Donovan’s Angel (5 page)

“Some,” Martie replied cautiously.

“I thought so. We’ve been searching to high
heaven for a director of our youth choir. I’m so glad you came
today.”

Paul appeared behind Martie and casually
draped his arm across her shoulder. “I see Jolene’s already drafted
you.”

The heat of his arm on her shoulder combined
with the warm rays of the sun made Martie feel flushed.

“Oh, dear. I didn’t say yes, did I?” Her eyes
were wide with appeal as she looked around the circle of women.

“With Jolene, you don’t have to say yes,” Sam
told her. “If you’re breathing, she takes it as an affirmative
answer.”

Paul laughed. “That’s right. We’re trying not
to let Uncle Sam get wind of her. Just think what she could do for
the draft, let alone detente.” Playfully he flicked Martie’s
shining braid. “The baseball game is getting ready to start.”

“Good.” Martie clapped her hands with
delight. “I want to play first base.”

Sam and Jolene exchanged glances. “Didn’t you
tell her, Reverend Donovan?” Sam asked.

“Tell me what?” demanded Martie.

“The women are always the spectators,” Sam
said dryly.

“Why?” Martie put her hands on her hips and
looked from Paul to the circle of women.

“Tradition, I suppose,” Paul explained.
“That’s the way it’s been since I moved here five years ago.”

Martie thrust out her chin and looked
defiantly up at Paul. “Hang tradition. I came here to play
ball.”

“Then why don’t you play on my team?” Paul
asked her. He admired her spunk. There was no doubt that this turn
of events would make a few waves among the more conservative church
members, but perhaps that wouldn’t be a bad thing. Churches, like
people, could become too tradition bound. And when that happened,
growth stopped. This spunky, high-spirited woman was not only the
best thing that had ever happened to him, she just might be the
best thing that ever happened to this church.

“Anybody else want to play on my team?” he
asked the group.

“I’m going to let Martie pave the way,”
Jolene said. “Maybe next time.”

“Well, shoot,” Sam grumbled. “If I had known
that I was going to be let in on all the fun, I would have worn
something besides this tight skirt and these dad-blamed fussy
shoes.” She punched Martie affectionately on the arm. “Go get ‘em,
girl. Hit a home run for me.”

“Don’t worry. I intend to.” Martie tugged
Paul’s arm. “Come on, Preach. Let’s play ball.”

o0o

Martie didn’t hit one home run. She hit
three. She was like a match in a warehouse full of fireworks: she
ignited the entire assembly of picnickers. The children went wild
with cheering for their colorful new heroine; the liberals, mostly
young men and women with a sprinkling of old-timers here and there,
felt revitalized; and the die-hard conservatives, led by Miss
Beulah and egged on by Miss Essie Mae, searched their vocabularies
for new and appropriate ways to pronounce sin and disgrace.

“Did you see the way she slid into home
plate?” Miss Beulah sniffed, fanning herself vigorously with a
funeral parlor fan. “Just like a
man
. I do vow and declare
that I don’t know what this younger generation is coming to.” She
nearly toppled her lawn chair as she turned to look at her
companion, Essie Mae Bradford. “Pass me that lemonade, Essie Mae. I
think I’m having a prostration attack.”

“Lord, Beuler!” Essie Mae always pronounced
Miss Beulah’s name with an
r.
“Hang on. Somebody’ll have
to issue mouth-to-mouth.”

Her protrusive eyes began to water at the
thought. She had never seen mouth-to-mouth, but she had always
fancied that it would be rather erotic. Hastily she poured the
lemonade and nearly dropped the glass as she passed it to her
friend.

“Lord, Beuler! Would you just look at that!”
The ball game had ended, and a jubilant Martie had flung her arms
around the Reverend Paul Donovan’s neck. “If that zipper of hers
comes down one more hair, she’ll be showing everything she’s got.”
Essie Mae leaned forward in her lawn chair to get a better view.
“Shameful! Right in the public view. Lord, Beuler!” She clutched
her companion’s arm. “I do believe the preacher likes it!”

And indeed he did. The woman with the smudged
face and the sparkling eyes who had catapulted herself into his
arms for a victory hug reminded him of a delightful, slightly
naughty child. He squeezed her briefly and set her on her feet, but
that fleeting contact was enough to banish all thoughts of Martie
as a child. The high, perfect breasts pressed against his chest set
his pulse to racing. Quickly he turned to accept the
congratulations of the men on the losing team, but his eyes
followed the sprite in the red jumpsuit. Her laughter floated back
to him like music as she became the center of an admiring
crowd.

As soon as he could, and with what would
probably be construed as indecent haste, Paul made his way to
Martie. He knew that his life came under close scrutiny because of
his position. Sometimes that bothered him, but not usually. His
faith kept everything in perspective, and through the years he had
developed a remarkable patience that allowed him to weather minor
storms of controversy with a minimum of damage, either to himself
or to his work.

He linked his arm through Martie’s. “I hope
you worked up an appetite. This Indian summer picnic is famous all
over northeast Mississippi for the food we spread.”

“I could ruin that reputation in one fell
swoop. How do you think your parishioners will feel about tofu and
alfalfa sprout sandwiches?” she asked mischievously.

He hesitated. “It sounds . . . intriguing. I
can’t speak for the rest of the congregation, but being a loyal
fried chicken fan I’ll have to be won over.”

Martie picked up her basket and looked around
the picnic grounds. “Now what?”

“Everybody puts the food on those tables
under the oak tree, buffet style. Then you can choose what you
want. I highly recommend Jolene’s chocolate pie.”

As Martie placed her sandwiches on the table,
she watched Paul with his parishioners. He stood as solid as a rock
in their midst, chatting, counseling, sharing a joke, sharing a
burden. His quick laughter and peaceful spirit drew the people
toward him, and Martie knew that she was seeing the man at his
work. Ministry was not a Sunday morning job; it was seven days a
week, twenty-four hours a day. Paul was a heart-thumpingly
appealing man; no doubt about it. But he was also a minister, and
that was something that could not be left in a briefcase at the
office.

Martie heaved a big sigh for what might have
been. She had no illusions about the unsuitability of a
relationship with a minister. As a free spirit—a maverick of
sorts—she knew she was impulsive and unconventional to a fault. And
that couldn’t be packed into a box and stowed somewhere, either.
She unwrapped her sandwiches with unnecessary vigor. Sometimes life
just didn’t seem fair.

“Those sandwiches look . . .
unusual
.” Miss Beulah’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“What are they?”

“Tofu and alfalfa sprouts,” Martie told
her.

“Alfalfa! Like they feed
cows
?” Miss
Beulah swatted the air with her funeral parlor fan, and the red
roses on her dress jiggled up and down. “That sweet little Glenda
the preacher used to date always brought fried chicken.”

Martie’s heart plummeted. Paul had said that
he was a fried chicken fan. He was probably a Glenda fan, too, and
she had just dreamed all this magic between them, and why did that
matter so much because, after all, she was going to forget him
after today, and Miss Beulah had just made her as mad as hell.

“It’s health food, Miss Beulah,” she
explained sweetly, “but occasionally a cow does eat my
sandwiches.”

“Well, I
never
!” Miss Beulah made a
beeline for Essie Mae to share Martie’s latest transgression.

Martie grinned wickedly, even through the
blessing, and she was still grinning when Paul led her to a quiet
corner under a copse of pines.

“This is my favorite spot on the church
grounds. Sometimes when I need to think, I leave my office and come
here.” He spread the blanket he had retrieved from the trunk of his
Ford and sat down with his heaping plate.

“It would be a wonderful place to make love,”
Martie observed, her violet eyes sparkling with devilment.

Paul choked on his bite of fried chicken.
What was she up to now? He could see the imp peeping through her
eyes and decided that silence would be the best response. Let her
have enough time to vent whatever was on her mind.

“Once down in Tijuana I did the fandango on
top of Rafael’s bar. I was dancing so hard my earrings fell into
the guacamole dip. Afterward everybody at the party drank champagne
from my slippers.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you shocked?” she asked, turning to
look at him.

“Am I supposed to be?”

This was not at all the way she had planned
it. He was supposed to see how unsuitable she was and walk off in
disgust. It would be easier that way.

“Don’t you even want to know who Rafael
is?”

“Do you want to tell me?” he asked, taking
another bite of fried chicken.

“He’s a bullfighter. He taught me how to
fight bulls and drive fast cars and gamble.”

“Do you want me to pass judgment? I’m afraid
I’ll have to disappoint you.”

She thrust her chin out defiantly. “And when
I was with Booty, I sang in honky tonks. Honkytonks are fun.”

“I think so, too,” Paul agreed
cheerfully.

“You do?”

He smiled. “Yes. I like that kind of music.
Lively and earthy, with a toe-tapping beat.”

“You go to honkytonks?” Martie asked,
surprised.

“I have. In the restless days of my youth.
Did you think I lived in cotton wool before I entered the
ministry?”

All her bravado was gone. How could she have
believed that this solid, sensible man would turn tail and run? He
was not the running kind. If she wanted to end an improbable
relationship before it ever started, she would have to do it the
adult way. With honesty, not games. But not yet.

“What did you do before you entered the
ministry?”

“My brother, Tanner, and I were the stars of
the Greenville High School football team,” Paul replied. “We were
also the biggest hellions in the Delta. The world was our oyster,
and we were both headed for the big time—pro ball.” He put his
plate on the edge of the blanket, took his pipe from his pocket,
and slowly tamped in the fragrant tobacco. “Life got in the way,”
he continued slowly. “Dad was injured in an accident, and one of us
needed to stay close to home. Tanner went. I stayed.” He smiled
down at Martie. “He plays for the Dallas Cowboys and I’m a
minister.”

“Was ministry second best?”

“No. Life has a way of closing one door and
opening an even better one. I’m exactly where I want to be, doing a
job that I love.”

Martie picked at her sandwich. “You know that
I was playing a game with you.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I just don’t know
why.”

“Miss Beulah made me mad. She called my
sandwiches cow food.” She took a small bite, and her eyes twinkled
as she chewed. “Now that she’s mentioned it, darned if the alfalfa
sprouts don’t taste like weeds.”

“I thought so, too, but I wouldn’t dare say
it. Not after seeing the way you can wield a baseball bat.” He
leaned against the tree trunk and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
“You were right about this place,” he murmured. His eyes were
half-closed, and only the crinkling of laugh lines in his bronzed
face gave him away.

Martie nearly bit her finger. She had a
sudden vision of the two of them writhing in ecstasy on the carpet
of pine needles with nothing except the stars and the whispered
breezes to keep them company. She jumped up from the blanket. If
she didn’t put that city block between them quickly, she wouldn’t
be held responsible for what she might do.

Paul’s hand snaked out and caught her wrist.
Pulling her down beside him, he commanded quietly, “Stay.”

For a set of legs that had just negotiated
three home runs, hers were acting in a mighty treacherous fashion,
she decided as she sank down beside him. She was close, too close.
The heady fragrance of his pipe tobacco mixed with the clean smell
of pine needles made her feel languid and content. She wanted to
put her head on his broad shoulder, wrap her arms around his chest,
and purr like Aristocat.

Instead she inched away so that her leg was
barely touching his blue-jeaned thigh. Even so, his body heat
jumped across the small space and melted her all the way down to
her toes.

“You forgot to tell me why you’ve traveled so
extensively and why you settled in Pontotoc,” he said softly.

“You forgot to ask.”

“I’m asking.”

At least he wasn’t still talking about making
love on the pine needles. She supposed that she could endure the
pleasant agony of his nearness long enough to carry on a polite
conversation without drooling.

“Dad’s a groundwater hydrologist,” she said.
“Mom died when I was seven, and I traveled with Dad on his
consulting jobs. One of the places we visited frequently is near
here—Tupelo. But it’s too big for me. I had seen Pontotoc . . .
liked it . . . and when I decided to buy a house, I remembered the
peacefulness of this small town.” She shrugged. “So, here I
am.”

Paul shook his head, smiling. “Amazing. The
way life keeps opening doors.”

He was doing it again—implying that she was a
part of his future. Now was the time for that adult honesty she had
resolved to use.

“Or slamming them shut.” She tilted her head
to one side, and the shiny braid swung with the motion. “It’s been
a lovely day, Paul, but you must know that I’m not one of your open
doors. We’re too different.” She waved her hand to encompass the
church, the picnic grounds, and the parishioners gathering their
baskets to go home. “I could never be a part of all this, because I
don’t play by the rules. I would shrivel up and die of frustration
if I were forced to.”