Donovan’s Angel Read Online Free PDF

shovel.” He disappeared into the growing darkness,
whistling.
    “I’m not staying for the burial,” she called
after him. There was no reply. She looked down at the tattered
socks. “Well, darn. Pushy preacher.”
    But she was smiling.
    Paul returned with the shovel and started
digging in the marigold bed. “I love these Indian summer evenings.
Especially in Mississippi. Did you know that Pontotoc is an Indian
name?”
    “I thought this was a burial. Is it going to
be a history lesson, too?”
    “You don’t like history?” he asked, leaning
on the shovel and smiling at her.
    “Yes,” she replied, momentarily blinded by
his smile. “I do. As a matter of fact, my mother was a history
teacher. The thing I remember most about her is holding her hand as
we walked through the enormous stacks in the library.” She paused.
“But I don’t want to talk about history this evening.”
    “What do you want to talk about?”
    “Nothing. I want to be still and listen to
nature’s music and just
be
.”
    “Sometimes that’s the best communication of
all,” he said softly.
    They worked together silently, with Paul
turning the soft earth and Martie bending down to place the socks
in the shallow trench. Their silence lent a kind of dignity to the
ludicrous occasion. Paul marveled that he was standing in a warm,
tag-end-of-summer evening burying socks when he would ordinarily
have tossed them into the garbage can. Instinctively he knew that
the woman standing beside him was the reason. She made everything
an occasion. Just being with her was a celebration.
    Finally he stopped shoveling. “All done,” he
announced.
    “That was such a lovely ceremony I think I’m
going to cry.” The moon sliver suspended in the darkened sky
illuminated tell-tale moistness in her violet eyes.
    Paul looked at the upturned face, and the
shovel in his hand slowly drifted to the ground, forgotten.
    “Martie?” It was half question, half plea as
he lowered his head toward hers. Nothing touched except their lips.
The first tentative sweetness blended and washed over them like
nectar from the gods, and in its wake came a yearning that ripped
through them with the force of a tornado.
    Martie pulled back as Paul reached out for
her. “I think I had better go.”
    He stood for a moment, collecting his senses
and gathering his patience. “I’ll walk you home.”
    “No. I’ll take the short cut.” She turned and
headed for the overhanging limb of the oak tree. Then, realizing
that she couldn’t reach it, she looked over her shoulder at Paul.
“If you’ll just give me a boost.”
    Without speaking he put his hands around her
waist and lifted her onto the sturdy limb. He heard the dry leaves
rustle around her as she moved back across the fence. And then, out
of the darkness, he heard her voice.
    “Goodnight, Paul.”
    He stood at the fence listening to the sound
of her feet running lightly across the yard, and only when he heard
her screen door slam did he respond. “Goodnight, angel.”

CHAPTER THREE
    A pile of discarded garments lay on the
floor.
    “What do you think, Aristocat?” Martie asked
the gray-blue Siamese sitting on the windowsill washing his face.
“Too funky?”
    The indigo cotton shirt she wore hung almost
to the knees of the baggy knickers, and when she held up her arm,
the raglan sleeve fanned out.
    “Can’t play ball in that,” she muttered.
Ripping the shirt over her head, she tossed it onto the colorful
heap of garments. She stepped out of the knickers, kicked them
aside, and walked to her closet. “You’d think I was going for an
interview with the queen instead of to a picnic,” she grumbled,
pulling a red flight-style jumpsuit off the hanger. “If I hadn’t
already said I would go, I can tell you that I would stay
home.”
    Martie zipped the suit almost up to her neck,
then leaned over and lowered the zipper a fraction. She brushed her
hair until it shone and then wove a scarlet ribbon in the fat