by Peggy Webb
“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.
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.”
“I never figured you for a coward.”
“I’m not a coward,” she snapped. “I’m just facing the simple truth.”
Paul reached out and took her hand between his. “Time has a wonderful way of working things out. Why don’t you wait and see what happens?”
“I don’t have to wait. I know what would happen. I would turn your life upside down and you would try to fit me into a neat little convention-bound cubbyhole.” She pulled her hand out of his and jumped up. “And besides, there’s Glenda. Why didn’t you tell me about sweet little Glenda and the fried chicken? I’ll bet she never did the fandango in her life!”
All the pent-up frustration came tumbling out. It was not that she was jealous of Glenda, she told herself. It was just that Glenda and her fried chicken were considered suitable.
Paul tried to keep a serious face. “No, Glenda never did the fandango. She wouldn’t even waltz.”
“You see!” Her braid was twitching she was so mad. “Sweet little Glenda probably wouldn’t have touched a baseball bat with a ten-foot pole.”
Paul unfolded his long legs and stood up. “It’s highly unlikely,” he agreed solemnly.
Martie folded her hands across her chest and thrust her chin out—her fighting stance. She didn’t stop to question her fierce reactions.
“Whatever happened to this paragon of suitability? Did she ride off into the sunset on a fried drumstick?”
He could no longer suppress his grin. “No. She rode off to Tijuana with a bullfighter.”
His quick wit defused her anger. As her hands dropped to her sides, she shot him an impish grin. “I don’t suppose anybody will ever call me sweet little Martie.”
He tilted her chin with his forefinger. “Beautiful. Seductive. Spicy. But not sweet.” His finger traced the stubborn line of her jaw. “Glenda is a nice girl that I knew once. She’s a part of my past just as Rafael and Booty are a part of yours. Not my present and not my future.” He paused to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “There are about fifty people out there waiting to speak to me before we leave. Sit tight, angel. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m no angel, Paul.”
He seemed almost not to have heard her as he took a long draw on his pipe and gazed beyond her toward the ivy-covered walls of the brick church. “I know. Perhaps that’s a part of your fascination.”
She watched him walk across the grass and become a part of the vine-covered-cottage-and-picket-fence crowd. He was one with them, chatting and laughin
g and reminding her of slippers by the fire and barbecues in the backyard. Bullfights in Mexico and nightclubs in Texas and skydiving in California lost their appeal. She looked at his face and thought of cricket songs and cream in the tea and moonlight kisses.
“Perhaps that’s your fascination,” she whispered. And she knew that the Reverend Paul Donovan would be very hard to forget.
CHAPTER FOUR
Martie mopped the perspiration from her brow and turned up the volume on her stereo as if the increased decibels could wipe Paul from her mind. She stretched and lunged to the frantic beat of the music. “I shouldn’t have had that sinfully rich chocolate pie,” she said to nobody in particular
Olivia Newton-John’s recorded voice encouraged her to get physical.
“That’s what I wanted to do,” Martie panted. “But you know how it is with small town gossip.”
She did five rapid waist bends and went into a series of toe touches. “I’m just too physical for him. I mean, can you imagine love in the afternoon with fifty Miss Beulahs pounding on the parsonage door?” Her hands froze on the floor as she peered between her legs at the amused face of Paul Donovan.
“Do you always talk to records?” He was leaning casually against the door frame, looking very much at home and obviously enjoying the view.
The blood rushed to her head. He looked every bit as good upside down as he did right-side up. “Don’t you ever knock?”
“I did, but you didn’t hear me. Apparently you were engaged in scintillating conversation.”
His smile broadened as he moved away from the door and eased his big frame into a straight backed chair. His mind commanded him to do those things, and it was a good thing that he’d had lots of practice or he would have missed the chair. What was that daring little outfit she was wearing? he wondered. He thought it had something to do with animals, lions or tigers or something, but mostly it had to do with his heart. It’s a wonder they didn’t hear its beat clear to Faith Church.
And the glistening little bead of sweat that had just rolled between her breasts was the most provocative thing he had ever seen. He stuck one of his shaking hands into his pocket and fetched his pipe. Anything to get his mind off the stunningly sexy woman upended before him. He stuck his pipe into his mouth, then forgot to light it.