by Peggy Webb
She felt as if a shower of stars had fallen over her, and she sparkled with the wonder of it.
“Paul! You did this for me?” She catapulted herself at him and, standing on tiptoe, threw her arms around his neck. Her brain reeled with his intoxicating nearness. He smelled like pipe tobacco and aftershave and November wind. “You bought this outrageous shirt because you thought I would like it?”
As he folded her close to his chest, he decided that he would buy a shirt like this every hour of every day if the result was having her, all sparkling exuberance and soft warmth, in his arms.
“Yes. I guess I was trying to show you that I’m not as conventional as I seem. That we really aren’t as far apart as you believe.” He smiled gently into her upturned face. “And I wanted to please you.”
Martie rubbed her face against the garish shirt.
“You please me, Paul,” she murmured. “More than you’ll ever know. You don’t have to buy Hawaiian shirts for me. I like you just the way you are.”
She could hear the wild thundering of his heart as he tangled his hands in her hair and pressed her head against his chest.
“And you please me, Martie. Just the way you are.”
They stood for a long while, holding each other and wondering how something that felt so right had become a forbidden pleasure. At last he pushed her gently from him.
“Have you finished your Jazzercise classes for the day?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then get your sweater and I’ll walk you home.”
“I didn’t bring one. It was warm when I left the parsonage.”
“In that case. . .” He scooped her into his arms. “I’ll keep you warm.”
She laughed as he carried her outside and kicked the door shut behind them.
“Did anybody ever tell you that you make a wonderful sweater?” she asked, squeezing her arms around him and burying her face in his neck.
“Maybe I should give up preaching and go into this line of work full-time.”
“As long as I’m your only customer. I think a wife should have exclusive rights to a discovery like this.” She was so enamored of her current mode of transportation that she didn’t notice how naturally she had spoken of her new title.
But Paul did. Her words pleased him so much that he couldn’t stop smiling. He smiled through dinner, through the late night television news, and into the wee hours of the morning.
o0o
Martie looked at the chicken thawing in the kitchen sink and tried to be optimistic. Look at it this way, she told herself, she would try anything once. Heck, she might even enjoy frying chicken.
It was the least she could do after that disastrous luncheon with the district ministers and their wives. How was she to know that preachers’ wives are supposed to be seen and not heard? She had merely said that she thought God would want all His servants to have dryers that worked and that replacing defunct dryers should be a simple matter since appliances are furnished with the parsonage.
The stunned silence that had met her remark was nowhere near as bad as the private lecture she’d been treated to later by a well-meaning old pro in the business. Reverend Clarke’s wife had told her that sweaters with beads and feathers, not to mention gaudy turquoise jewelry, were detrimental to Paul’s career. She had further said that ministers’ wives should strive to be discreet and demure.
Martie picked up a butcher’s knife and attacked the chicken with unnecessary vigor. Maybe she had gone a little too far with Mrs. Clarke, but shoot, she fumed, Paul was a wonderful minister! It shouldn’t matter whether she wore beads and spangles or sackcloth and ashes. And she had told Mrs. Clarke so.
Thank goodness Paul had not been there to hear it. He’d already gone to his afternoon session.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. He should be home in another hour. By that time she would have a plate of golden fried chicken to smooth over the disappointment he must be feeling because of her. He was probably sitting in his meeting right this minute trying to think of a graceful way out of his five-day-old marriage.
She gave the chicken a vicious whack. Of course, that was the only thing they could do—think of a way out of this mess— but why did the thought make her so mad?
“I’ll tell you why,” she said to the thoroughly mutilated chicken on the cutting board. “Because I love the man, and I’m tired of being on parade like a horse at an auction. I’m tired of being subject to everybody’s approval. I just want to be myself without being tagged and labeled and judged simply because I’m the minister’s wife.”
She picked up a handful of slick meat and sighed. “I thought you had drumsticks. Where are they?”
By the time she was ready to put the chicken in the hot oil, she had talked to it so much that she felt as if she were parting with a friend.
“Why don’t you come with instructions?” she asked as her flour coating floated off the chicken and swirled around the top of the pot. “Oh, well, all that crust is fattening, anyway.”
While the chicken was frying she attacked the mountain of dishes she had dirtied in preparing Paul’s surprise. She decided that the parsonage kitchen looked as if fifteen chefs had used it to prepare a banquet for two hundred. But she didn’t mind; it was a small sacrifice to make for her beloved. She could hardly wait to see his face when he saw that platter of golden fried chicken.
o0o
“I’m home.”
Martie whirled around, slinging suds across the kitchen and causing a small whirlwind of flour to rise from her apron.
“Paul! You’re early. I didn’t expect you for another twenty minutes.”
Paul gazed longingly at her through the fog of flour. He wanted to kiss the flour off the tip of her nose and smooth the damp curls off her forehead. He wanted to cup her flour-sprinkled cheeks and devour that smiling mouth. But he didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he leaned against the door frame and hid his feelings behind light banter.
“The Pillsbury Doughboy, I presume?”
She crossed the kitchen and took one of his hands. “Close your eyes while I lead you into the parlor. I don’t want you to see the surprise.”
He laughed. “I’ll just pretend I don’t smell anything frying.” He took her small sudsy hand in his and allowed himself to be led to the sofa. Still holding her hand, he opened his eyes. “I’m an expert dish washer. Are you sure you don’t want some help in there?” he asked.
Martie shook her head. “It would spoil the surprise.”
“What have I done to deserve this?”
“It’s not what you’ve done: it’s what I’ve done.”
“If you’re referring to the luncheon today, forget it. You did nothing wrong.” His fingers massaged the soapsuds on her hands. “I’ve never believed women should be muzzled.”
“But preachers’ wives . . .”
“Preachers’ wives or otherwise,” he said, his face almost grim. Martie suspected that some of his colleagues had given him a hard time about her, and her eyes grew troubled. Seeing her concern, his face softened. “But I’m pleased about the surprise, angel. I can hardly wait.”
“Ten minutes, Paul,” she promised, and practically skipped out of the room.
o0o
She did a little jig at the kitchen sink and hummed as she washed dishes. Suddenly she saw smoke coming from the chicken pot. “Good grief! I forgot all about you!” she cried.
Grabbing a long-handled fork, she lifted the charred remains of the chicken from the hot oil.
“Oh, no!” she wailed, staring at the funeral pyre of chicken in defeat. “Why couldn’t you be golden and beautiful? I wanted you to be wonderful for Paul. Why couldn’t you?”
Resolutely, she pushed defeat aside and marched to the refrigerator. Taking out a carton of sour cream and a bunch of parsley, she returned to the chicken and began work. When she had finished, she decided that it was a masterpiece of camouflage.
o0o
Paul had to bit
e the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing when he saw her surprise. He knew that it had started out as fried chicken, though what it was now only Martie knew. He watched her lean over and light the candles on the small table.
She did everything with such zest! He hadn’t known it was possible to love a woman as much as he loved her. He had racked his brain for a way to make this marriage real, but so far he had come up empty. If he didn’t get a breakthrough soon, there wouldn’t be a shred of carpet left on his bedroom floor: he had paced the poor thing to death.
Martie turned off the lights and looked at him across the glow of candles.
“Surprise, Paul! Fried chicken with a new twist.”
“You didn’t have to do all this for me,” he said, smiling. He saw the burned skin peeping through the sour cream and parsley, and he dreaded taking his first bite. He would eat it and grin if the effort killed him. Not for all the tea in China would he disappoint her.
He put the first bite into his mouth and almost choked.
“Hmmm.” He shuffled the chicken from one side of his mouth to the other, trying to get up enough courage to swallow. “Mf’s mfrrent,” he mumbled as the bite finally went down.
“What did you say?”
He took a hasty sip of tea. “It’s different.”
“Good.” She beamed at him. “I thought it would be. I know how you love fried chicken, so I thought, what would be a better way to please Paul than to make his favorite dish? It’s to sort of make up for the luncheon. Oh, I know you said it didn’t make any difference, but I don’t want to complicate your life any more than I already have.”
She put a bite of chicken into her mouth.
Paul reached for her hand across the table. “Martie . . .”
“Paul,” she wailed. “It’s awful! Why didn’t you tell me this chicken is awful?” She raised stricken eyes to his face.
“It’s really not all that bad,” he said gently. “It’ll just take a little getting used to.”
A tear trembled briefly on her eyelashes, then rolled down her cheek.
“I wanted it to be wonderful.” Another tear spilled over, and another, until her cheeks were wet with crying.
Paul went to her in such haste that his chair toppled over. He pulled her up into his arms and cradled her head on his chest.
“It was wonderful, angel. The thought was wonderful and . . .” He stopped before he said, “I love you for it.” Instead, he said, “And I appreciate it.”
“You’re just . . . saying that . . . to make me feel . . . better.” The words came out between sniffles, and the tears rained, unchecked, onto the front of his shirt.
Every sob was like a knife plunging straight into his heart. He would have walked on nails rather than see her hurt by anything. Pressing his face into her hair and murmuring soothing sounds, he lifted her and carried her to the sofa.
She curled into a ball against his chest and cried until the sobs became hiccups. She cried for the burned chicken and the sweater with feathers and the broken parsonage dryer. She cried over the Hawaiian shirt and the shared bath and the separate bedrooms. Most of all she cried over a love unspoken and a marriage not real.
When the sobs had stopped, Paul gently brushed her hair back from her face.
“Better now?” he asked.
She nodded and hiccupped.
He bent and placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “We’ll get through this together, angel. I promise.”
o0o
The promise was still echoing in Martie’s mind the next night as she sat on the front pew of Faith Church and waited for Paul to come out of his study and begin the prayer meeting. She would be glad when he came out. Her favorite piece of jewelry, a clunky, hand-crafted brass-and-copper necklace, had attracted so much attention that she was beginning to feel like a mannequin in a department store window.
Her heart leapt when Paul entered the sanctuary, and she reflected that each time she saw him was just like the first. He had the impact of a dynamite explosion, and she wondered anew how she had been able to live in the parsonage for nearly a week without giving in to the desire that swamped her every time he walked into a room. She stirred restlessly on the hard bench and tried to elevate her thoughts to more appropriate topics.
Paul’s smile was like a balm over the congregation.
“I thought I would be rather informal tonight and conduct the Bible study from here.” Shunning the pulpit, he stood near the front pew. “I want my new wife to feel very much at home in this church, and I know that you will support her as I do.” He reached down and squeezed Martie’s hand. “And now, let us begin.”
o0o
Paul’s guidance was so inspiring, Martie thought, that it brought tears to her eyes. The small group of parishioners were moved and involved and participated eagerly. As Paul was concluding the study group, Baby streaked through the door, ducked under a pew, and ran through Miss Beulah’s legs.
“Somebody catch that dog,” cried a member of the congregation.
Baby leaped over Jolene’s feet, dived around the pew, and ran straight up the middle of the aisle. “What’s that in his mouth?”
“It looks like . . .”
The naughty pet trotted around the nave waving Paul’s shorts—the pair with bright red hearts, of course.
Martie gasped. “Oh, dear,” she said aloud without thinking, “Baby’s got your shorts, Paul.”
Paul tried to rescue his shorts and Baby decided to play tug-of-war. By the time he had pulled them out of her grip, everybody at the prayer meeting had gotten a good view of the telltale red hearts. Hastily he stuffed the gaudy shorts into his coat pocket.
“It seems,” he said smoothly, “that our dog has no respect for proper conclusions to our Bible study group.”
He smiled broadly, and the Faith Church emptied quickly. Everybody wanted to congregate outside and swap versions of the story.
Paul and Martie, with Baby between them, stood in the empty church and looked at each other.
“What are we going to do?” Martie asked.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to laugh.”
She joined him, and they laughed until Baby grew tired of all the hilarity and pranced off to scare up another adventure.
o0o
Outside, the story grew and grew until it had assumed an importance out of all reason. The consensus of those who remained behind to talk, those sage minds who ought to know because they thoroughly discussed everything of significance that happened in Pontotoc, was that the preacher’s wife was converting him to her scandalous ways, and not even the sanctuary was safe from her influence.
o0o
The day after the incident of the valentine shorts, Martie watched the rain wash against the parsonage windows and thought that things couldn’t get more complicated. She was wrong.
She saw the van pull into the parsonage yard, its tailpipe dragging and its painted rainbows peeling. Yelping with joy, she ran through the house, out the door, and into Booty Matthews’s outstretched arms.
“Booty!” she cried ecstatically. “Where did you come from?” Ignoring the rain, she clung to his arm and gazed into his dear, grizzled face.
“Hi, sugar.” He flashed her a smile that showed his two gold molars. “Got your note. My heart’s done broke plumb in two about missin’ your weddin’, but I said, Shoot, me and the boys will mosey on up there and see what this bridegroom’s like. So here we are.”
“We?” asked Martie.
“The band. Come on out, boys,” he called.
A bass player, the fiddler, the pianist, and the drummer all piled out of the van.
“Don’t just stand there gawkin’, boys,” Booty told them. “Get your gear and get in out of the rain.”
Holding Martie’s arm, Booty sprinted for the parsonage. The musicians, with their assortment of fiddles and drums and suitcases, followed close behind.
Seeing them again brought back all the excitement of the road tours
, and Martie completely forgot to wonder about the suitcases piled among the musical instruments. She dispensed hugs all around and clapped her hands with glee.
“Are you still playing Jambalaya?” she asked.
“Shoot, that’s still our specialty,” Booty said. “Crank it up, boys.”
“It hasn’t been the same without you, Martie,” the bass player told her.
“I’ve missed you, too, Rod. Give me that intro again.” Martie tapped her feet to the beat of the music and started to sing.
An hour passed, and then two as the old friends laughed and sang and swapped stories of their exploits.
o0o
The rain stopped, the sun came out, and Miss Beulah passed down the street, walking Falina Theona. Hearing the music, she stopped.
“As I live and breathe,” she informed her Persian cat, “they’re having a hoedown in the parsonage.” She scooped Falina Theona up in her arms and hurried home to call Essie Mae.
o0o
Paul heard the music the minute he entered the driveway. Smiling, he parked the car and bounded inside to see what wonderful surprise Martie had for him this time.
When Martie saw him come through the door, she stopped singing right in the middle of Kawliga and yelled, “Hey, everybody! Meet Reverend Paul Donovan.”
The fiddle twanged to a stop as Paul supplied the rest of the information.
“Martie’s husband.” He shook hands all around and, seeing the suitcases, made a discreet inquiry. “You’re here for a nice long visit?”
“Overnight,” Booty told him. “We’re headed for a gig up near Memphis.”
“We’re a small town,” Paul said, “but we have very good accommodations. The Pontotoc Inn—”
“Shoot,” Booty interrupted. “We didn’t come all the way from El Paso to stay at no inn. We’re bunking with Martie.”
Martie’s eyes widened as she thought frantically. Her own house was sparsely furnished, and had only two beds. That left three people to share the two guest bedrooms at the parsonage. And that meant. . .
“That’s great,” Paul said. “We’re always delighted to have guests.”
