jolene echoed plaintively. “Why, I’m positively frantic.” She ran a hand through her mop of brown curls. “The play scripts arrived last week and Miss Sudie, who usually directs the Halloween pageant, has come down with flu. If Paul hadn’t reminded me about you last Sunday . . . the children would have been so disappointed. Oh, my! You’re a blessing in disguise.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Martie replied. She was having a hard time following Jolene’s breathless conversation, since her mind was busy memorizing every detail of Paul in his robe and clerical collar.

  “But you’re going to. Wait right here while I run and get the script.” Jolene dashed down the aisle before Martie could say that she had no intention of ever returning to Paul’s church, let alone getting involved with a Halloween pageant.

  The church was empty now except for the two of them.

  “I’m glad you came, Martie,” Paul said, taking her hand.

  “It doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind, Paul.”

  “I know. But still, I’m glad. So is Jolene. I told her about your work with children in the daycare center.”

  Her hand nestled in his, and she felt his strength flowing into her. “I can’t let the children down, can I?”

  “No indeed.” He smiled.

  “I do love pageants!”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “And Halloween is just around the corner.”

  “It’s practically here already,” he agreed.

  Martie’s eyes sparkled as she began to anticipate the pageant. “What is the play?”

  “Daniel in the Lion’s Den.”

  She smiled with delight. “Good. We can have costumes . . . mop heads for lions’ manes and red ribbons for their tails. I can even make a robe for Daniel.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Pingham can help you with the sewing,” he suggested, his eyes twinkling.

  Martie shot him an impish grin. “You didn’t like the shorts.”

  “I loved everything about them. Especially the lopsided leg and the heart-shaped box.”

  They stood in the chapel laughing, unaware that their hands were still clasped. And at, that moment, Jolene walked into the back of the church.

  Seeing them together that way, so intent on each other, their faces shining with where-have-you-been-all-my-life joy, she laid the script on a table and made a discreet exit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Paul stood in the shadows at the back of the fellowship hall and watched Martie work. He thought she resembled an exotic flower moving about the small stage in her ruffled, multicolored gypsy dress. Taking his pipe from his pocket, he eased into a folding chair and studied the scene before him. She was a natural with children. Even little Sally Pingham, who had always been too shy to participate, was enthusiastically saying her lines.

  He puffed contentedly on his pipe as the play progressed, and if anyone had asked him to describe it, he would have said that it was all about a stunning woman with a knack for imparting joy and inciting happiness.

  “That’s it for tonight, children,” Martie called out ten minutes later. “Cookies are in the back, and I’ll see all of you here tomorrow night.” Smiling, she took two of the chubby hands that were thrust at her and started toward the back of the fellowship hall.

  “You were wonderful.”

  Martie stopped as Paul’s magical voice spoke from the shadows. She sent her hungry charges ahead to the kitchen. “I didn’t know we had an audience,” she said, turning to face him.

  “I was doing some work in my office,” he explained. “I thought I’d drop by and take you home.”

  “No thanks. It was such a pretty evening that I walked.”

  “So did I.” He smiled. “I believe we’re going the same way. We might as well go there together.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “No.”

  Keeping her eyes on the spiral of smoke that wafted about his head, she pondered the situation for a moment. She had known, of course, that she would see Paul while she directed the play. There was no way to avoid it. She had also known that each time she saw him she would remember the kiss they had exchanged in her back hallway. Perhaps it was best this way. Maybe if she saw him every evening, he would lose some of his appeal. Maybe she would discover that what she felt for him was merely a passing fancy rather than something akin to love.

  “I suppose it would look funny if we walked on opposite sides of the street,” she conceded.

  “People would probably talk.”

  “Heaven forbid! You don’t mind waiting until the mothers pick up the children?”

  “For you, angel, I would wait forever.”

  She decided not to even think about that remark. “Have a cookie while you wait.”

  “Did you make them?” he asked.


  “Yes.”

  “I hope they’re chocolate chip.”

  “Poppy seed.”

  He sighed. “I might have guessed.”

  o0o

  As it turned out Paul ate more poppy-seed cookies than Skeeter, who, according to his contemporaries, had a bottomless pit for a stomach. After all the children had gone, Paul and Martie walked home in the twilight.

  He took her hand as they started down the sidewalk. “In case you fall,” he said.

  And knowing that she was more agile than a monkey, she nestled her hand in his. Her step was jaunty, keeping time to the carousel music in her head, and rather than losing his appeal, Paul Donovan worked his way even more deeply into her heart.

  “I love holding hands,” she said, sighing happily. “There’s something so wonderfully romantic about it.”

  Paul lifted her hands to his lips and planted a gentle kiss on her palm. “I’ll remember that.” He thought his heart would burst with love for this spontaneous woman, and he longed to take her in his arms and shout that love from the church steeple.

  The kiss ignited Christmas sparklers in her body. “Not just with you, of course,” she added hastily, anxious to correct any mistaken impression her words might have given him. “I love holding hands with everybody, even the postman. There’s something friendly about touching, don’t you think?”

  He felt the fence go up between them and knew that he would have to cut another gate. “I would like to explore the difference between friendly touches and romantic touches,” he replied softly.

  Her mind returned to their wild embrace in her hallway. She had already explored that difference, and it was far too hot for her to handle.

  “If we do any more exploration, I’m afraid that I will start a scandal. I’m not as strong as you are, and besides that, I can’t take refuge behind a black robe and a clerical collar.”

  Paul’s hand tightened on hers, and he walked in silence until they came to the gate that separated their houses. Then he gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him.

  “Ministry is a choice, Martie, not a refuge,” he said, holding her gaze with his.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, Paul.”

  “Don’t be. You’ve always been candid with me. That’s one of the things I like about you.” He pulled her into his arms and cradled her head against his shoulder. “You keep erecting barriers where there should be none. Let it go, angel. Forget my profession and just let there be the two of us.”

  “I can’t, Paul.” She nudged her head against his shoulder, inhaling the tobacco fragrance that clung to his shirt. “I know myself too well.” Tipping her head back, she flashed him an impish grin. “And if you don’t let go, I’m liable to do something scandalous right here in the parsonage yard. In the public view, as Miss Beulah would say.”

  He released her and swung the new gate back on its hinges. “Until another time, Martie.”

  “Never, Paul.”

  He stood in the gateway until she had disappeared into her house.

  o0o

  Walks home together after pageant rehearsal became a nightly ritual for them, but there were no repeat performances of serious conversations and near dangerous embraces. Paul patiently respected the fence Martie had erected between them, and she unwillingly fell in love.

  o0o

  On Friday night it was she who stood in the gateway watching him walk back toward the parsonage. At the realization that tomorrow was Saturday, with no rehearsals and no walks home in the twilight, she was overcome by a sense of loneliness. She wanted to run after him and say, “I’ll change. I’ll be proper and suitable and conventional. I’ll fry chicken and retire my baseball bat. I’ll even give up juke music and climbing trees. I’ll do anything just to be in your arms.”

  But she didn’t run after him and she didn’t say those things. She could never change—not really. And even if she did, it would only be temporary. She had to be true to herself, and so did he.

  The gate squeaked on its tight hinges as she swung it shut and went into her own backyard.

  o0o

  Martie held up the shorts and giggled. She hadn’t meant to buy them. She had been browsing through Michael’s Department Store looking for a birthday gift for her dad when she’d spotted them. They were holdovers from Valentine’s Day, the clerk had said. A marvelous pair of white shorts, Medium, 32-34, decorated with bright red hearts.

  She tossed the shorts onto her bed. Of course, she couldn’t give them to Paul; it was absolutely out of the question. Maybe the purple socks, but not the shorts with red hearts. She took the socks out of the bag and examined them. They had been an impulse, too. Well, after all, Baby had mutilated his purple socks. It was the least she could do.

  She put the socks back in the bag and went downstairs to create a sensational yogurt and tangerine shake. She sat beside the window, sipping her shake and looking out at the shadows deepening across her yard. The really sensible thing to do would be to put the gifts into a bottom drawer of her dressing table and forget about them. But then she would miss seeing Paul’s smile and hearing his laughter when he opened the package. Besides, she was hardly ever sensible.

  She sat at the table, arguing with herself. What she needed was a brilliant plan, one that would allow her to deliver the gifts casually as if Paul had not been uppermost in her mind for days and days. Plucking a piece of tangerine from her yogurt shake, she popped it into her mouth. She needed to be both casual and removed, she decided, out of touching distance.

  Suddenly she sat up straight. The tree! Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?

  Martie flew up the stairs and rummaged through her closet for wrapping paper. Frosty the Snowman would have to do. Heck, she would sing “Jingle Bells” when she delivered the gift. She wrapped the socks, changed her mind, tore off the tape, and added the shorts.

  It would be foolish to leave them on the bed. She certainly couldn’t wear them, and who else did she know who wore mediums? It was only fair that Paul have the shorts with the valentines. After all, Baby had torn up his raggedy old blue ones.

  Her turquoise bracelets jingled as she tied her denim western skirt between her legs. Forgetting that her cowboy hat was still on her head, she bounded down the stairs, out the door, and across the yard to her tree.

  Her cowboy boots dangled from the limb as she sat forlornly in the tree and looked at the empty yard. Paul was not outside enjoying the twilight. He wasn’t even home; his car was gone.

  Disappointed, she started to inch back across the limb, but the tree had other ideas. Her skirt was caught in one of the branches. She reached to pull it loose, and the gift tumbled to the ground.

  “I’m not sure whether it’s Santa Claus or the Lone Ranger.” Paul picked up the gift and smiled up at her.

  The minute she saw him, casual flew out the window.

  “Paul!” she cried happily. “I thought you weren’t home.”

  “My trusty brown Ford is in the garage. The mechanic gave me a lift home.” His smile widened. “Are you coming down or are you being Baby’s messenger again?”

  “Neither. I’m caught.” Looking down into his quicksilver-gray eyes and hearing his deep, melodious voice, Martie abandoned her not touching resolution. Just one more time, she told herself. She had to be in his arms just one more time. “I think if I jump, the tree will let go.”

  “Wait, Martie!”

  But it was already too late. The tree didn’t let go; it held tighter, and a great tearing sound accompanied her descent to the ground. Paul tried to catch her, but the jump had been too unexpected and he wasn’t prepared. She glanced off his chest and they both crashed into the marigold bed.

  His arms wrapped around her as they rolled in the dirt. Her cowboy hat and the Christmas-wrapped gift skittered across the ground, forgotten. With legs entangled and lips only a kiss away, Paul and Martie had thoughts only for each other. Skyrockets exploded inside them as their bodies made i
ntimate contact in the dirt. Her silk-clad hip, exposed through the torn skirt, pressed against his groin.

  A half-strangled sound escaped his lips as he raised himself to his knees and looked down at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her mind was screaming No! She would never be all right until she had Paul. All of him—not just a hungry embrace in a hallway or an intimate tumble in the dirt, but every glorious inch of him, without restrictions.

  He scooped her into his arms and carried her inside the parsonage. “Let’s brush away all that dirt,” he said, but what he meant was “Let’s get inside before I lose control of the situation.”

  Still keeping his arm around her waist, he set her down beside the kitchen sink and reached for a towel, turning on the water with one hand. “This will only take a minute.”

  “I hope it takes a year.”

  “Martie?” He turned and saw her eyes, naked with desire and dark as the velvet throat of pansies.

  The towel dropped to the floor and the water gurgled down the sink drain as he pulled her into his arms. His hands tangled in her hair, and he crushed her against his chest as if he would never let go. They stood this way for a moment, swaying to the combined rhythms of their runaway hearts.

  In slow motion they inched apart so that their lips could meet. The kiss was a blending of drugged sweetness and honeyed desire. It was a Fourth of July parade and a homecoming celebration. It was passion and joy and burning need. And it was perfection because they loved.

  Trapped in their mistaken notions of barriers and suitability, they let their bodies speak what they dared not. He pressed her hips against his, marveling at how right it felt, while his tongue plied its urgent message inside her mouth. She writhed in his arms, moist and open with undisguised longing. The fever that possessed them raged unchecked, and they gasped with the heat of it.

  His mouth moved away from her lips and seared down the side of her neck. She threw back her head to accommodate his questing mouth, and her hair fanned out in a bright curtain against his arms. Her pulse tore at her throat as one of Paul’s hands moved inside her open-necked shirt. A thousand stars burst inside her at his touch, and she was Aphrodite and Earth Mother rolled into one.