Donovan’s Angel (12 page)

“Time wouldn’t change a thing. I would still
be me and you would still be you.” She jerked her head toward the
kitchen. “Take my car. The keys are on the kitchen counter.”

He reached out and gently traced the stubborn
line of her jaw with his index finger. “I’ll be out of town next
week at a ministers’ conference, but I’ll be back for the Halloween
festival. When I get back, we’ll talk.”

“Go, Paul, before I change my mind.”

“About the car?” he asked.

“No. About wrapping you in this sheet and
taking you upstairs.”

He left. But not before he had wrestled with
temptation.

o0o

Miss Beulah Grady was the first to see the
minister emerge from the bright red Thunderbird.

“As I live and breathe!” The purple pansies
on her dress did the cha-cha as she heaved across the churchyard to
Essie Mae. “Did you see that?” she cried, trying to catch her
breath. “She’s got the preacher riding in that heathen car!”

“Lord, Beuler!” Essie Mae’s mouth watered as
she imagined the scandalous things that could happen in a heathen
car. “The next thing you know she’ll have him wearing red
neckties.”

o0o

Martie smiled as she affixed manes to her
lions.
Sally’s cat and Jim’s dog cooperated beautifully,
but Skeeter’s goat didn’t want to be a lion.

“Hold him, Skeeter,” she instructed the
twelve-year-old, “while I get this mane on.”

“Gee, Miss Fleming. You’re the neatest
director we ever had, letting us use our pets in the pageant.”
Skeeter thought his heart would burst with admiration. When the
idea of using pets as lions had first come up, he hadn’t been sure
Miss Fleming would let him use Billy. But she’d been a real sport
about it. She was even letting Martha Sue use her goldfish.
Personally, he thought the mane and tail on the goldfish bowl
looked funny, but it made Martha Sue happy.

“Thanks, Skeeter. Now, you keep a tight rein
on Billy. If our lions behave, perhaps they can be sheep in the
Christmas pageant.”

“Golly, Miss Fleming!” The thought made
Skeeter wide-eyed. “Will you direct the Christmas pageant,
too?”

“Well, I—”

“Don’t you know anything, silly?” Francine
interrupted. “My mama says the preacher’s got eyes for Miss
Fleming. Preachers’ wives always direct the pageants.” Having set
the record straight on how things were done in the church, Francine
turned to her idol. “My Siamese keeps trying to get into Martha
Sue’s fishbowl, Miss Fleming. He hasn’t had any dinner yet.”

If Francine’s gossip hadn’t been enough to
give Martie’s stomach butterflies, this latest bit of information
did. In her usual burst of hindsight, she reflected that perhaps
the lions hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

“When we get onstage,” she told Francine, “be
sure that cat is on the opposite side from the goldfish.”

“What about Sally’s cat?” Francine asked.

“Hers, too.” Martie busied herself getting
the children ready for the pageant, hoping the activity would keep
her mind off Francine’s remark. Unfortunately, the ploy didn’t
work. Her head spun with the phrase
preacher’s wife
until
she thought she would explode with the wonder and the terror of it
all.

Nervously she glanced at her watch. She
hadn’t been this scared facing bulls in Tijuana. Tonight was more
than a Halloween pageant: it was her debut, a test of her
suitability. Outside, she could hear laughter and excited
conversation as women put their cakes on display for the upcoming
cake auction and men set up booths for “go fishing” and
fortune-telling. As she listened, she recognized Paul’s deep, rich
voice, and her knees went weak. How could she keep from rushing
into his arms when she saw him? If it hadn’t been for pageant
rehearsals, this past week would have been the longest in her life.
The time away from him had intensified her conviction that she
loved him.

Jolene tapped at the dressing room door and
called, “We’re ready, Martie.”

“Thanks, Jolene.” Taking a deep breath, she
sent King Darius and his court onstage.

o0o

Holding her prompting book, Martie stood in
the darkened wings and watched her production. Skeeter, a
natural-born ham, was in his element, strutting around in his towel
robes and cardboard crown. There was a hush over the audience as
the children gave lively new meaning to the story of Daniel in the
lions’ den. When the curtain rang down on the first act, the
audience cheered and applauded.

Martie hugged her amateur actors. “You were
all wonderful!” she cried. “Now, let’s get these lions onstage for
the second act.”

There was a collective gasp from the audience
as the curtain rang up and the motley crew of lions came into view.
Faith Church had never seen such a pageant as this. The murmur of
excitement faded as Daniel was cast into the pit and started to say
his lines. Little Bobby Wayne had won a few oration contests, and
he made himself heard, even over the titters that erupted in the
back of the hall when one of the lions had to scratch fleas.

Martie congratulated herself on the success
of her production as she sent the angel in to shut the lions’
mouths. Sally’s bedsheet robe trailed behind her, and she held her
candle aloft as she walked onstage. Only a slight trembling in her
voice betrayed her nervousness.

“I command you to be shut.” Sally repeated
the phrase three times as she passed in front of the goldfish bowl
and two beagles. Her confidence flagged when Francine’s Siamese
hissed at her, and by the time she got to Bobby Wayne’s bulldog,
her knees were shaking. When the bulldog growled, she dropped her
candle and fled in terror.

“Sally, wait!” Martie called, but it was too
late. She watched in horror as the lighted candle rolled under the
goat’s tail.

Billy took exception. With a great “Baa,” he
lowered his head and charged at the biggest target in the room -
Miss Beulah.

Seeing the mad goat jump off the stage and
stampede her way, Miss Beulah climbed on top of her chair and
yelled, “Saints preserve us!” The chair was not meant to endure
such treatment. It died a painful, splintering death, and Miss
Beulah rolled across the floor with the goat close behind.

Martie stood hypnotized, watching the
pandemonium from her vantage point on the stage. She saw Paul
collar the goat just in time to save Miss Beulah, but before she
could breathe a sigh of relief she saw movement on the stage.

Francine’s Siamese was taking advantage of
the situation to dive at Martha Sue’s goldfish, and the beagles
thought the chase meant rabbits. Sounding their bugle calls, they
entered the hunt. One of them ran through Essie Mae’s legs,
knocking her onto the lap of the astonished postman, and the other
ran under the table of desserts at the back of the room. He bumped
the table leg, sending a chocolate-cream pie into flight. The
airborne pie landed in Sam’s lap.

“I’ve been itching to do this for years,” Sam
said. Grabbing a lemon meringue pie, she sailed it across the
topsy-turvy room into the livid face of Miss Beulah.

Martie jumped off the stage and entered the
melee. The bulldog brushed past her leg in pursuit of a cat,
another pie flew through the air and sprayed whipped cream onto her
hair, and somebody screamed into her ear that Judgment Day had
come. She collared dogs and grabbed cats, pulling them out of the
pandemonium and giving them to their gleeful owners.

Sally tugged at her skirt and looked up with
tearful eyes. “I didn’t even get to do the third act,” she
wailed.

Martie gave her a swift hug. “The play is
over, darling. Maybe you can be an angel again at Christmastime.”
She gave the small girl a last reassuring pat. “You can take your
cat and go home now,” she said gently, then straightened up and
found herself face to face with Paul. He winked at her and
continued on his way, calmly restoring order to the chaos.

When the dust had settled and the excited
crowd had gone home, Paul and Martie stood among the chocolate
icing and overturned chairs and looked at each other.

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,”
Martie said.

“It was a memorable Halloween,” Paul
said.

“I think Miss Beulah was mad about the goat.”
Her mouth began to curve upward into a smile.

“I think that’s the understatement of the
year.” Paul began to chuckle and then to laugh, and soon his
laughter erupted into a full-fledged roar. “You should have seen
her face when that goat almost tagged her bloomers.”

They collapsed into the rubble, laughing
until tears streamed down their cheeks.

A clatter of hoofbeats caught their attention
as Skeeter and his goat emerged from behind the stage curtain.

“We came back to tell you that this has been
the most fun we’ve ever had at Halloween,” he announced happily,
his face covered with chocolate and whipped cream.

“Maybe we can get Miss Fleming to do the
pageant again next year,” Paul told him, “but without the chase and
the pie fight.”

Skeeter beamed. “That would be neat, Reverend
Donovan.” He left the stage, leading Billy on a tether.

Paul captured Martie’s hand and lifted it to
his lips. “How does that sound to Miss Fleming?”

“Like an impossible pipe dream, Reverend
Donovan.”

Paul looked up from the sermon he was
preparing. He had expected visitors, but not this soon. Miss Beulah
had wasted no time, he thought as he mentally girded himself for
the skirmish.

His face betrayed no emotion as he came from
behind his desk, shook hands with Victor Cranston, and showed Miss
Beulah and Essie Mae to their chairs. “What can I do for you this
morning?” he asked.

“I should think you would know that as well
as anybody.” Miss Beulah’s lips were so pursed that her words all
came out with rounded vowels. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night for
fear that goat would come after me. And on top of that, she played
that honky-tonk music until the Lord knows when. She’s a sin and
disgrace to our little community. A dis-
grace
.” She
stopped for breath and fanned herself with her fat hands.

Essie Mae leaned over and patted her
shoulder. “Lord, Beuler!” she said sympathetically. “Don’t get
yourself so worked up. You’re liable to have a prostration
attack.”

Paul held himself in check throughout the
speech. “Miss Beulah, I am well aware that the pageant last night
got out of hand,” he began quietly, “but I will not tolerate a
personal attack against Martie Fleming. Perhaps she made an error
in judgment in using the animals, but her intentions were good. I
will listen to your grievances as long as you confine them to the
issue.”

Victor Cranston spoke up. “The issue,
Reverend Donovan, is Miss Fleming. We believe she is a bad
influence on the children and should be removed from the children’s
department.”

“A bad influence, my eye!” Miss Beulah chimed
in. “She’s a Jezebel. Flashing that gaudy jewelry, wearing those
outlandish clothes. And that car! Lord. I won’t even mention that
car! Why, I said to Essie Mae, I said—”

“Miss Beulah!” Paul’s rebuke was sharper than
he meant it to be, but he could stand no more slurs against his
beloved Martie. “Nobody in this room has a right to judge. You’ve
all taken note of Miss Fleming’s clothes and her car, but have you
actually seen her work with the children? Have you seen the warmth
and generosity and compassion she has for them? Have you seen her
inspire shy little Sally Pingham to take a speaking part in the
pageant? Did you know that the Raiford twins are now coming to
Faith Church because of her? Have any of you taken the time to get
to know Miss Fleming, or have you tried and convicted her on first
impressions?”

There was a stunned silence following his
impassioned defense of Martie. One by one the self- appointed,
self-righteous grievance committee rose from their chairs.

“We’ll give this some further consideration,
Reverend,” Victor Cranston mumbled.

The pink peonies on Miss Beulah’s dress
trembled as she talked. “Perhaps we were a mite hasty. That goat
had me so upset. . . . Oh, my! I think I’ll go to the drugstore for
some lemonade.” She sprang from her chair with surprising alacrity
considering her vast bulk. “Are you coming, Essie Mae?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. I think
the postman stops there about this time every morning.” Thinking
how that sounded, Essie Mae hastily added, “I want to ask him about
air mail.”

After the three of them had departed, Paul
dropped to his knees and had a long conference with his Master
about tolerance and patience.

o0o

Martie dismissed her Jazzercise class and
turned off the record. Sam and Jolene made no pretense of leaving.
Draping towels around their perspiring necks, Jolene plopped into a
chair and Sam sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Let’s talk about last night, Martie,” Jolene
said.

Martie sat on the floor and stretched out her
legs. “It was a disaster, huh?”

Jolene smiled. “Not entirely.”

Sam chimed in, “Heck, I thought it was
fun.”

Jolene turned to her. “You thought the picnic
was fun the year Miss Beulah fell into the pond.”

“She’s a busybody,” Sam said.

Martie held up her hands. “All right, you
guys. Quit kidding around and lay it on the line. I’m not suitable
for the children’s department and I hereby resign.”

“Over my dead body!” Jolene said. “You’ve
breathed life into that department. But let’s not have any more
pageants with real animals until the storm dies down.”

“You can’t quit,” Sam told her. “Paul Donovan
would be crushed. He’s in love with you.”

Martie tried to hide the rush of pleasure
that statement brought by wiping her face with her towel. “Why
don’t we leave Paul out of this?” she suggested. “The fact is, I’ve
created a stir in the church, and I’m not sure it would be wise for
me to continue as children’s director. I love the children, but I
want what’s best for them.”