Free Donovan’s Angel by Peggy Webb Page A

with enthusiasm.
    The shorts were well worn and getting a
little threadbare on the seat. They felt soft and pliable in her
hands. From time to time she glanced up from her sewing and smiled.
It was a dreamy smile, incorporating visions of Medium, 32-34, and
palpitations that began and ended in the bedroom.
    She pricked her finger twice and got the
thread so tangled once that she had to pull it all out and start
over. When the project was finally finished she held it up for
inspection. Nothing could get through the holes, that was for sure.
She actually blushed at the image that thought aroused. But pulling
the torn places together had altered the dimensions of the shorts
so that one side was decidedly smaller than the other. Martie
tilted her head and studied her handiwork. She thought the red
thread and the new proportions gave the shorts a rakish quality.
Leaving them in her wicker rocker, she went outside for a
breather.
    The sun was beginning to drop low in the
western sky, and there was a nip in the air. Indian summer would
soon be over. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and
strolled past her birdbath toward the large floribunda rosebush
that was still blooming profusely. As she began to gather a
bouquet, a spiral of fragrant tobacco smoke wafted over the fence.
She straightened up and looked in that direction. Paul must be on
the other side of the fence smoking his pipe. She would recognize
that smell anywhere.
    With a thousand warbling echoes still
stirring within her in spite of her efforts to silence them, she
moved toward the fence, and the forgotten roses drifted to the
ground in her wake. A good sized peephole presented itself, and
Martie bent down and put her face to the opening.
    Paul was standing with his hands in his
pockets, puffing on his pipe and looking at the sunset. He was the
picture of contentment and tranquility.
    An intense longing that had been shimmering
inside her all day welled up and burst forth. “Paul!” she
called.
    He turned toward the fence and removed his
pipe. “I seem to be hearing angel voices.”
    “It’s just me.”
    In the waning light he could see one eye and
the tip of her nose through the hole in the fence. “I’m relieved,”
he said, and smiled. “Disembodied voices don’t usually come with
freckled noses.” He walked so close to the fence that the wide
expanse of his shirtfront filled Martie’s view.
    “My nose is not freckled,” she protested,
laughing. Paul always made her forget her original intentions.
    “I see one. Right there.” He touched her nose
with the tip of his finger.
    “Oh, that. It’s kind of pale, isn’t it?” she
asked hopefully.
    “Yes.”
    “Good. I’ve always disliked those freckles,
so I pretend they don’t exist.”
    There was a silence on the other side of the
fence, and then Paul spoke. “Just as you’ve been pretending all day
that I don’t exist?”
    “Yes,” she admitted. “And it would have
worked except for the shorts.”
    He bent down and put his eye to the crack.
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
    Startled, she pulled back. “Baby stole a pair
of your shorts from the clothesline.”
    “Which ones?”
    “The blue ones. And Paul . . . they’re
getting kind of threadbare. Why don’t you buy some new ones?”
    “I’m just getting those broken in. They’re
comfortable that way.”
    Martie reflected that this conversation
wasn’t nearly as difficult as she had expected. As a matter of
fact, she was having fun. Temporarily, of course.
    “I’m going to mail them back to you. I have
to warn you, though; Baby did some damage. But I fixed it with red
thread.”
    She was so serious that he held back his
laughter. “I’ll come over there and get them.”
    “No!” she cried.
    “Why not?” He was getting a crick in his
neck, so he straightened up. The minute his eye vacated the hole,
hers was back.
    “Because I’m still forgetting you. You can’t
come over here, and I’m not even going to talk to