by Bonnie Pega
“I used to brush them out for you, remember? I loved brushing them out of your hair.” His fingers flexed as if even they hadn’t forgotten the feel, and his eyes were dark with memories.
Annabelle sighed. For sanity’s sake, it was best to put a quick stop to any more reminiscing. “Gregory, that was long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away. We’re two different people now. Why rehash such old business?”
“We’re not so different, Princess Leia.” He again lifted his bag of peanuts and nodded at her ice cream.
“This is one of the very few holdovers from my childhood,” she said, tilting her chin up. “I’ve changed a lot in nine years.”
“Oh. Well, then, you wouldn’t be interested in the jars of crushed praline chips they have here.”
Praline chips? Annabelle couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened with sudden avarice. “Where?”
“I thought that might get you off your high horse,” Gregory said mildly. “I’ll tell you where they are if you’ll bring the ice cream by the church office and share a dish with me.”
“I see preachers aren’t above a little petty blackmail sometimes.”
“If the occasion warrants it,” he drawled. “You should see what lengths I’ll go to to enlist new members for the church choir. Do you accept my offer?”
Annabelle hesitated. She knew that was the worst possible idea, but she only had a couple of people in front of her in the line. She looked behind Gregory and counted six people. If she got out of line to look for the praline chips herself, the cashier would get to Gregory and he wouldn’t be able to save her place. But now that she knew about the praline chips, she just had to have them. She sighed. “Deal. Where are they?”
“The ice cream aisle, on a shelf over the freezer compartment. I’ll save your place in line.”
Gregory smiled to himself as she dumped the ice cream in his arms and took off toward the back of the store. Annabelle might say she’d changed, but she still loved fudge-swirl ice cream with crushed praline pieces on top.
Without warning a memory slammed into his head of Annabelle sitting cross-legged in his bed, her impossibly wavy hair tousled from their love-making, wearing only his T-shirt and a smile as she offered him a spoonful of ice cream. She said she loved fudge-swirl ice cream better than anything else in the whole world—except him—and wouldn’t it be wonderful if they could think of some way to combine the two.
It hadn’t taken long for them to think of some very creative ways to grant her wish. Gregory felt his body stir at the thoughts going through his head. Not in the store! he admonished himself, and murmured a quick prayer for self-control.
Etta Dawson stopped to chat about the previous Sunday’s sermon. He tried to focus his attention on her words, but couldn’t keep his eyes off Annabelle as she walked toward him, a triumphant smile on her lips, the jar of praline chips in her hand. He quickly said, “Mrs. Dawson, I’m sure you’ve met Annabelle, Virgie Pace’s granddaughter.”
Mrs. Dawson smiled and murmured a greeting, and Gregory noticed her glance passing from him to Annabelle and back again.
He wanted to groan. Etta was the biggest gossip in the Women’s Missionary Society. The society would have him and Annabelle engaged or even married inside of a week all on the basis of a chance meeting at the grocery store. He was used to the gossip—a young single minister would always get his share—but he doubted Annabelle would be amused.
He really didn’t want anything to scare her off. At least not before he’d found out what had happened between them so many years ago. Until then, he doubted he’d ever be able to close the door completely on that chapter of his life. Every relationship he’d had, or tried to have, since then had been shadowed by unfinished business.
He’d asked himself many times why Annabelle haunted him so. Was it because she’d been the one true love of his life? Or was it because their relationship had been the most passionate of his life? No one since Annabelle had stirred his libido the way she had.
They each paid for their purchases, although Gregory offered to pay for her ice cream and praline chips too. “Can I give you a ride?” he asked as they walked outside.
“I brought my car.”
In the parking lot, Gregory could see her eyes narrow as she perused the bumper stickers plastered all over his 1967 Ford Mustang. Was it the bumper stickers that bothered her or the vehicle itself? It was the same car they used to neck in—before she moved in with him in his tiny off-campus apartment.
“I see that something besides the peanuts hasn’t changed either.” She indicated his car. “What, no Save the Whale stickers?”
“That’s what Greenpeace is for.” He indicated their slogan. “They’re saving whales these days. I’ll see you at the church office?”
She nodded and turned toward her car, but he had her door open for her before she could reach for it.
“Still not locking your car doors,” he said.
She shrugged. “Seemed safe enough in Small-Town America. Gran said the last major crime they had here was when Marty Cochran blew up Lute’s mailbox. Why’d he do that anyway?”
“One of Lute’s goats ate Marty’s prize roses. Nevertheless, you can’t be too careful. Especially if you’re going to be living in Norfolk soon. That’s not small-town life.”
Annabelle shrugged again and got in her car. How familiar this sounded, she thought. Gregory had always been after her to be careful. He’d said she was safeguarding something precious to him and should take better care of it. Apparently, some habits died hard. It frightened her how comfortable it felt to fall back into the old ways.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she followed him out of the parking lot. If she had any sense at all, she’d disregard her promise and head straight back to Gran’s. Better yet, straight out of town. However, her curiosity overruled her good sense. She wanted to spend more time with Gregory, to try to reconcile the fiery, passionate young man she’d known with the man he’d become. The preacher he’d become.
She’d often felt jealous of his causes, had thought of them as rivals for his affection. Mistresses. In the ministry, where a congregation demanded everything you had to give, she wondered how he managed—if he managed—to keep his mistresses. Or were they now simply bumper stickers and not the be-all and end-all of his existence? Had his congregation managed to do what she hadn’t? Had they managed to give him what he needed to feel complete?
TWO
“Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” Gregory said into the phone. “I’ll be by the hospital this evening, then … I know you’re exhausted … I’ll sit with him a while so you—Yes, I’ll be sure to bring my Bible. I know what his favorite passages—Of course, Mrs. Clarke. You’ve been wonderful to—Yes, tonight, then.”
Hanging up the telephone, he turned back to the half-melted dish of ice cream on his desk. He met Annabelle’s questioning gaze. “Maurice and Addie Clarke,” he explained. “Mo broke his hip in a tractor accident last week and Addie hasn’t left his side—much to his dismay, I think. She stays with him every minute and refuses to leave his room unless someone else comes in to sit with him.”
“So you graciously volunteer to rescue him from her overzealous attentions?”
“Something like that. Addie means well. She feels it is her Christian duty as a wife to wait on him hand and foot.”
“Whether he wants it or not,” Annabelle said with a small smile. “The way you say the words Christian duty says a lot.”
Gregory sighed. “Too many acts of charity are done piously and reluctantly—and often loudly—in the name of Christian duty. Charity should be freely given. And quietly given.”
“You mean you should hide your light under a bushel?”
“Too many people set the whole bushel basket on fire.” He licked a drop of melted ice cream from the back of his spoon. “Good point for a sermon,” he said suddenly, putting his spoon down. He grabbed a pencil and jotted a few quick notes, then looked up at Annabelle with a she
epish expression. “Sorry, but I don’t often get ideas for sermons ahead of time. I usually spend the Saturday before stewing over them.”
“You always did like to put everything off until the last minute.” Her face softened with memories. “I remember one research paper for your environmental studies class, I think it was, that you basically wrote the night before it was due. You finished it about dawn.”
Gregory remembered that one too. He’d planned on writing it a week or two ahead of time, but his relationship with Annabelle had been newly serious and he’d been too intrigued with the physical passion between them to think about something as mundane as how to repair the pollution damage to the Chesapeake Bay.
No, intrigued wasn’t quite the right word, he thought. Besotted was more like it. He’d been besotted with her, the way her hair had looked spread over his blue-striped pillowcase, the way she’d felt beneath his hands, the way she’d tasted, the little sounds she’d made in the back of her throat when he’d made love to her.…
“Gregory?”
He looked up. “What? Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought again.”
“Tomorrow’s sermon or next week’s?”
Neither. His thoughts had been as far from a sermon as they could get. He drew in a deep breath. “Uh, next week’s, I think. I’ve almost finished tomorrow’s.” He wondered how Annabelle would feel beneath his hands now? There was an enticing new roundness to her curves that fascinated him.
“And about what subject are you going to enlighten us tomorrow?” she asked.
He was careful to keep his gaze above her chin. “Deciding whether or not to ditch church?”
“What, me? I wouldn’t miss a chance to see you in your native habitat.” She fished the last bit of praline topping from the bottom of her bowl, then stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankles.
Gregory’s gaze locked on her long tanned legs. Heaven help him, he could remember so vividly the way they would lock around his hips in passion. He lifted his gaze back to her chin, clenching and unclenching his fists before saying evenly, “There’s a little ice cream left. Since it’s your favorite, do you want it?”
“Oh no. I couldn’t eat another bite.” She leaned back in her chair, the movement pulling at the buttons on her pink-flowered shirt.
All of Gregory’s attention fastened on the tiny bit of white lace visible through the gap in her shirt. A sudden gathering of pressure behind the zipper of his jeans caught him off guard. It had been a long time since he’d felt such unbridled desire—nine years, to be exact. He sent a brief prayer for self-control winging its way upward and opened his mouth to speak. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say and could only hope he didn’t groan.
Clara Walling, who always came by the church on Saturday evenings to make sure everything was set for Sunday, poked her head in the office. She appeared taken aback to find someone with Gregory, but smiled brightly. “I just put the fresh flowers on the altar, Reverend, and I picked up the bulletins and placed them by the door so the ushers can get to them.”
Thank you, Lord, for the distraction. “Thank you, Mrs. Walling. I know I can always count on you to be on top of things.”
Mrs. Walling turned a shrewd gaze to Annabelle. “And how are you, dear? I know your grandmother is delighted to have you here in her time of need.”
“I’m fine, thanks, Mrs. Walling. And Gran is managing well enough. She only has a broken arm, you know.” Annabelle smiled at the older woman, but she wasn’t thrilled to see Mrs. Walling, at least not now. She was a well-meaning lady, but she had an earth-mother complex a mile wide.
Childless, she’d proclaimed herself the adopted mother of nearly every child in town—both permanent residents and summer visitors alike. She’d attached herself to Annabelle and Danni when they’d spent summers there as children.
At Danni and Sebastian’s wedding five years ago, Mrs. Walling had declared it her duty to see that Annabelle was next to wed. Now, Mrs. Walling’s gaze shot from Annabelle to Gregory and back again. Annabelle could almost hear the wheels turning in her head.
“What do you hear from Danielle and Sebastian?” Mrs. Walling asked her.
“They just left on their vacation Friday and should be back before Daisy and Buddy’s engagement party.”
“Where did they go this year? Last year was Paris, France, I believe.”
“Disneyland. They stayed a little closer to home this year to save money for the babies’ nursery.” Anticipating Mrs. Walling’s next question, she added, “They’re due the first week in October, if you recall.”
Mrs. Walling nodded and said, “Well, I’ll just go check on the Communion wafers and leave you two young people to chat. See you in the morning, Reverend.”
“Yes, uh, thank you again, Mrs. Walling.”
No sooner had Mrs. Walling exited the room than Annabelle was on her feet. “Well, it’s been nice, Rev, but I’ve got to go. See you ’round.”
“Uh, Annabelle?” Gregory stood as well. “I’d hoped we could talk a little more.” Why couldn’t he formulate the words he really wanted to say? Why did they freeze into solid little lumps in the back of his throat? Why couldn’t he just say, How could you leave me, Annabelle?
“Love to,” she said, “but I really do need to go. Gran and Lute are going out tonight and she needs me to help do her hair.”
“Oh, sure. I understand. I thought she was managing all right, though.”
“Well, she is, but she has trouble doing things that require two hands. Earlier today she was trying to mend the collar on her leather jacket, and ended up sewing it to her blue jeans. And with her arm in a cast, she’s hopeless with a curling iron.”
Gregory thought fondly of Virgie’s bright orange spiked hair and figured she was hopeless with a curling iron even when she had the use of both arms.
“Anyway, I really need to go,” Annabelle finished. “See you tomorrow.” With a wave she was gone, leaving Gregory looking after her with nine-year-old questions still burning through him. He sat at the desk staring at the almost empty carton of ice cream until long after the remaining few spoonfuls had melted.
She hadn’t slept well—partly because she’d lain in bed for hours castigating herself for being such an idiot. It had been the grandmother of all mistakes to eat ice cream with Gregory. And he’d been so charmingly casual about it. Didn’t he remember, for God’s sake? Didn’t he remember? She wished she could forget all the wonderfully wicked and inventive things the two of them used to do with ice cream—and praline chips.
With a quiver of annoyance, she pushed the unwanted memories away. For all her fine talk about no more trips down memory lane, she couldn’t seem to stop wallowing in the might-have-beens. When she finally did get to sleep, she tossed and turned through vivid dreams and awoke wondering if it was a sin to fantasize such things about a man of God. The real problem was that he had dared to look at her as if he still thought her attractive.
Merlin jumped up on her bed about five o’clock in the morning, meowed once, and cuddled next to her, his head propped on her shoulder. She thought about her closed bedroom door, wondered briefly how he’d managed to get in, then cuddled him nearer. With the warm comforting body of the cat nestled beside her, she finally managed to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next thing she knew, her grandmother was calling her.
“Annabelle, honey, I thought you were going to church with me this mornin’. It’s after nine.”
Annabelle’s eyes flew open and her feet hit the floor almost simultaneously. She’d overslept! “Uh, yes, Gran. I’ll be ready shortly,” she called back, pushing her hair out of her face.
“You won’t have time for breakfast,” her grandmother warned.
“Feed mine to Merlin.”
“He’s already had his Cheerios,” Virgie said, her voice fading as she went on down the hall.
Annabelle shook her head at the cat’s odd diet. She doubted he’d eaten regular cat food once in his entire life. Even Se
bastian and Danni, who were always admonishing their patients’ owners that pet food was for pets and people food for people, fed Merlin portions of whatever they had for meals. Just last night, Annabelle had seen him scarf down some of the applesauce with cinnamon she’d had for a late-night snack.
Weird cat, she thought, and glanced at where he’d curled up in the hollow she’d left in her pillow. Shaking her head, she yawned, rubbed her eyes, and gazed at her reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. After such restless sleep, her curly hair looked like a Brillo pad and she had pillowcase creases on her cheek. Well, Reverend Talbott, she thought, let’s see if you still find me attractive this morning.
She had intended to wear a demure navy suit and pink blouse to church, but in a moment of perversity, she tossed aside the blouse and pulled on a red silk shell with a scoop neck instead. She even rolled the waistband of her skirt over to raise the hem by a couple of inches.
The cat interrupted his morning bath to watch her, and she shot him a defensive look. “I’m not doing this to attract his attention. I’m doing this—” Why? she asked herself. To prove that she still had great-looking legs even though she was two years shy of thirty? To see if Gregory donned a veil of stuffy conservatism with his ministerial robes? To see if she could tease his attention away from his duties?
Sighing, she tugged her skirt back to its original length, but defiantly left on the red shell. And it wasn’t because Gregory had always liked her in red. Just to make that point clear, she said as much to the cat. He simply blinked his mismatched eyes and resumed his grooming.
When she arrived at church, she was immediately surrounded by old childhood friends. She and Danni had spent many a summer in White Creek playing with Magda’s daughters. Magda, a self-proclaimed Gypsy and owner of several dozen cats, had raised five daughters alone. Her husband, a navy captain, had died twenty-five years before.