by Peggy Webb
Martie slowly straightened up. “I suppose the cat let you in.” She walked across the large, almost bare room and got a towel from the chest beside the exercise barre.
Paul watched her move and took a long, steadying draw on his pipe. He still didn’t know it was unlit.
“No,” he mumbled. As conversation went it wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.
She wiped her damp forehead with the towel and tried to pretend that his voice wasn’t sending shivers up and down her spine.
“Then who let you in?” she asked.
He took another draw on his pipe and suddenly realized it wasn’t lit. Removing the pipe, he performed that small chore with a sense of amazement at the strange malady that had stricken him since Martie had come to town.
“Actually, I was standing on your porch steps looking forlorn and Baby came to my rescue. She pushed the door open and then turned around to invite me in.”
“Are you an interpreter of barking?”
“No. I’m a tail-wagging interpreter.” The words bounced innocently around the silent room, and the Reverend Paul Donovan nearly bit the stem of his pipe in two.
Martie covered her laughter by burying her face in the towel. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed seven, and somewhere in the ancient house Aristocat, who rarely spoke unless he had just cause, gave Baby a sound scolding. Olivia Newton-John still exhorted everyone to get physical, and Martie wanted to but knew that she didn’t dare because Paul was a minister. She hung the towel on the rack and unconsciously tilted her chin up. As they say in the movies, it was time for plan B, whatever that was. She didn’t have a plan B, but Paul didn’t know that, and she could be very inventive when she tried.
“I hope you’re not too big on Southern hospitality,” she told him.
“I haven’t given it much thought lately.”
“You probably will after this evening because I’m showing you the door.”
“I’ve already seen it.” His smile was perfectly innocent, but his eyes twinkled with devilment.
She was too busy trying to invent plan B to notice. She paced as she talked, emphasizing her words with gestures and tosses of her head.
“I’m not going to see you any more because I’m forgetting you.”
He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss the silver-blond curl that rested at the nape of her neck. Instead he said, “Why?”
“Because of the picnic this afternoon.”
“I thought you enjoyed the picnic.”
“Well, actually, it was because of the tofu and the fried chicken and the polyester pants suits.”
“You lost me after the tofu.”
“Don’t you see!” Arms akimbo, she stopped in the middle of the floor and glared at him. “I’m different.”
Paul thought she looked about as formidable as a china doll. “You certainly are. What do you call that outfit you’re wearing?”
“It’s a leotard and you’re as stubborn as a post oak.”
“Tenacious, too,” he agreed cheerfully. “I already told you that.”
Plan B wasn’t working. She studied the toe of her hot-pink ballerina slippers. Impossibly long lashes concealed her eyes, and she didn’t know that her vulnerable pose ripped at Paul’s heart and threatened to topple his shaky reserve.
When she lifted her head, her violet eyes looked as if they’d been drenched in sunlight. “Why are you here?” she asked softly.
“I was sitting in my study going over tomorrow’s sermon when I felt a compelling urge to see you.” He rose from his chair, tamped out his pipe, and moved toward her with slow, deliberate movements. “Your thoughts came winging to me across the fence, and I knew, as if you were in the same room, that you were busy erecting walls.” He stopped only inches from her, and his magnificent voice swept over her in quiet seduction. “I won’t let you get rid of me that easily.” His hands reached out and captured her shoulders. “I won’t let you forget me, Martie.”
She lifted her face to his and suddenly they were in each other’s arms, pressing and tasting and probing and swaying with the whirlwind that overtook them. Her fingers curled into his hair and she arched upward to meet the demanding thrust of his tongue. Paul made a sound that was half agony, half ecstasy as he hauled her against his body, fitting her to his hard planes and muscular ridges. Walls crumbled and reserve flew out the window as they clung together, savoring the magic that bound them.
Time stood still for them—but not for the rest of the world: crickets sang in the October evening; Baby sneaked through the fence to see what she could find on the preacher’s clothesline; Aristocat sat on the fence serenading Miss Beulah’s prissy Persian; Jolene and Bob put catsup on their grilled hamburgers; Sam sprayed bug guard in her yard; and Essie Mae trained her binoculars through a gap in her hedge to see what the Bishops were up to.
And inside Martie’s house, the hall clock chimed the half hour.
Pontotoc and its residents could have dropped off the map and the two people in the exercise room would never have noticed. They were in another world, a world filled with splendid heat and yearning flesh and unbearable longing. Theirs was an urge as ancient as time, and it was all the more poignant because it was forbidden.
Paul was the first to break away. Shaking his head slowly to clear his drugged senses, he let his arms drop away from Martie’s irresistible form. He took a step backward, putting a breathing space between them.
Martie ran a trembling hand through her hair and wondered how plan B could have gone so wrong.
“You like to play with fire, don’t you, Paul?”
“Only since I met you.”
“If that was a sample of not letting me forget, you’ve succeeded. I won’t need a second demonstration.”
They stood a few inches apart, their breathing combining in harsh cadence in the quiet room as they pondered their separate dilemmas. The patient minister won a mighty struggle over the restless man, and the impetuous gamine triumphed over the passionate woman.
Martie was the first to speak. The sparkling smile she cast at him transformed her from beautiful seductress to fun-loving little girl.
“You want fire?” she said. “I’ll give you fire. After tonight you’ll be begging me to forget you.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him through the rambling house to the kitchen. “Make us two cups of hot chocolate while I change. The cocoa is in the cabinet beside the sink.”
Paul laughed indulgently. Again he was reminded of the elusive foxfire as she made a lightning transition from desirable to playful. “How do you know that I like hot chocolate?”
“You look like a hot chocolate man to me.” She bounced out of the kitchen. “Make mine with lots of sugar,” she called over her shoulder.
“I know.” Alternately whistling and smiling as he worked, he thought about the wonderful providence that had set the woman of his dreams right behind the parsonage fence.
Martie made a detour by the exercise room to shut off the stereo, then bounded up the stairs two at a time to change. Telling herself that this was plan C, or get-rid-of-the-minister-once-and-for-all tactics, she took undue care in selecting a hot pink camp shirt and aqua cropped pants. She tied a hand woven sash in rainbow colors around her tiny waist and decorated herself with dangling turquoise earrings, a squash blossom necklace and seven silver bangle bracelets, souvenirs of her singing stint with Booty. A little hum bubbled up the whole time she was dressing.
When she rejoined Paul in the kitchen, she said in a voice as gay as her attire, “Darned if I didn’t nearly land on my bottom. Is my hot chocolate ready?”
Paul handed her a cup of the steaming liquid. “I beg your pardon?”
“I slid down the banister,” she explained airily. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Had he thought being with her was a celebration? Being with her was a full-fledged party, complete with balloons and bazookas and confe
tti. “Did you get splinters? I’m an expert splinter picker.”
“Perhaps we should check it out, Reverend Donovan,” she said with mock seriousness.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“You started this conversation, remember?”
“So I did.” They sipped their hot chocolate in companionable silence for a while, and then Paul spoke again. “I’m consumed with curiosity. Just what are your plans for making me flee in terror from my beautiful backyard neighbor?”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Martie replied mysteriously. “Don’t you like surprises?”
“Coming from you, yes. I like everything about you, Martie.”
And she liked everything about him. If only things were different. She plopped her empty cup on the table and stood up. She was not one to mourn what might have been. Circumstances couldn’t be changed, but feelings could. Blithely she embarked on the course of alteration.
“Shake a leg, Preacher, or you’ll miss all the fun.”
The screen door banged shut behind them as Martie led Paul to her car. It was an aging Thunderbird convertible painted fire engine red and boasting a four-barrel carburetor that made everything else on the road look like a snail.
Martie slid behind the wheel. “Hang on to your hat, Paul.” The revving of the engine resembled the roar of fifteen lions.
“I’m not wearing one.”
“Then hang on to your head,” she warned him as she barreled out of her driveway and careened madly down Highway 6 toward Tupelo. Two vans and a Pepsi-Cola truck blurred together as she whipped around them and zoomed down the road.
“Do you always drive like this?” Paul asked mildly.
“No,” she yelled over the wind that whistled around their heads. “Sometimes it’s better.”
“Better?”
“Faster.”
He shook his head and prayed.
o0o
They came to the Wal-Mart on the western side of Tupelo and clipped down the Main Street at a sprightly pace. Heads turned to look at the bright woman in the bright car, and Martie waved at everybody, whether she knew them or not. At crosstown she turned right and zipped down Gloster. Late Saturday night shoppers and moviegoers turned to watch their progress, and many speculated that a celebrity had come to town, for surely no one else would dare drive that way.
The tires of the red Thunderbird squealed as Martie swerved right onto Garfield and wheeled into Matoka Park. She bounced out of the car, put her hands on her hips, and looked up at Paul. “If you think that was something,” she said, “just wait ‘til you see the way I drive a go cart.”
“As long as I’m not the passenger.” His legs were wobbly and he was still praying.
“Passenger, shoot! You’re the other driver.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him up the hill.
“I haven’t been in one of those things since I was twelve,” he protested.
“You don’t know what you’ve been missing!”
“You ride go carts regularly?” He didn’t know why that should surprise him.
“I ran the Happy Day Care Center in Beaumont, Texas, for a while,” she explained. “I frequently took the children to amusement parks. Of course, they were just an excuse so that I could ride go carts and water slides. I adore amusement parks. I think they keep a person young at heart.”
“Would you mind if this young-hearted but definitely old-bodied man sat on the sidelines and watched?” he asked, smiling.
She looked solemnly up at him and repeated the words he had said to her at the picnic. “I never figured you for a coward.”
He paused. “All right . . . I accept the challenge. Lead on, angel.” He affected the long-suffering look of a horse thief being led to a hanging.
“I intend to beat your socks off,” Martie warned him.
“I’ve no doubt about that.” Paul looked at the kid-sized go cart. “I don’t think I’ll fit.”
“You have to fit. It’s no fun if you just watch.” She shot him a mischievous look. “Besides, how will I make you want to forget me if you don’t suffer? Fold your legs.” She smiled as he lowered himself into the tiny car. “A little more.” She burst out laughing as he finally managed to squeeze most of himself into the miniature vehicle.
“What’s so funny?” Paul asked.
“You should see yourself.” She laughed some more. “You look like a pretzel with your knees up under your chin.”
“I’ve had more fun at the doctor’s office,” he grumbled good-naturedly.
Martie smiled with wicked glee as she climbed into her car. Her plan was working, she thought. After tonight, the Reverend Paul Donovan would cross the street to get away from her. She looked at his broad back, and her feeling of satisfaction vanished. Without warning a tiny ache started in her chest at the thought of not seeing him anymore and grew until it filled her heart with pain. She looked up at the stars and whispered a remembered childhood phrase.
“I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” But she knew that it couldn’t be so.
She pressed hard on her accelerator and whizzed past Paul’s car. Time to get on with the plan. She could think about her loss tomorrow.
Her naturally high spirits reasserted themselves as she drove with daredevil exuberance. Her light hair, washed silver by the moon, whipped out behind her as she tore around the track at breakneck speed, whooping with uninhibited joy. She grinned wickedly as she imagined how appalled the minister would be.
Paul was enchanted.
After the wild go cart ride, Martie challenged him to a game of putt-putt golf. By now she was having so much fun that she had forgotten her original purpose in coming to the park. She smiled and sparkled and spoke eloquently with the body language that he had loved from the first day he’d met her. She was a terrible golf player, so each small triumph was occasion for hand clapping and spontaneous bear hugs.
Paul was bewitched.
“Oh, dear!” she cried. “Just look at that!” Her brilliant smile never wavered as she putted onto the wrong green and turned the mistake into an adventure by making the acquaintance of a seventy-year-old dancing couple from Verona. “You jitterbug! I’ve always wanted to know how to do that,” she told then. And they treated her to an impromptu lesson beside the windmill on the third hole.
It took her fifteen minutes to get back to her green.
Paul was delighted.
Being with her was like being in sunlight. He felt warm and contented inside, and he knew that he was falling in love. She was a dream, all lush, desirable woman one minute and joyful little girl the next.
Martie resumed her game and promptly knocked her ball over the fence. He stood quietly, puffing on his pipe as he watched her climb after it. Did she have any idea of her remarkable talent for making people love her? She returned triumphantly holding the ball aloft and sporting a hole in the knee of her pants.
“I finally got the little devil,” she announced gaily, then picked up her club and prepared to swing. Stopping in midswing, she looked up at him. “What’s my score now?”
“Sixty-five over par,” he told her.
She pushed her hair back from her face and smeared a streak of dirt on her cheek. “I guess that means I’m losing?”
He resisted the urge to bend down and kiss the smudged cheek. “By a landslide.”
“Then I shall treat you to ice cream,” she announced grandly. Her club sailed into the air as she gave the ball a mighty whack. “I think I’m going to turn my talents elsewhere.”
“Allow me.” Paul began to take off his shoes.
“What in the world are you doing?” she asked.
“Have you never heard of gallantry? You insisted on climbing the fence for your ball. The least I can do is wade a pond for your club.”
“Yes, but I like climbing fences. Wading, too.”
He put his foot into the cold water and grimaced. “I guess it grows on you.”
They finished the game in style
, Paul with the bottoms of his jeans legs wet and Martie with a hole in her pants. Her luck changed at the end, and she hit a hole in one.
“I think I finally have the hang of this game,” she declared happily.
Paul took her elbow and escorted her back to the car. “I think if you live long enough, you’ll be a fairly decent player.” He grinned down at her and resisted the urge to kiss her.
She slid behind the wheel. “How long is that?” She looked across the car and wanted to devour him piece by piece, starting with that wonderful cleft in his chin. Instead, she revved the engine to life. The wind whipped her already tousled hair as she pulled onto Gloster and silently denounced fishbowl professions and public decorum.
o0o
She pulled up at the grand Hilton Hotel and informed him that they were going to have Haagen-Dazs ice cream by candlelight. She expected him to be mortified at the thought of a ragamuffin going to the Ritz, but instead he was delighted with the woman who approached life with such zest.
“Candlelight becomes you,” Paul told her as they sat in a snug corner away from the late-night diners.
“You’re supposed to be concentrating on your rum raisin,” Martie informed him. She took a big bite and rolled her eyes to show him how to concentrate on the ice cream. But tingles were rippling along her spine, and she was having a hard time remembering that certain things were taboo in ritzy restaurants. Things like ripping the shirt off the man beside you and purring against his chest. Or kicking off your shoes and running your bare foot up his pant leg. Or leaning across the table and licking that little dollop of ice cream off his lips.
“I’d rather concentrate on you,” he said.
“Which part of me?” she asked. “My daredevil driving or my disregard for convention?”
“Neither.” His voice wrapped her in velvet. “Your enchanting smile and your incredible eyes.” He put down his ice cream spoon and reached across the table to take her hand. “I’m just sorry about one thing.”