Donovan’s Angel

by Peggy Webb

  Baby turned doleful eyes to her mistress and gave Martie’s hands a sandpaper kiss, a hearty swipe with a wet pink tongue.

  Martie mulled over the problem until she could no longer stand to think of unhappy things. Calling to her pets, she locked up her house and hurried home.

  o0o

  The minute she entered the parsonage door she could smell the fragrant smoke of Paul’s pipe. It was coming from the parlor, which meant that he was no longer cloistered in his study. She was filled with such joy that she called from the kitchen, “Get ready to part company with your shorts, Paul. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

  She pushed open the parlor door, focusing on the beloved man sitting in a sagging chair.

  “And it’s not for food.”

  A loud cough on her right caused her to turn around. Victor Cranston and other straitlaced members of his committee were lined up against the parlor wall like participants in the Spanish Inquisition.

  Vividly aware of her scanty leotard and of its effect, that of waving a red flag before a bull, she bounced out of the tense situation in the only way she knew, with pizzazz. Purposely not looking at her husband, she turned the full thrust of her performance toward the scowling committee.

  “I guess the preacher’s laundry will have to wait,” she announced breezily. “Make yourselves right at home, gentlemen, and please excuse me while I change.”

  At last she pivoted around to face Paul. She couldn’t tell whether he was suppressing anger or laughter.

  “Did you offer our unexpected guests some tea, Paul? They look . . . thirsty.”

  She heard Victor’s enraged bellow the minute she left the room.

  “She does laundry on Sunday!”

  Shutting her ears to the rest of the hubbub, she hurried to the bedroom, shucked her leotard, and climbed into the shower. As the water cascaded onto her flushed face, she decided that it would take something more than patience and keeping up appearances to placate these witch hunters.

  o0o

  After the committee had gone, Martie rejoined Paul in the parlor. She stood quietly at the door for a moment, hating the people who had caused the pain she saw on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, moving across the floor to kneel beside his chair. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

  “You didn’t, Martie.” His hands cupped her cheeks, and he smiled down at her.

  “I think you just told a lie, Reverend Donovan. It’s probably the only lie you’ve ever told in your life.”

  She hoped that banter would lighten the burden he was carrying.

  “Well, maybe I did gloss the truth a little,” he admitted. “You’re wrong about one thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not the first lie I’ve ever told. When I was ten I vowed I knew nothing of how Mr. Kirkland’s cows got into our corn. But my brother, Tanner, saw that justice was served. He told Papa that I had left the gate down. I got a sound thrashing for that one.”

  “Thrashing is not what I had in mind for you.” She stood up and lowered herself into his lap.

  “Just what did you have in mind for me, Mrs. Donovan?”

  “This.” Tenderly she kissed the tip of his nose. “And this.” Her next kiss landed on his cheek. “And this.” She lingered longest over his lips.

  “Do you know what I think?” he murmured, tracing the slender line of her throat with his forefinger.

  “What do you think?” She arched her neck as the finger moved downward, burning a trail to her cleavage.

  “You’re much better than a thrashing.”

  He lifted her and carried her into the bedroom.

  Their lovemaking was fierce, as if their passion could drive away the outside forces that threatened them. Afterward they clung to each other, each taking courage and strength from the other’s nearness.

  o0o

  Martie needed that strength the next day when she was confronted by a scandal-sniffing woman at the laundromat. The parsonage dryer was still on the blink, and a light mist had prevented her from using the outside clothesline. She had put her towels into the dryer and was loading her sheets into the washer when a red-faced woman she didn’t know approached her.

  “Ain’t you Rev’rend Donovan’s new wife?” The woman shifted her laundry basket from one hip to the other, causing her calico print dress to hike up and reveal her slip.

  “Yes.” Martie smiled a greeting. “I don’t believe I’ve met you,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Martie.”

  The woman took careful aim and spat a stream of tobacco juice at the tin wastebasket.

  “Ain’t necessary for you to know me. I seen them pitchures of you. It ain’t fittin’ and proper for a man of the cloth’s wife to display herself like some Jez’bel.”

  Martie withdrew her hand. She was almost certain that this woman was not one of Paul’s parishioners. Was all of Pontotoc condemning her?

  “My husband had nothing to do with the book, and it should in no way reflect on his ministry. As for the pictures, they are not meant to entice. They are simply illustrations of exercises.”

  “Call ‘em what you want. They’re the work of the devil. Ain’t no preacher gonna overcome what that sinful book done.” Without another word she hitched the laundry higher on her hip and left.

  Tears of anger and frustration stung Martie’s eyes as she hurried through her laundry. She wanted to go after the woman and make her see the truth. She wanted to run down the streets of Pontotoc with a bullhorn and shout that nothing she had done or would ever do could touch Paul’s integrity.

  “Oh, Paul,” she whispered. “You’ve asked too much of me. I can’t change what I am, and I can’t wait patiently for these people to deem me suitable.”

  o0o

  Her Thunderbird made a slash of red on the streets as she barreled home. The spectacle set already wagging tongues to further activity.

  Her first impulse was to pour out the whole story to Paul, but he was visiting one of his ailing parishioners at the North Mississippi Medical Center. Upon reflection, she decided she was glad he wasn’t home. He didn’t need further evidence that she was destroying his career.

  o0o

  Martie’s conclusion was reinforced everywhere she went that week. In the library, at the grocery store, on the sidewalks, people were engaged in speculation about the impact her Jazzercise book would have on Paul’s career. The consensus was that he would lose credibility, that he would never be asked to move to a larger church, and worst of all, that he would be drummed from the ministry.

  On Saturday evening, one week after the scandal had spread, Martie sat with her arms around Baby’s neck, waiting for Paul to come back from a district meeting. She knew what she must do. As she saw his car pull into the driveway, she wiped the tears from her eyes. Then, putting on a brave smile, she greeted him with a kiss and led him inside the parsonage. He must not suspect her plan, for he would never agree.

  She had never been one to use subterfuge, but because she loved so deeply she put on a performance worthy of an Academy Award. Having made up her mind that leaving Paul was the only way to save his career, she made the most of their last precious night together. The memories had to last a lifetime. Paul never suspected that their passionate lovemaking that night was Martie’s way of saying good-bye.

  o0o

  Pleading a headache the next morning—which wasn’t exactly a lie—Martie stayed behind when Paul left to preach the morning service. As soon as his car was out of sight she began her preparations.

  “I know I’m right, Baby,” she said to her tail-wagging pet. “I love Paul too much to ruin his career. That’s his life’s work. He loves it. I won’t put him in the position of having to choose.”

  She sat cross-legged on the bed, rationalizing to herself and to Baby and making lopsided stitches on the front of her blue sweater.

  “We’ll go somewhere we’ve never been. Maybe Alaska. Somewhere that doesn’t have m
arigold beds. We’ll go so far away that nothing I do will ever touch Paul again.”

  She hurried with her work lest she change her mind. Although she usually acted on impulse, she had carefully planned this scenario. She was afraid that if she didn’t do it quickly, she would never have the courage to do it at all. Telling her pets that she would be back soon, she donned her shocking costume and headed for Faith Church.

  o0o

  She could hear the dying strains of the offertory as she parked under an oak tree. Her timing was perfect, she thought. Willing herself to smile, she entered the small church.

  Paul was the first to see her. He was standing behind the pulpit getting ready to preach his sermon, the sermon he had wrestled with for nearly a week. Everything flew out of his mind except the large scarlet A on Martie’s sweater. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the pulpit. He could guess her intention, and for the first time since their marriage he was afraid of losing her.

  He watched the heads turn, one by one, to gape at the spectacle. He heard the collective gasps, and there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that everyone in the church knew the import of that damning scarlet A.

  The pulpit was like an anchor in a storm, and he held it in a death grip to keep from running to Martie and stopping her performance.

  “There’s no longer a need,” he wanted to tell her, but he saw the stubborn tilt of her chin and knew that she had to have this chance to make her statement in her own way.

  For the first time since she had entered the church, Martie looked at Paul, but then she quickly turned her head away. Seeing him almost made her lose sight of what she had to do. Hastily she made her way to the front of the church and turned her back on him. Facing her flabbergasted audience, she scanned their faces, trying to make eye contact with every person who had condemned her.

  “Many of you have labeled me unfit.” Her voice rang out in the stunned silence. “My actions, past and present, have been laid at my husband’s door. Overlooking the wonderful work he does and the generosity of his heart and spirit, you have chosen to threaten his career because of me.”

  She stopped until the murmur from the audience ceased. You’ve come this far, she told herself, you can go the rest of the way.

  “Reverend Paul Donovan is a good man, and he is not responsible for my actions. I am. Today I’m taking all the disgrace upon myself. Because I love him, I’m leaving.” Her voice almost broke on the words, but she thrust out her chin and continued bravely, “I hope you will give him a chance to heal the breach I’ve caused.”

  Shocked whispers filled the church as Martie started toward the back door. Quiet arguments broke out among members, and Sam cried out boldly for her to stay.

  Paul’s voice resounded like thunder in the midst of the hubbub.

  “Martie, wait!” He bounded from the pulpit and caught her arm. “Come with me.”

  His voice was quieter now, but it still carried throughout the church. With his arm around her, he led her back to the pulpit.

  Calmly he ripped the scarlet A from her sweater. It settled to the carpet like an accusation in full view of the audience.

  “‘As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.’” Paul’s eyes seemed to pierce into the very souls of his attentive audience. “The measure of a man is what he is inside. The woman who has been stoned, my wife, has a heart filled with love and joy and kindness. I ask that each of you examine your hearts.”

  His arm tightened around Martie.

  “I have decided that I can no longer effectively serve this parish, and I offer you my resignation.” Keeping a tight hold on his wife, he stepped down from the pulpit.

  Martie turned to look into his face. “I can’t let you do that, Paul,” she whispered.

  “I already have.”

  Victor Cranston was the first to speak.

  “We can’t let you do that, Reverend.” His face was red with embarrassment, but he plunged boldly on. “I’ve been one of the ringleaders in this sorry business. I’m afraid we’ve been too hasty in our judgment. We’ve been so busy condemning her because she is different that we haven’t bothered to look beyond appearances. Today you’ve made me realize the enormity of my own failing. If your wife will let me, I’m going to make up for some of the grief I’ve caused.”

  Victor took the minister’s hand. “I hope you’ll accept this public apology.”

  The rest of the penitent parishioners followed suit. Even Miss Beulah, after much fidgeting and rationalizing, came down the aisle. But once having set her mind to this reconciliation, she put her whole spirit into it. Pumping the minister’s hand, she beamed at him.

  “I do vow and declare. Sometimes it takes a downright tornado to get some folks to see the light. Your announcement just left me speechless. Speechless! Why, we’d be lost without you. And who else would we find who could put away as much fried chicken? Why, the picnics wouldn’t seem right a’tall without you. And as I was saying to Essie Mae, the other day. . . Essie Mae, I said, we need to do something nice for that Reverend’s cute little new wife. Why, Essie Mae, I said—”

  “Beuler!” Essie Mae interrupted the endless flow of words. “Why don’t you move over and let somebody else talk a while?”

  The laughter broke the tension, and with the crisis finally over, peace was restored to the little red brick church.

  o0o

  In the quiet of the parsonage, Paul took his wife into his arms.

  “Would you really have left me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Paul.” She pressed her cheek against his chest so that she could hear the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”

  “You’ll never have to find out.” She grinned impishly up at him. “You’re stuck with me now, Reverend Donovan.”

  “I think this calls for a celebration.”

  “Haagen-Dazs ice cream?” she asked innocently.

  “I had something else in mind, but if you’d prefer ice cream . . .” The sentence trailed off as Martie reached up and removed his clerical collar.

  “The ice cream can wait.”

  EPILOGUE

  Even the newly installed ceiling fan couldn’t relieve the torrid heat. Sweat trickled down Martie’s bare arm as she reached up to drape the Christmas bells across the parlor door frame. Every now and then she stopped to rest.

  Baby and Aristocat paraded grandly through the parlor, stopping long enough to sniff the cedar tree and to stare at themselves in the mirrored ornaments that festooned its branches. Baby soon grew bored with her image, however, and padded across to Martie’s sagging chair for her daily quota of petting.

  Martie scratched behind her ears. “You’ll soon have some competition,” she told her pet. “What do you think of that?”

  Baby thumped her tail on the polished floor, then blithely left for the flower garden.

  The screeching of tires on the gravel driveway caught Martie’s attention. She looked out the window and smiled. Miss Beulah, dressed to the hilt in a straining pink-and-blue-striped leotard, squeezed out of her aging Cadillac, bearing gifts in both arms. As she ambled up the walk, the stripes on her leotard undulated like Old Glory in a brisk breeze.

  “Yoo-hoo!” she called through the screen door. Without waiting for an answer, she barreled into the parlor, talking with every breath. “Now don’t get up, Martie. In your condition you need to rest. Put your feet up on that ottoman. They look a little puffy. The Reverend would have a conniption fit if anything happened to you.”

  She stopped talking long enough to plop down onto the sofa, not even lifting an eyebrow at the Christmas decorations. Everybody in Faith Church now looked on the antics of the preacher’s wife with fond tolerance.

  “Whew! It’s hot enough to fry an egg out there. I said to Essie Mae the other day. . .” She clapped a fat hand over her mouth. “Saints preserve us! Listen to me running on like that. I’m such a chatterbox I plumb forgot about the baby gifts.�
�

  Martie took the proffered gifts and untied the ribbons. A pink stuffed elephant poked its snout up from one box, and a plush monkey smiled up from the other.

  “Thank you, Miss Beulah,” Martie said enthusiastically. “These are adorable!”

  “The elephant is the way I look now, and the monkey is the way I’m going to look if I can get page eighty-six of your Jazzercise book down pat. Just how did you get your legs to do that?”

  Miss Beulah stayed for a glass of lemonade and even helped Martie finish hanging the Christmas bells. After she left, Martie thought how good it felt to count Miss Beulah as one of her friends. She put the lemonade glasses into the dishwasher and was still smiling when her husband came through the door.

  Joy welled up inside him and spilled over as he swept his wife off her feet and gave her a thorough and proper greeting. “Ummm,” he said. “You taste good. What is that flavor?”

  “Pink lemonade.” She rubbed her cheek against his. “I have a surprise for you, Paul. Take me into the parlor.”

  “Both of you?” he quipped. “You’re getting a mite heavy, angel.”

  “It’s all your fault, Reverend Donovan.”

  He stopped when he saw the decorations, and a huge grin lit his face. Life with Martie would always be a celebration. “Christmas in July?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I adore it.” He bent his head and kissed her again. “And I adore you.”

  “Paul,” she said after a long while, “I’ve always wanted to have a baby during the Christmas season.”

  “With lots of practice, I think we can make it next time.” He left the parlor, passed through the kitchen long enough to lock the door, and strolled down the hall.

  Martie observed the entire proceedings from her vantage point in his arms. “Where are we going?” she asked unnecessarily.

  “To practice.”

  Behind them the ceiling fan stirred the branches of the cedar tree and set the mirrored ornaments to tinkling in joyful celebration.

  -o0o-

  CHAPTER ONE