Donovan’s Angel by Peggy Webb Page A

until she had
disappeared into her house.
    o0o
    Walks home together after pageant rehearsal
became a nightly ritual for them, but there were no repeat
performances of serious conversations and near dangerous embraces.
Paul patiently respected the fence Martie had erected between them,
and she unwillingly fell in love.
    o0o
    On Friday night it was she who stood in the
gateway watching him walk back toward the parsonage. At the
realization that tomorrow was Saturday, with no rehearsals and no
walks home in the twilight, she was overcome by a sense of
loneliness. She wanted to run after him and say, “I’ll change. I’ll
be proper and suitable and conventional. I’ll fry chicken and
retire my baseball bat. I’ll even give up juke music and climbing
trees. I’ll do anything just to be in your arms.”
    But she didn’t run after him and she didn’t
say those things. She could never change—not really. And even if
she did, it would only be temporary. She had to be true to herself,
and so did he.
    The gate squeaked on its tight hinges as she
swung it shut and went into her own backyard.
    o0o
    Martie held up the shorts and giggled. She
hadn’t meant to buy them. She had been browsing through Michael’s
Department Store looking for a birthday gift for her dad when she’d
spotted them. They were holdovers from Valentine’s Day, the clerk
had said. A marvelous pair of white shorts, Medium, 32-34,
decorated with bright red hearts.
    She tossed the shorts onto her bed. Of
course, she couldn’t give them to Paul; it was absolutely out of
the question. Maybe the purple socks, but not the shorts with red
hearts. She took the socks out of the bag and examined them. They
had been an impulse, too. Well, after all, Baby had mutilated his
purple socks. It was the least she could do.
    She put the socks back in the bag and went
downstairs to create a sensational yogurt and tangerine shake. She
sat beside the window, sipping her shake and looking out at the
shadows deepening across her yard. The really sensible thing to do
would be to put the gifts into a bottom drawer of her dressing
table and forget about them. But then she would miss seeing Paul’s
smile and hearing his laughter when he opened the package. Besides,
she was hardly ever sensible.
    She sat at the table, arguing with herself.
What she needed was a brilliant plan, one that would allow her to
deliver the gifts casually as if Paul had not been uppermost in her
mind for days and days. Plucking a piece of tangerine from her
yogurt shake, she popped it into her mouth. She needed to be both
casual and removed, she decided, out of touching distance.
    Suddenly she sat up straight. The tree! Why
hadn’t she thought of it sooner?
    Martie flew up the stairs and rummaged
through her closet for wrapping paper. Frosty the Snowman would
have to do. Heck, she would sing “Jingle Bells” when she delivered
the gift. She wrapped the socks, changed her mind, tore off the
tape, and added the shorts.
    It would be foolish to leave them on the bed.
She certainly couldn’t wear them, and who else did she know who
wore mediums? It was only fair that Paul have the shorts with the
valentines. After all, Baby had torn up his raggedy old blue
ones.
    Her turquoise bracelets jingled as she tied
her denim western skirt between her legs. Forgetting that her
cowboy hat was still on her head, she bounded down the stairs, out
the door, and across the yard to her tree.
    Her cowboy boots dangled from the limb as she
sat forlornly in the tree and looked at the empty yard. Paul was
not outside enjoying the twilight. He wasn’t even home; his car was
gone.
    Disappointed, she started to inch back across
the limb, but the tree had other ideas. Her skirt was caught in one
of the branches. She reached to pull it loose, and the gift tumbled
to the ground.
    “I’m not sure whether it’s Santa Claus or the
Lone Ranger.” Paul picked up the gift and smiled up at her.
    The minute she saw him,
casual
flew
out the