by Peggy Webb
“Good night, Paul.”
“Not yet, Martie.”
He took her shoulders and lowered his lips to hers, and his kiss was a gentle giving, a reassurance that the music would never stop and that forever was not just a dream.
His strength and confidence wrapped around Martie, and she accepted the kiss as a gift. She basked in its sweetness and felt the glow of it fill her heart.
In spite of his enormous desire, there was no passion in the kiss. It was his way of giving without taking, of showing without pressuring. At last he lifted his head and looked deeply into her eyes.
“I love you, Martie,” he said with quiet strength. “I always have and I always will.”
“Paul?” Though she should have known it, had already suspected it, she was still not prepared for the revelation.
His hands cupped her face and his thumbs traced the line of her jaw. “It’s true. I love you and I want our marriage to be real.”
“Paul, I can’t . . .”
He pressed his thumbs to her lips. “Shh. Don’t say anything yet. Let me finish.” Closing his eyes, he bent and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I don’t want to pressure you or to take unfair advantage, but you must know that I said my wedding vows from the heart. You have always been my wife, and I guess I had to come all the way to Memphis to tell you that.”
“I think I’m going to cry. This is even more beautiful than the evening we buried the socks.”
Tears shimmered on the tips of her eyelashes, and she knew that socks had nothing whatsoever to do with them. She wanted to run and laugh and cry and swing from the oak tree and fall into the marigold bed. She wanted to dance and sing and shout for joy at the top of her voice. The man she loved had just said that he loved her back, and for once in her life she was practically speechless. Her flamboyance had fled and was hiding on the rooftop with the Peabody ducks.
Holding back his smile because he knew her comparison to the sock funeral was meant as a sincere compliment, he brushed the tears from her eyes and kissed the top of her head.
“Think about what I said, and when you have come to a decision, let me know.”
Her violet eyes were wide and innocent as she looked up at him.
“How will I let you know?” she asked.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Good night, angel.”
She watched until he had disappeared into his room, and then the impact of what he had said hit her full force. She shoved her door open and bounded into her room, charged with restless energy. He loves me, he loves me! she thought as she whirled around.
Suddenly she stopped. She hadn’t even told him that she loved him, too. She had let him go back to his room without even saying those simple words. Good heavens! What would she do now, and where were Baby and Aristocat when she needed to confide in them? And whatever had happened to the fence that separated them? The minister and the almost honky-tonk girl? Maybe the fence was down in Pontotoc with Miss Beulah and didn’t extend up here to Memphis at all. Maybe there was no such thing as fences . . . and she couldn’t believe she had ever let them stop her anyway.
She picked up the phone book, flipped to the Yellow Pages, and rapidly scanned the column for an all-night florist. Finally she located one in the Baptist Hospital complex and had the hotel connect her. After she placed her order, the astounded florist asked, “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
The minutes seemed to drag by as she paced the floor, waiting for the flowers to arrive. At last she heard a knock at her door. She scrambled around in her purse and for a minute thought she was going to have to hock her wedding ring to pay for the gigantic bouquet. When she had finished paying for the flowers, she had three quarters and a dime left, but she was smiling.
She hung the chiffon dress in her closet and donned her red silk teddy, the one held rather loosely together with scarlet ribbons. Slipping her feet into red high-heeled mules, she lifted the bouquet and walked to the connecting door. Her knock was barely a tap, but instantly the door was flung open.
Paul saw the red shoes, the long, lovely legs, and a bouquet of five dozen red roses that completely covered the top half of Martie. Joy flooded his soul.
“Special delivery,” she called from behind the bouquet.
“For me?” By sheer willpower he kept himself from grabbing her, roses and all, and carrying her to the bed.
“Are you the Reverend Paul Donovan?”
“Yes.”
“Then these are for you.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. The roses and the girl.” Martie lowered the bouquet until her shining eyes were peeping over the top. “From Mrs. Donovan with love.”
Paul scooped her into his arms, and a trail of roses followed them to the curtained bed. His eyes blazed as he lowered her to the covers, then sat back, savoring every detail. Slowly he reached down and untied the ribbons at her shoulders, watching in fascination as they made scarlet splashes across the tops of her breasts.
“I love you, Mrs. Donovan.” He lowered his head and pushed the ribbons aside with his lips.
Martie wound her arms around his bare back as his mouth pushed the restraining silk aside.
“Every inch of you is beautiful,” he said.
Martie gasped as volcanic heat ripped through her. His lips and tongue bespoke his love as she plunged closer and closer to the flaming center of the volcano. When she felt its hot breath waiting to consume her, Paul sat back and stripped away the superfluous silk and ribbons. Her teddy settled like a red cloud over his pajama bottoms on the blue carpet.
He covered her body with his, and the volcano erupted. Their love for each other, so long denied, now came pouring out, rich and bright and fulfilling; and they reveled in the wonder of discovery. Behind the gossamer curtains they pledged their wedding vows in a ritual as ancient as time.
When the flame became a soft glow, when their hearts slowed to a steady beat, Paul pulled the sheet over them and they slept.
o0o
Martie was wide awake. A streak of sunlight peeking through the heavy curtains made a bright line across Paul’s cheek. She ran her fingertips lightly over his chin, letting her index finger trace the cleft that she had loved for so long, reveling in the feel of his early morning beard stubble.
He sighed and smiled in his sleep. Martie lowered her head so that her hair swung lightly across his face. He stirred and continued to sleep. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she sat up in bed and contemplated her sleepyhead husband. How could he sleep when the world was outside their door clamoring for them to join the fun and when his early-riser wife was ready for a bawdy romp between the sheets? She swung her legs off the bed and started gathering the forgotten roses. She might as well wake him with pizzazz.
Taking an armful of flowers, she slipped through the connecting door and made her preparations. It didn’t take her long to locate Booty and the band; he had told her where they would be staying for their Memphis gig.
“For you, we’ll do anything, sugar,” Booty told her when he heard the plan. “Does this preacher husband of yours know what he’s in for?”
“No. But after this morning he will. He’s going to find out that ours will be a ‘combustible’ marriage.”
“What kind of marriage?”
“Combustible. It’s a private joke.”
“Right. See you in about twenty minutes, sugar.”
“Don’t forget the drums,” she told him, and cradled the receiver, then picked up the roses and began her preparations.
o0o
Booty was five minutes late, but Paul was still sleeping like a rock. Martie belted her terry-cloth robe and ushered the band in. They grinned and winked at each other as they circled the bed with their instruments.
“Okay, boys. Hit it.” Booty plucked the strings of his electric guitar, and Martie mounted her makeshift stage and began singing the opening bars of “Help Me Make It Through the Night.”
The
covers slid down around Paul’s naked waist as he shot up in bed. Thinking he was involved in somebody else’s dream, he studied the circle of grinning musicians.
“What in the world is going on?” he said, and then he saw his wife. She was standing atop the dressing table, singing into the bristles of a hairbrush. He roared with laughter. “I can see that I’m in for a combustible marriage.”
Pulling the sheet up higher, he settled back against the pillows to enjoy the song. It took on new meaning as Martie wrapped her husky voice around the words and directed them to her fascinated audience of one. Moving with fluid grace, she took the scarlet ribbon from her hair as she sang. Her eyes never left Paul’s as she slowly shook her hair and let it fall into a loose, bright curtain.
At a signal from Booty, the band picked up their instruments and quietly drifted from the room.
The door clicked shut behind them, and Martie unbelted her robe. Paul sucked in his breath as it floated to the floor and she stood before him, naked except for the roses she had used to garland her body.
“Special delivery,” she said.
He rose from the bed and walked slowly toward her. Circling her waist, he lifted her from the table.
“For me?” he asked, pulling her so close against his chest that only the roses separated them.
“All for you.” The music started in her heart and sang through her body as she pressed against her husband, feeling the urgency of his need.
“Then I think I’ll start here,” he murmured, lowering his head to the garland of roses across her breasts.
Martie’s legs went limp as Paul thoroughly appreciated the first floral offering. He carried her to the bed and knelt beside her, whispering, “And then I believe I will go here.” She writhed under the complete investigation of the garland circling her hips.
“Mrs. Donovan, you have roses in the most interesting places,” he said, and those were the last words spoken until all the roses had been scattered across the bed and their passion was spent.
Paul picked up a crushed rose and rubbed it lightly across Martie’s breasts.
“Do you think that fifty years from now you will still be surprising me?”
The wicked grin she gave him made Paul smile.
“Unless I grow tired of you.”
“And how long do you think that will take?” Smiling, he tore the petals from the rose and scattered them across her torso.
Martie reached up and brushed a lock of dark hair away from his forehead.
“I think it’ll take me seventy-five years to tire of your hair.” Lightly she traced his lips with her fingertips. “And two thousand years to tire of your lips.” Her hands moved down his throat and played across his chest. “Three thousand years here.” The hands journeyed downward, stopping to caress strategic points. “Four thousand here . . . and one million here.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Is that fifty, Paul?” she asked softly.
“Let’s go back to one million.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
She sat up and pushed him lightly onto his back. Through a thick haze of passion he saw the rose petals fall from her hair and drift around him. His quicksilver-gray eyes burned across her face, memorizing every line, as she leaned over and fashioned a careful garland of petals. Her hair made a moonbeam curtain on his chest as she lowered her lips to his body and one by one nibbled away the garland of rose petals.
She lingered longest over the last petal, taking him into her mouth with it. The carousel music that was Martie surged through him, and when it became a wild, uncontrollable rhythm, he lifted her hips and fitted her over him. The music played on for a million years, or so it seemed, until the carousel wound down to a quiet melody.
“Paul,” she murmured into his damp chest.
“Hmm?”
“You’re better than a roller coaster ride.”
He smiled. “I hope so.”
“And do you know what else?”
“Don’t tell me there’s more?”
“Yes. You’re better than fighting bulls and skydiving and doing seventy-five in a forty-mile zone.”
“Does that mean you like me?” he asked playfully.
“Enormously, Reverend Donovan.”
“In that case, Mrs. Donovan, you can stay.”
They ordered room service, then after bacon and eggs called his family to break the news of their marriage.
“They’re going to love you, “ Paul said.
After talking to Mr. and Mrs. Donovan and an assortment of brothers and sisters whose names she tried to keep straight, Martie felt as if she’d finally come home.
Over coffee they talked about their future. He was thrilled she wanted children, and she was ecstatic that they’d have grandparents and lots of aunts and uncles - Tanner and Jacob, and Paul’s twin sisters, Hannah and Hallie.
“Maybe we’ll have twins, too.” Martie bubbled over at the idea. “It runs in families, you know.”
“Anything you want, angel, but first I want to explore every inch of the amazing Mrs. Donovan.”
“Do you need a map?”
“Just a little time.”
The spent the rest of the day making remarkable discoveries about each other.
o0o
Most of those discoveries were made in the bubble bath they shared.
“Paul, I didn’t know you had a mole there.”
“Come closer, Martie, and I’ll show you another one.”
“Paul! That’s not a mole.”
“What is it?”
“I think it’s a rose petal.”
“You win the prize, angel.”
“What is the prize?”
“This.” Grinning, he hauled her, bubbles and all, over his rose petal.
When the rose petal had finally wilted and the bubbles had been scattered, Martie rested her head on Paul’s wet chest.
“I may stay in this tub forever,” she sighed.
“That’s a splendid idea.” He kissed a stray bubble from the top of her head. “It’s a great place to learn everything there is to know about my remarkable wife.”
“There are some things that bubbles and rose petals don’t convey.” She lifted her head so that she could look directly into his eyes.
Seeing the serious look on her face, he stroked her back and asked gently, “What don’t they convey, angel?”
“Last year I wrote a book.”
“I think that’s wonderful. Why the serious face?”
“It’s an exercise book, Paul, and I posed for the illustrations.”
“In that fetching little outfit you call a leotard?”
“Yes,” she replied hesitantly.
He smiled and squeezed her tight. “I don’t know anybody else who could pose better than you.”
“You’re not upset?”
“No,” he said, caressing her. “Should I be?”
“I just thought. . .” Her voice trailed off, and she let her hands slide dreamily across his chest.
“You just thought what?”
“It’s hard to think when that rose petal keeps doing that.” Her hands drifted under water to capture the object under discussion. “With you being a minister . . . the leotard is skimpy . . . the pictures aren’t exactly. . .” Her breath caught in her throat as Paul shifted to join them once more.
“What will people think?” she managed to ask.
“There’s nobody in this tub except you and me. And I think you’re splendid. Unless you want to invite an audience?”
The question went begging as the Reverend and Mrs. Donovan became totally immersed in their quest for remarkable discoveries.
o0o
Finally they were driven from the tub by the fear that they would shrivel away to nothing. They sat in the middle of their curtained bed, and Paul recited love poems to Martie as he towel dried her hair.
“How did you memorize all that poetry, Paul?” she asked admiringly.
“Terror.”
“You’re kidding. You’re not afraid of anything.”
He smiled. “You didn’t know my seventh grade English teacher.”
“I wish I could thank her.” She leaned her head forward as Paul massaged the soft curls at the nape of her neck. “Hmm, that feels great. You’re rather useful as a hair dryer, Reverend Donovan. I think I’ll keep you.”
He tossed the towel across a chair and pulled her into his arms. “And I think I’ll keep you.”
“Even after my sensational exercise book hits the stands?” she asked playfully.
As she smoothed his tousled hair off his forehead, she had no doubts about her husband. He was a forever kind of man, and she was the luckiest woman in the world.
“Longer than that,” he replied.
“How long?”
He smiled. “Long enough for you to patch all my shorts.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And deck my fence with roses.” He kissed her eyelids. “And teach me how to score ninety-six on a par thirty-seven putt-putt golf course.” His lips seared down her cheek and captured her mouth. “And long enough to have all my children,” he murmured into the honeyed warmth that was now his for the taking. He thought his heart would burst with joy.
“That’s a long time, Paul,” she said when he came up for air.
“It’s forever, angel.”
There was no more talking as the shadows played in changing patterns over the honeymoon suite at The Peabody.
o0o
While Martie took a late afternoon nap, Paul arranged a surprise. He went about his preparations whistling and wondering why he had been singled out for all this happiness.
Finally Martie awakened, refreshed and smiling.
“I’m so hungry I could eat the curtain around this bed,” were the first words out of her mouth.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Paul said, laughing. “And cheap, too. I’ll call down for catsup. Or would you prefer mustard?”
“Both. With a side dish of lobster.”
“How about black bottom pie oozing with chocolate and whipped cream?”
“You’re making me crazy.” She hopped out of bed and headed for the bath. “I haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive today.”
He leaned against the door frame and watched her draw a bath. “As I recall, madam, you had other things on your mind.”