by Peggy Webb
“You can’t quit,” Sam told her. “Paul Donovan would be crushed. He’s in love with you.”
Martie tried to hide the rush of pleasure that statement brought by wiping her face with her towel. “Why don’t we leave Paul out of this?” she suggested. “The fact is, I’ve created a stir in the church, and I’m not sure it would be wise for me to continue as children’s director. I love the children, but I want what’s best for them.”
“You’re the best for them,” Jolene said.
“No doubt about it,” Sam agreed.
Martie laughed. “You two are real friends. I wish everybody would feel that way. Let me give this some more thought.”
Impulsively, Sam reached over and hugged her. “We’re going to pester you until you say you’ll stay.”
“I’ll count on it.” Martie escorted her friends to the door and stood waving as they drove off in Sam’s battered pickup truck.
After they had gone, she changed into jeans and a bright blue sweater and went outside to do some yard work. She sat on her heels beside a bed of chrysanthemums and spaded the weeds. Digging in the earth always had a calming effect on her, and heaven knew she needed calming down today. She imagined that Paul was also seeking solace in activity. If nothing else, the Halloween pageant should have convinced him that she didn’t fit into a conservative lifestyle.
She attacked a weed with such vigor that she broke a fingernail. Good, she thought. Maybe she could transfer the pain in her heart to her finger. She had never dreamed that giving up Paul would be this hard. But she must. He was probably going through torture today because of her shenanigans last night. She hadn’t meant to cause such a ruckus; it was simply a part of her nature. As a matter of fact, if she hadn’t been worried about the trouble she’d caused for the man she loved, she would have been chuckling over the whole thing.
Baby trotted over and dropped a faded pink rubber ball behind her back. Martie turned around and leaned her head on her pet’s soft golden fur. “Tell me how to handle heartbreak, Baby,” she murmured. “I’ve never been in love before.”
Baby happily wagged her tail in the mistaken belief that she was the center of her mistress’s universe.
o0o
Martie handled heartbreak by staying so busy that she didn’t have time to think. She played ball with Baby and cleaned kitchen cabinets and baked poppy seed cookies. Every time a certain gray eyed man popped into her thoughts, she went into a flurry of activity that would have made the fainthearted dizzy just watching.
A few blocks away in the pastor’s study, Paul took the opposite approach to the problem. Instead of pushing it away, he studied it from all angles. He believed that in time Martie’s detractors would begin to appreciate all the wonderful qualities that he saw in her. That part of the problem would work itself out. The major hurdle he had to overcome right now was the one Martie herself manufactured. He could almost see her mind magnifying last night’s incidents and putting another fence between them. He knew that if he let her use the Halloween pageant as an excuse to avoid him, he would surely lose her. The situation called for a large dose of the tenacity he had confessed to having.
Having decided upon his course of action, he finished his work and headed straight for Martie’s house just as the sun was disappearing. He parked his car and walked to her back door. Her loud, jazzy music assaulted his ears and he smiled. Without knocking, he pushed open the screen door and went inside.
Aristocat and Baby, who were by now accustomed to his sudden appearances, escorted him down the hall to Martie’s exercise room. He sat in one of the chairs against the wall and drank in the sight of her. Her wonderful silver hair was caught in a scarlet ribbon high on her head and cascaded down in bright confusion. The red leotard was cut high on the sides and low in the front, revealing enough smooth, tanned skin to make Paul’s heart do flip-flops. He was so entranced that he forgot to take out his pipe.
Unaware of his presence, Martie gyrated to the beat of the music, hoping to exhaust her energetic body so that she could fall asleep without another lengthy session of rationalizing her actions. She was tired of arguing with herself and impatient with complicated situations. She almost wished for the carefree days of moving around the country, doing whatever took her fancy. Almost, but not quite. She didn’t want to give up her house and her yard and her flower beds, her little piece of earth. Most of all she didn’t want to give up her beloved Reverend Paul Donovan. Even if he couldn’t be her lover, he still made a wonderful backyard neighbor.
The dance ended with a drum cadence and a loud burst of applause. Startled, Martie spun around to see Paul sitting quietly against the wall. Without thinking, she flew across the room, arms outstretched.
Paul stood so quickly the chair crashed to the floor. His arms welcomed her trim, perspiring body.
She nuzzled her head against his shoulder. “You old honey bear!” she cried. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“Long enough to know that I can never let you go.”
“Paul!” Her anguished cry was born of the realization that once again she had let her heart rule her head. Without thinking she had yielded to her natural impulse—to get as close as possible to the man she loved. She put her hands against his chest and pushed herself out of his arms. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I’m glad you did, Martie. It proves my point.”
“I’m not even going to ask.”
“You already know. We were meant to be together and nothing can stop us. Not anything nor anybody.” He caught her shoulders and pulled her back into his arms. “Not even you.”
“It won’t work, Paul,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “After last night you should know that.”
He chuckled. “Last night got a little out of hand, but it was no disaster. It might even be a blessing in disguise. When word gets around, the pews will be spilling over with curious people.”
“You’re too good, Paul. Why aren’t you chastising me for being so foolhardy? I’ll bet half your congregation is in cultural shock today.” She sighed. “I’ve given this some thought. I won’t be a part of your life anymore, and I certainly won’t be a part of your work. I’m nothing but trouble for you, and I’ll never change.”
He stood very still, and only the tensing of his jaw betrayed his conflict. “I don’t want you to change,” he said, tilting her chin so that she had to look up at him. “Before you go, I want to give you something.” He pulled her so close that she found it hard to breathe, and then his mouth crushed hers with fierce possessiveness, dominating, demanding, taking charge in a kiss that ripped away barriers.
Martie clung to him, feeling boneless and lightheaded as the embrace transported her into a starburst world of yearning flesh and heated passions. He pulled her scantily clad hips against his as his tongue took her mouth with quick, explosive thrusts. Her legs would hardly support her weight when he finally released her.
“Tell me again how you’re going out of my life,” he said.
Her voice shook as she tried to turn the situation around. “A kiss to last a lifetime, Paul?”
“No. A kiss to begin a lifetime.”
“Wrong. I won’t deny that I respond to your kisses, but I still haven’t changed my mind about stepping out of your life.”
Paul’s eyes darkened. He still had one trump card. If he knew Martie as well as he thought he did, this one should do the trick.
“That’s exactly what Miss Beulah wants you to do.”
“Miss Beulah has nothing to do with this decision.”
“I know that, but she’ll be overjoyed to hear about it.”
Her eyes blazed as she thrust out her stubborn jaw. “Has she been to see you?”
“You know that’s confidential, Martie. I can’t tell you who comes to me for counseling.” He suppressed a smile as he watched her come up fighting.
“She has! I wish that goat had tagged her bloomers.” Martie paced the floor with long, angry st
rides and waved her hands in the air as she talked. “She wants you to get rid of me, doesn’t she? Never mind what the children want! Well, you can tell her for me that I wouldn’t leave the children’s department in a million years. Not even if the president of the United States asked me to.”
He could no longer hold back his smile; it burst forth, a beacon of joy that lit up the room.
“Does this mean you aren’t leaving?”
“You bet your britches, I’m not! Those children are my work, Paul. Forget about telling Miss Beulah. I’ll tell her myself.”
“Now that the crisis is over, I’m famished. What do you have in your refrigerator?”
“Salami and some tofu, I think.”
“Wait right here, angel. I’ll go home and get the cheese.”
“I adore impromptu picnics. Let’s eat outside under the oak tree.”
o0o
They did. And while they ate, Paul reflected that for him it was a victory celebration. He could see time wearing away the edges of Martie’s defensiveness. He would wait, not as patiently as he first had, but with the sure knowledge that she would someday come to him freely, unfettered by doubts and mistaken convictions.
The wind nipping around them finally drove them inside. Paul built the first fire of the season in Martie’s fireplace, and she dragged out a long-handled corn popper. They burned the first batch but eventually got the hang of it.
After the popcorn was gone Paul stayed to hear the last few songs on the Ray Charles record they were playing. And then came the rain, fat droplets that splatted against the windowpane and danced on the rooftop. Martie wouldn’t hear of him leaving in the rain, and he cheerfully agreed that he would probably melt if he got wet. The steady beat of the rain, the crackle of the fire, and the haunting strains of blues music set the stage for two people who skirted around their love and failed to recognize their compatibility. The fence Martie had built between them was so shaky that one puff from Paul would have blown it down, but he didn’t know that. And she didn’t know that the fishbowl life she had imagined for him existed primarily in her own mind.
When the fire had died to embers and the rain had become nothing more than a soft sighing of wind, Paul went home. And Martie’s heart went with him.
o0o
Paul was sitting in the back of the darkened church listening to the choir practice when Martie swept down the aisle in her purple tie-dyed caftan. He saw the shock wave wash over the members of the adult choir as she made her flamboyant way to the choir loft. Making a steeple of his folded hands, he sat back to watch the action.
“Hello, everybody,” Martie called and waved, jingling her ornate copper and brass bracelet. “I’ve come to join the choir.”
Paul grinned as Essie Mae hit a resounding off-key chord on the organ and Miss Beulah dropped her hymnbook on the postman’s toe. Trust Martie to create a stir wherever she went, he thought.
Completely unaware of the interested observer in the back of the church, Martie mounted the steps to the choir loft, the sleeves of her caftan flowing behind her, and took her place beside an apoplectic Miss Beulah.
“Since Pontotoc is going to be my permanent home,” she announced, “I’ve decided to get involved in everything that interests me. I like to sing.”
“Bravo, Martie,” Paul whispered.
Buck Hunter, the choir director, who had been crowned with a coconut cream pie at the Halloween fiasco, gave Martie a thin smile. “What do you sing?”
Paul saw the impish grin light her face.
“Mostly country-western and blues,” she said. “Some call it honky-tonk music. But I can sing anything. Church music, too.”
Don’t go too far, Martie, Paul pleaded silently. Just this once curb your impulses.
The top of Buck’s bald head turned red, and he coughed behind his freckled hand. “I meant what part do you sing?”
“Alto,” she replied. “Low voices are best suited for performing, you know.”
Miss Beulah, who had been twitching as if she were sitting in a bed of ants, could no longer keep quiet. “You’ve performed?”
In the back of the church, Paul sent a silent prayer winging upward. He knew that tone of voice: it was the one Miss Beulah used when she was breathing down the neck of scandal.
“Oh, yes,” Martie answered serenely. “Performing is a great way to meet people. I have friends all over the West.” She smiled directly into Miss Beulah’s mortified face. “I find that most people are goodhearted and quite likable, don’t you?”
Paul nearly gave himself away by laughing aloud. He recovered in time, so that only a small strangled sound escaped his lips.
Miss Beulah fidgeted. “Why I . . . that is to say . . . and on the other hand . . .” For once in her life, she was speechless. If she had been a balloon, she would have risen slowly to the ceiling and whined around the church as the air escaped. She was, to say the least, deflated. “B-Buck,” she finally stammered, “what did you say the next number was?”
“Number one fifty-three. Love, Mercy, and Grace.”
“Thank you, Lord,” Paul whispered as the organ boomed a chord and the choir got off to a shaky start. He relaxed, listening to the music, and suddenly he was riveted to his seat. As the choir began the chorus, Martie’s distinctive, husky voice wrapped itself like velvet around the words. The beauty of her singing soared through the church, and Paul was sure that even the angels must be bending down to listen.
o0o
When choir practice ended Paul joined the singers chatting at the front of the church. He was pleased to see that feelings toward Martie had mellowed; she was the center of a laughing group, and even her outrageous costume seemed to have been forgotten.
Martie felt a delicious tingling sensation when she saw Paul. Keeping him always in sight, she chatted with first one departing group and then another until only the two of them were left.
“Well.” Paul felt like a tongue-tied adolescent as he stood smiling at her.
“Well?” Martie spread her arms wide and shrugged her shoulders.
“You were wonderful.” He crossed quickly to her and put an arm across her shoulders. “Let’s go to my office for a cup of coffee.”
“A celebration?”
“With you, everything is a celebration,” he replied softly.
o0o
Paul’s office was a small, book-lined cubbyhole that smelled like sandalwood because of the scented candle burning on his desk. Martie ran her hand over the book spines as Paul measured coffee into the glass coffeepot. As she had expected, the shelves contained several volumes of poetry. She pulled out a dog-eared volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
“Would you read for me, Paul?”
“You wouldn’t rather talk?”
“No.”
“What would you like me to read?” he asked, leafing through the slim volume.
“You choose.”
He chose Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day. The candle burned low as Martie sat beside his desk, enthralled by the sound of his voice. When the reading was finished, she flung her arms wide in ecstasy, trailing the sleeve of her caftan across the candle. They both froze as flames licked her sleeve, igniting the caftan.
Neither of them could have related what happened next.
But Miss Beulah Grady could. Unknown to them, she had come all the way back from the parking lot to have a heart-to-heart talk with the minister. Hearing voices as she neared his study, she had stopped to listen. Not to eavesdrop, of course, she had assured herself, but merely to find out who was in there and how long they might stay. Recognizing Martie’s voice, she had inched closer, hoping to catch the words. Plain as day she had heard the minister tell that brazen woman she had “darling buds.”
Miss Beulah’s mouth went slack. For a minute she was too shocked to move, then she leaned over and put her eye to the keyhole. She had to maneuver a little to get a clear view of both of them.
To her utter amazement, she saw Reveren
d Donovan rip Martie’s caftan down the front and throw it on the floor. And that scandalous honky-tonk woman was wearing a wisp of scarlet lace held together with scarlet ribbons. Miss Beulah was agog at the amount of flesh she was showing, and every inch of it tan. She looked like something straight out of an Old West saloon.
While Miss Beulah was still making that comparison she saw the Reverend Donovan’s arms go around that hussy. He pulled her so close it was a wonder he didn’t break her ribs. And such kissing! Miss Beulah pressed her face closer to the keyhole. She hadn’t ever seen anything like that. It was a wonder they didn’t swallow each other.
Sweat streamed down the side of Miss Beulah’s face, ran down her neck and between her heaving bosoms. She had never felt so overheated in her life. She thought she might have a prostration attack when all this was over.
The two people inside the study moved away from the door, toward the small love seat—and a good thing they did, too, because if they hadn’t, she might not have been able to see what happened next. That shameless woman unbuttoned the preacher’s shirt and ran her hands over his bare chest. Miss Beulah’s eyes practically popped out of her head. She had never dreamed the preacher was hiding a chest like that under his robes.
The saints have mercy! She glued her eyes still closer to the keyhole. The long-suffering door gave way under the added pressure, and Miss Beulah catapulted into the room.
For a moment the two people merely looked at their unwelcome intruder in surprise; then Paul swiftly bent down, picked up Martie’s caftan, and draped it over her.
“This is not what it seems, Miss Beulah,” he said quietly as he moved away from Martie.
Both Miss Beulah’s chins were trembling with the excitement of it all. “Reverend Donovan, in all my born days I’ve never witnessed anything like this. Why, I thought my eye would pop right through the keyhole!”
“You were watching us through the keyhole?” Paul asked, his voice tight.
“I saw it all. And I must say that I’m shocked, shocked at what was going on in this room. When I tell the pastor-parish relations committee what I saw—”
