Donovan’s Angel

by Peggy Webb

  And when there was nowhere else to go except the over the edge, Paul gently released her. “I think I took care of all the dirt.” His breathing was still ragged and his smile was lopsided.

  Martie lifted her hair away from her flushed face. “I don’t know how this keeps happening,” she whispered. “It’s not supposed to.”

  “We can’t prevent it, angel.”

  “We must. I won’t play Delilah to your Samson.”

  “My career and my professional reputation are my responsibility, Martie, not yours.”

  “Then why do I feel like a temptress?” she asked.

  “Perhaps it’s because you think of me only as a minister and not a man.”

  She waved her hands in the air, setting her bracelets to jingling. “I can’t think of all that right now.” She paused and a small grin lit her face. “The water’s still running.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You forgot to turn off the faucet.”

  Paul grinned sheepishly as he twisted the faucet handle. “You made me forget.”

  “So did you.”

  “What?”

  “Make me forget. I brought you a present.”

  “The Christmas package?” he asked.

  “Call it a going away gift.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, angel. Are you?”

  “Yes. I’m going across the fence and out of your life.” She cocked her head to one side in thought. “At least, after Halloween I’m going out of your life. Goodbye, Paul.” It was one of her most flamboyant exits, mainly because of the great tear in the back of her skirt.

  Paul thought he was just about under control until he saw the long, lovely tanned legs and firm bottom encased in a black silk teddy. As the screen door banged behind her, he rushed to the sink, turned on the faucet, and stuck his face under the cool water.

  o0o

  Martie shut her mind to everything until she was across the parsonage yard, through the gate, and back in her own house. And then it all came pouring over her—Paul and the marigold bed and Baby’s shenanigans and the whipped cream and the gate. But most of all the kisses. She leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane and looked back toward the parsonage.

  There was no use denying it. She was in love with the Reverend Paul Donovan. She, Martie Fleming, fun-time honky-tonk girl, had fallen for Pontotoc’s pillar of faith and strength, the spiritual leader of Faith Church. If there were only the two of them, perhaps the love might work. But there were also the Miss Beulahs and the Essie Maes, not only in this town, but in every other town that Paul would serve. There were the people who never looked beyond appearances, people whose world was black and white with no shades of gray, people who saw and judged.

  She banged her fist against the kitchen table, scraping the skin on a knuckle. Why was life so unfair? Why couldn’t she have moved next door to a plumber?

  She went upstairs, removed her torn clothes, showered off all the dirt, and went to bed. But she didn’t sleep. She thought she might never sleep again as long as she lived.

  o0o

  A loud clamoring at her back door awakened Martie. Her usual bounce was missing as she climbed out of bed, and she was halfway to the bedroom door before she remembered that she didn’t have on a stitch of clothes. She reached for her robe and grasped emptiness.

  “I’m coming,” she called as she walked back to the bed and pulled off the sheet. Knotting it just above her breasts, she swept out the door, trailing four feet of red and white striped percale.

  “You’re not dressed,” Paul said when she opened the door. Seeing her tanned shoulders and the swell of breasts above the sheet, he almost forgot why he had come.

  “I wasn’t counting on a tea party at this hour,” Martie replied, struggling to keep from wrapping him in her sheet and whisking him up to her bedroom. “Did you come to return the gift?”

  “No. I came to hitch a ride to church.” He grinned. “I’m wearing the gift.”

  “The socks or the shorts?”

  “Both.”

  “I wish I could see.”

  “So do I.”

  They stood in the doorway in the wash of early morning sun and almost forgot about all the reasons they couldn’t be together. His knuckles turned white on the door frame, and her hand clung desperately to the door handle as they fought the urge to embrace and never let go.

  Martie was the first to break the silence.

  “I’m not going to church this morning.” Unable to look at him without capitulation, she averted her gaze. “I would be going for all the wrong reasons, and I don’t want to torture myself by looking at something I can’t have.”

  “All we need is time, Martie.”

  “Time wouldn’t change a thing. I would still be me and you would still be you.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Take my car. The keys are on the kitchen counter.”

  He reached out and gently traced the stubborn line of her jaw with his index finger. “I’ll be out of town next week at a ministers’ conference, but I’ll be back for the Halloween festival. When I get back, we’ll talk.”

  “Go, Paul, before I change my mind.”

  “About the car?” he asked.

  “No. About wrapping you in this sheet and taking you upstairs.”

  He left. But not before he had wrestled with temptation.

  o0o

  Miss Beulah Grady was the first to see the minister emerge from the bright red Thunderbird.

  “As I live and breathe!” The purple pansies on her dress did the cha-cha as she heaved across the churchyard to Essie Mae. “Did you see that?” she cried, trying to catch her breath. “She’s got the preacher riding in that heathen car!”

  “Lord, Beuler!” Essie Mae’s mouth watered as she imagined the scandalous things that could happen in a heathen car. “The next thing you know she’ll have him wearing red neckties.”

  o0o

  Martie smiled as she affixed manes to her lions. Sally’s cat and Jim’s dog cooperated beautifully, but Skeeter’s goat didn’t want to be a lion.

  “Hold him, Skeeter,” she instructed the twelve-year-old, “while I get this mane on.”

  “Gee, Miss Fleming. You’re the neatest director we ever had, letting us use our pets in the pageant.” Skeeter thought his heart would burst with admiration. When the idea of using pets as lions had first come up, he hadn’t been sure Miss Fleming would let him use Billy. But she’d been a real sport about it. She was even letting Martha Sue use her goldfish. Personally, he thought the mane and tail on the goldfish bowl looked funny, but it made Martha Sue happy.

  “Thanks, Skeeter. Now, you keep a tight rein on Billy. If our lions behave, perhaps they can be sheep in the Christmas pageant.”

  “Golly, Miss Fleming!” The thought made Skeeter wide-eyed. “Will you direct the Christmas pageant, too?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Don’t you know anything, silly?” Francine interrupted. “My mama says the preacher’s got eyes for Miss Fleming. Preachers’ wives always direct the pageants.” Having set the record straight on how things were done in the church, Francine turned to her idol. “My Siamese keeps trying to get into Martha Sue’s fishbowl, Miss Fleming. He hasn’t had any dinner yet.”

  If Francine’s gossip hadn’t been enough to give Martie’s stomach butterflies, this latest bit of information did. In her usual burst of hindsight, she reflected that perhaps the lions hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

  “When we get onstage,” she told Francine, “be sure that cat is on the opposite side from the goldfish.”

  “What about Sally’s cat?” Francine asked.

  “Hers, too.” Martie busied herself getting the children ready for the pageant, hoping the activity would keep her mind off Francine’s remark. Unfortunately, the ploy didn’t work. Her head spun with the phrase preacher’s wife until she thought she would explode with the wonder and the terror of it all.

  Nervously she glanced at her watch.
She hadn’t been this scared facing bulls in Tijuana. Tonight was more than a Halloween pageant: it was her debut, a test of her suitability. Outside, she could hear laughter and excited conversation as women put their cakes on display for the upcoming cake auction and men set up booths for “go fishing” and fortune-telling. As she listened, she recognized Paul’s deep, rich voice, and her knees went weak. How could she keep from rushing into his arms when she saw him? If it hadn’t been for pageant rehearsals, this past week would have been the longest in her life. The time away from him had intensified her conviction that she loved him.

  Jolene tapped at the dressing room door and called, “We’re ready, Martie.”

  “Thanks, Jolene.” Taking a deep breath, she sent King Darius and his court onstage.

  o0o

  Holding her prompting book, Martie stood in the darkened wings and watched her production. Skeeter, a natural-born ham, was in his element, strutting around in his towel robes and cardboard crown. There was a hush over the audience as the children gave lively new meaning to the story of Daniel in the lions’ den. When the curtain rang down on the first act, the audience cheered and applauded.

  Martie hugged her amateur actors. “You were all wonderful!” she cried. “Now, let’s get these lions onstage for the second act.”

  There was a collective gasp from the audience as the curtain rang up and the motley crew of lions came into view. Faith Church had never seen such a pageant as this. The murmur of excitement faded as Daniel was cast into the pit and started to say his lines. Little Bobby Wayne had won a few oration contests, and he made himself heard, even over the titters that erupted in the back of the hall when one of the lions had to scratch fleas.

  Martie congratulated herself on the success of her production as she sent the angel in to shut the lions’ mouths. Sally’s bedsheet robe trailed behind her, and she held her candle aloft as she walked onstage. Only a slight trembling in her voice betrayed her nervousness.

  “I command you to be shut.” Sally repeated the phrase three times as she passed in front of the goldfish bowl and two beagles. Her confidence flagged when Francine’s Siamese hissed at her, and by the time she got to Bobby Wayne’s bulldog, her knees were shaking. When the bulldog growled, she dropped her candle and fled in terror.

  “Sally, wait!” Martie called, but it was too late. She watched in horror as the lighted candle rolled under the goat’s tail.

  Billy took exception. With a great “Baa,” he lowered his head and charged at the biggest target in the room - Miss Beulah.

  Seeing the mad goat jump off the stage and stampede her way, Miss Beulah climbed on top of her chair and yelled, “Saints preserve us!” The chair was not meant to endure such treatment. It died a painful, splintering death, and Miss Beulah rolled across the floor with the goat close behind.

  Martie stood hypnotized, watching the pandemonium from her vantage point on the stage. She saw Paul collar the goat just in time to save Miss Beulah, but before she could breathe a sigh of relief she saw movement on the stage.

  Francine’s Siamese was taking advantage of the situation to dive at Martha Sue’s goldfish, and the beagles thought the chase meant rabbits. Sounding their bugle calls, they entered the hunt. One of them ran through Essie Mae’s legs, knocking her onto the lap of the astonished postman, and the other ran under the table of desserts at the back of the room. He bumped the table leg, sending a chocolate-cream pie into flight. The airborne pie landed in Sam’s lap.

  “I’ve been itching to do this for years,” Sam said. Grabbing a lemon meringue pie, she sailed it across the topsy-turvy room into the livid face of Miss Beulah.

  Martie jumped off the stage and entered the melee. The bulldog brushed past her leg in pursuit of a cat, another pie flew through the air and sprayed whipped cream onto her hair, and somebody screamed into her ear that Judgment Day had come. She collared dogs and grabbed cats, pulling them out of the pandemonium and giving them to their gleeful owners.

  Sally tugged at her skirt and looked up with tearful eyes. “I didn’t even get to do the third act,” she wailed.

  Martie gave her a swift hug. “The play is over, darling. Maybe you can be an angel again at Christmastime.” She gave the small girl a last reassuring pat. “You can take your cat and go home now,” she said gently, then straightened up and found herself face to face with Paul. He winked at her and continued on his way, calmly restoring order to the chaos.

  When the dust had settled and the excited crowd had gone home, Paul and Martie stood among the chocolate icing and overturned chairs and looked at each other.

  “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Martie said.

  “It was a memorable Halloween,” Paul said.

  “I think Miss Beulah was mad about the goat.” Her mouth began to curve upward into a smile.

  “I think that’s the understatement of the year.” Paul began to chuckle and then to laugh, and soon his laughter erupted into a full-fledged roar. “You should have seen her face when that goat almost tagged her bloomers.”

  They collapsed into the rubble, laughing until tears streamed down their cheeks.

  A clatter of hoofbeats caught their attention as Skeeter and his goat emerged from behind the stage curtain.

  “We came back to tell you that this has been the most fun we’ve ever had at Halloween,” he announced happily, his face covered with chocolate and whipped cream.

  “Maybe we can get Miss Fleming to do the pageant again next year,” Paul told him, “but without the chase and the pie fight.”

  Skeeter beamed. “That would be neat, Reverend Donovan.” He left the stage, leading Billy on a tether.

  Paul captured Martie’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “How does that sound to Miss Fleming?”

  “Like an impossible pipe dream, Reverend Donovan.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paul looked up from the sermon he was preparing. He had expected visitors, but not this soon. Miss Beulah had wasted no time, he thought as he mentally girded himself for the skirmish.

  His face betrayed no emotion as he came from behind his desk, shook hands with Victor Cranston, and showed Miss Beulah and Essie Mae to their chairs. “What can I do for you this morning?” he asked.

  “I should think you would know that as well as anybody.” Miss Beulah’s lips were so pursed that her words all came out with rounded vowels. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night for fear that goat would come after me. And on top of that, she played that honky-tonk music until the Lord knows when. She’s a sin and disgrace to our little community. A dis-grace.” She stopped for breath and fanned herself with her fat hands.

  Essie Mae leaned over and patted her shoulder. “Lord, Beuler!” she said sympathetically. “Don’t get yourself so worked up. You’re liable to have a prostration attack.”

  Paul held himself in check throughout the speech. “Miss Beulah, I am well aware that the pageant last night got out of hand,” he began quietly, “but I will not tolerate a personal attack against Martie Fleming. Perhaps she made an error in judgment in using the animals, but her intentions were good. I will listen to your grievances as long as you confine them to the issue.”

  Victor Cranston spoke up. “The issue, Reverend Donovan, is Miss Fleming. We believe she is a bad influence on the children and should be removed from the children’s department.”

  “A bad influence, my eye!” Miss Beulah chimed in. “She’s a Jezebel. Flashing that gaudy jewelry, wearing those outlandish clothes. And that car! Lord. I won’t even mention that car! Why, I said to Essie Mae, I said—”

  “Miss Beulah!” Paul’s rebuke was sharper than he meant it to be, but he could stand no more slurs against his beloved Martie. “Nobody in this room has a right to judge. You’ve all taken note of Miss Fleming’s clothes and her car, but have you actually seen her work with the children? Have you seen the warmth and generosity and compassion she has for them? Have you seen her inspire shy little Sally Pingham to take a speaking part in
the pageant? Did you know that the Raiford twins are now coming to Faith Church because of her? Have any of you taken the time to get to know Miss Fleming, or have you tried and convicted her on first impressions?”

  There was a stunned silence following his impassioned defense of Martie. One by one the self- appointed, self-righteous grievance committee rose from their chairs.

  “We’ll give this some further consideration, Reverend,” Victor Cranston mumbled.

  The pink peonies on Miss Beulah’s dress trembled as she talked. “Perhaps we were a mite hasty. That goat had me so upset. . . . Oh, my! I think I’ll go to the drugstore for some lemonade.” She sprang from her chair with surprising alacrity considering her vast bulk. “Are you coming, Essie Mae?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. I think the postman stops there about this time every morning.” Thinking how that sounded, Essie Mae hastily added, “I want to ask him about air mail.”

  After the three of them had departed, Paul dropped to his knees and had a long conference with his Master about tolerance and patience.

  o0o

  Martie dismissed her Jazzercise class and turned off the record. Sam and Jolene made no pretense of leaving. Draping towels around their perspiring necks, Jolene plopped into a chair and Sam sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “Let’s talk about last night, Martie,” Jolene said.

  Martie sat on the floor and stretched out her legs. “It was a disaster, huh?”

  Jolene smiled. “Not entirely.”

  Sam chimed in, “Heck, I thought it was fun.”

  Jolene turned to her. “You thought the picnic was fun the year Miss Beulah fell into the pond.”

  “She’s a busybody,” Sam said.

  Martie held up her hands. “All right, you guys. Quit kidding around and lay it on the line. I’m not suitable for the children’s department and I hereby resign.”

  “Over my dead body!” Jolene said. “You’ve breathed life into that department. But let’s not have any more pageants with real animals until the storm dies down.”