Donovan’s Angel (18 page)

“Do you like to dance, Paul?” Martie asked as
he led her onto the polished dance floor.

“I’d rather watch you.” He pulled her into
his arms and put his cheek against her soft hair as mood music
drifted around them. “But I enjoy doing everything as long as
you’re a part of it.”

The words sang through her, and she wished
that she were free to tell him how very much he was loved. She
wished that she were suitable and that he were anything but a
minister and that all the Miss Beulahs everywhere would drop off
the edge of the earth.

They danced without stopping through five
consecutive songs; neither of them wanted to let go. Paul welcomed
the scorching, searing feeling where her body touched his, and he
was thankful that the band preferred dreamy mood music. But even if
they had burst into rock and roll, he wouldn’t have noticed. He
would still have held her precious body close to his, dancing to
the slow love song that throbbed in his heart.

He buried his lips in the fragrant hair just
above her ear. “I would like to hold you this way forever, angel,”
he whispered.

“There are no forevers for us, Paul. We both
know that.”

She didn’t know how she had the courage to be
sensible at a time like this, a time of racing pulse and thundering
heart and runaway passion. With the music filling her soul and
stars winking from the ceiling, she felt like shouting her love at
the top of her lungs. She wanted to drag Paul upstairs to that
curtained bed arid forget everything except her own needs.

“I’m not so sure of that, Martie. This feels
like forever to me.” His arms tightened around her, and in that
moment he knew he could never let her go. There had to be a way
through her barriers. And he was determined to find it.

“I don’t want to think about forever,
Paul.”

“Why?” he asked softly.

“Because it makes me sad.”

“Sadness can be abolished.”

“Not the sadness of a forever without you.”
She hadn’t meant to say it; it just popped out. She’d had no
intention of keeping him trapped in this marriage out of guilt or
pity. She sighed against his shoulder. Where was her flamboyance
when she needed it?

Paul’s feet missed a step at her impulsive
revelation. He could almost feel the fence between them come
tumbling down. He could almost leap through the barrier and make
this marriage real. But not quite. He could still feel her
uncertainty, and he would never take advantage of her
vulnerability.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he replied
carefully.

“Tell me why it doesn’t have to be that
way.”

“In cases of the heart, nothing matters
except the feelings of the two people involved.”

“That’s the way it should be, Paul, but is
it? Does it work that way in real life or only in fantasy?” She
lifted her face to his, and he could see the ceiling stars mirrored
in her eyes. “Don’t answer that. I want to forget everything and
just dance. I want the music to last forever.”

“Then I won’t let it stop.”

He could feel the smooth silk of her skin
through the filmy chiffon. Her vibrance communicated itself through
his fingertips, and unconsciously his hands moved in erotic circles
on her back. With the polished glitter of the ballroom around him
and the girl of his dreams in his arms, he had a moment of
epiphany. This marriage had never been one of appearances: it had
always been one of the heart. They had simply been too blind to
see.

They danced on, even after the music stopped,
prolonging the magic until the lights were dimmed and the band took
their instruments and stole away.

“I think they’re trying to tell us something,
angel.”

“You promised not to let the music stop,
Paul.”

“It hasn’t. You’re just not listening.”

With their arms around each other, they left
the darkened ballroom and took the elevator to their rooms. Martie
fitted her key to the lock, then turned to him.

“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.