The Rebel and His Bride (2 page)

She sighed and propped her head on her hands. Had it really been nine years since they’d last seen each other? She could have sworn it was just a few weeks, the feelings were still that raw. He looked terrific, she’d noticed that. Time had given him the faintest suggestion of laugh lines at the outer corners of his golden-brown eyes. They gave his face warmth, character.

His copper hair—he’d always referred to it jokingly
as the “flames of hell”—was shorter than it used to be. She supposed that was a concession to his job. It still hung down over his collar, though. He’d grown in to the broad shoulders and long legs that used to make him look all bones and angles. Now he just looked good.

She wondered if he still liked to eat roasted peanuts in bed. She used to wake up in the mornings with peanut shells in her hair, but Gregory would brush them out. He used to love playing with her hair, winding the curls around his fingers as he studied.

He had been everything to her. She just hadn’t been enough for him. In those days, Gregory had always been looking for a cause to throw himself into. He’d picketed the administration building at the university over student parking. He’d boycotted his science classes for some reason she couldn’t remember. He’d gotten thrown in jail during a nuclear-disarmament rally off campus.

She hadn’t faulted his causes. How could she when she’d met him at a Food for Kids rally? No, the problem had been that there were no half measures for him. The deeper his involvement with a cause, the more he’d forgotten about everything else—including her. The Saturday he’d picketed the administration building, he had forgotten the afternoon concert he’d promised to take her to. The weekend he’d spent in jail had been the weekend of her sorority’s spring formal. And there had
been so many other occasions too numerous to count.

A thump next to her on the bed brought her back to the present and she opened her eyes. Merlin, Danni and Sebastian’s six-toed cat, had a mouse in tow. He had a nasty habit of catching them and letting them go, unharmed, in strange places. He’d done it at Sebastian and Danni’s wedding reception, and the newlyweds had just smiled indulgently. Gran had told Annabelle that last week he’d pulled the same stunt in the middle of Sunday dinner. Gran had laughed about it, but Annabelle thought it was a revolting habit.

This time Merlin walked daintily up to her pillow, sat down with a heavy plop, and let the mouse go. The terrified rodent scurried off the bed and darted across the floor.

Annabelle leaped to her feet. “Don’t do that again,” she muttered to the cat. “No rodents. Understand? I can’t wait till Danni and Sebastian get back and can take you home where you belong. You’re weird.”

The cat just yawned, blinked his one green eye and one blue eye at her, lifted his hind leg, and began grooming his white stomach. She didn’t know how Merlin had gotten into her room through a closed door, and didn’t want to know. Danni swore the cat was magic. Maybe he was. Annabelle wasn’t in the mood to debate the point.

She had to get out of there, she told herself. She also decided she’d take no more unscheduled
trips down memory lane. It was too dangerous. She tugged a brush through her hair and decided to run down to Bosco Wilson’s Food Mart and nose around a little. The man carried nearly everything; surely he’d have fudge-swirl ice cream. If Gregory’s weakness had been peanuts in the shell, hers was fudge-swirl ice cream. Fudge-swirl ice cream, with crushed praline chips, or strawberries by the quart, had gotten her through many a stressful time. Even though she was now allergic to strawberries, there was nothing stopping her from eating the ice cream. And today was nothing if not a fudge-swirl day.

There was quite a line at Bosco’s. The store was closed on Sundays, so just before six o’clock on Saturday night the place bustled with people grabbing the little extras they couldn’t live thirty-six hours without. Like fudge-swirl ice cream, Annabelle thought wryly. She snatched a carton and got in line at the checkout stand.

“I see some things haven’t changed,” Gregory said from right behind her less than half a minute later.

She stopped dead and closed her eyes for a moment. He still had a wonderful voice. It was smooth, mellow, but could rise to dramatic heights. Years ago he had used it to convince people to recycle or to support nuclear disarmament; now he used it to lead people to God. However he used it, she still found it compelling. She pasted on
a smile and turned around. “Hello again, Reverend. What hasn’t changed?”

“You still love fudge-swirl ice cream.”

“I’m just picking this up for Gran.”

“Right. And I was just picking these up”—he held up a five-pound bag of peanuts in the shell—“for the board of deacons.”

“Do they get the shells in their hair too?” Annabelle snapped her mouth shut, horrified at the words that had slipped out unbidden.

Gregory’s smile was disturbingly intimate. “No. That honor was reserved solely for you, Annabelle.”

Silence fell for a moment, and she squirmed as the store seemed to get warmer. This was a bad idea, she thought. A really bad idea. After nearly drowning in memories earlier that afternoon, she didn’t need to know that he still remembered the way it had been between them. Their relationship had been hot, intense, impassioned. Until other things had gotten in the way.

Was it her imagination or was Gregory’s voice huskier when he said, “I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. I never have.”

Annabelle only wished she could forget. She turned her face toward the front of the store, pretending a great interest in the display of assorted picnic coolers. “I haven’t thought much about it,” she said, hoping she sounded nonchalant. “I don’t know where that comment about the peanut shells came from.”

“I used to brush them out for you, remember? I loved brushing them out of your hair.” His fingers flexed as if even they hadn’t forgotten the feel, and his eyes were dark with memories.

Annabelle sighed. For sanity’s sake, it was best to put a quick stop to any more reminiscing. “Gregory, that was long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away. We’re two different people now. Why rehash such old business?”

“We’re not so different, Princess Leia.” He again lifted his bag of peanuts and nodded at her ice cream.

“This is one of the very few holdovers from my childhood,” she said, tilting her chin up. “I’ve changed a lot in nine years.”

“Oh. Well, then, you wouldn’t be interested in the jars of crushed praline chips they have here.”

Praline chips? Annabelle couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened with sudden avarice. “Where?”

“I thought that might get you off your high horse,” Gregory said mildly. “I’ll tell you where they are if you’ll bring the ice cream by the church office and share a dish with me.”

“I see preachers aren’t above a little petty blackmail sometimes.”

“If the occasion warrants it,” he drawled. “You should see what lengths I’ll go to to enlist new members for the church choir. Do you accept my offer?”

Annabelle hesitated. She knew that was the worst possible idea, but she only had a couple of
people in front of her in the line. She looked behind Gregory and counted six people. If she got out of line to look for the praline chips herself, the cashier would get to Gregory and he wouldn’t be able to save her place. But now that she knew about the praline chips, she just had to have them. She sighed. “Deal. Where are they?”

“The ice cream aisle, on a shelf over the freezer compartment. I’ll save your place in line.”

Gregory smiled to himself as she dumped the ice cream in his arms and took off toward the back of the store. Annabelle might say she’d changed, but she still loved fudge-swirl ice cream with crushed praline pieces on top.

Without warning a memory slammed into his head of Annabelle sitting cross-legged in his bed, her impossibly wavy hair tousled from their love-making, wearing only his T-shirt and a smile as she offered him a spoonful of ice cream. She said she loved fudge-swirl ice cream better than anything else in the whole world—except him—and wouldn’t it be wonderful if they could think of some way to combine the two.

It hadn’t taken long for them to think of some very creative ways to grant her wish. Gregory felt his body stir at the thoughts going through his head. Not in the store! he admonished himself, and murmured a quick prayer for self-control.

Etta Dawson stopped to chat about the previous Sunday’s sermon. He tried to focus his attention on her words, but couldn’t keep his eyes off
Annabelle as she walked toward him, a triumphant smile on her lips, the jar of praline chips in her hand. He quickly said, “Mrs. Dawson, I’m sure you’ve met Annabelle, Virgie Pace’s granddaughter.”

Mrs. Dawson smiled and murmured a greeting, and Gregory noticed her glance passing from him to Annabelle and back again.

He wanted to groan. Etta was the biggest gossip in the Women’s Missionary Society. The society would have him and Annabelle engaged or even married inside of a week all on the basis of a chance meeting at the grocery store. He was used to the gossip—a young single minister would always get his share—but he doubted Annabelle would be amused.

He really didn’t want anything to scare her off. At least not before he’d found out what had happened between them so many years ago. Until then, he doubted he’d ever be able to close the door completely on that chapter of his life. Every relationship he’d had, or tried to have, since then had been shadowed by unfinished business.

He’d asked himself many times why Annabelle haunted him so. Was it because she’d been the one true love of his life? Or was it because their relationship had been the most passionate of his life? No one since Annabelle had stirred his libido the way she had.

They each paid for their purchases, although Gregory offered to pay for her ice cream and praline
chips too. “Can I give you a ride?” he asked as they walked outside.

“I brought my car.”

In the parking lot, Gregory could see her eyes narrow as she perused the bumper stickers plastered all over his 1967 Ford Mustang. Was it the bumper stickers that bothered her or the vehicle itself? It was the same car they used to neck in—before she moved in with him in his tiny off-campus apartment.

“I see that something besides the peanuts hasn’t changed either.” She indicated his car. “What, no Save the Whale stickers?”

“That’s what Greenpeace is for.” He indicated their slogan. “They’re saving whales these days. I’ll see you at the church office?”

She nodded and turned toward her car, but he had her door open for her before she could reach for it.

“Still not locking your car doors,” he said.

She shrugged. “Seemed safe enough in Small-Town America. Gran said the last major crime they had here was when Marty Cochran blew up Lute’s mailbox. Why’d he do that anyway?”

“One of Lute’s goats ate Marty’s prize roses. Nevertheless, you can’t be too careful. Especially if you’re going to be living in Norfolk soon. That’s
not
small-town life.”

Annabelle shrugged again and got in her car. How familiar this sounded, she thought. Gregory had always been after her to be careful. He’d said
she was safeguarding something precious to him and should take better care of it. Apparently, some habits died hard. It frightened her how comfortable it felt to fall back into the old ways.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she followed him out of the parking lot. If she had any sense at all, she’d disregard her promise and head straight back to Gran’s. Better yet, straight out of town. However, her curiosity overruled her good sense. She wanted to spend more time with Gregory, to try to reconcile the fiery, passionate young man she’d known with the man he’d become. The preacher he’d become.

She’d often felt jealous of his causes, had thought of them as rivals for his affection. Mistresses. In the ministry, where a congregation demanded everything you had to give, she wondered how he managed—if he managed—to keep his mistresses. Or were they now simply bumper stickers and not the be-all and end-all of his existence? Had his congregation managed to do what she hadn’t? Had they managed to give him what he needed to feel complete?

“Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” Gregory said into the phone. “I’ll be by the hospital this evening, then … I know you’re exhausted … I’ll sit with him a while so you—Yes, I’ll be sure to bring my Bible. I know what his favorite passages—Of course, Mrs. Clarke. You’ve been wonderful to—Yes, tonight, then.”

Hanging up the telephone, he turned back to the half-melted dish of ice cream on his desk. He met Annabelle’s questioning gaze. “Maurice and Addie Clarke,” he explained. “Mo broke his hip in a tractor accident last week and Addie hasn’t left his side—much to his dismay, I think. She stays with him every minute and refuses to leave his room unless someone else comes in to sit with him.”

“So you graciously volunteer to rescue him from her overzealous attentions?”

“Something like that. Addie means well. She feels it is her Christian duty as a wife to wait on him hand and foot.”

“Whether he wants it or not,” Annabelle said with a small smile. “The way you say the words
Christian duty
says a lot.”

Gregory sighed. “Too many acts of charity are done piously and reluctantly—and often loudly—in the name of Christian duty. Charity should be freely given. And quietly given.”

“You mean you should hide your light under a bushel?”

“Too many people set the whole bushel basket on fire.” He licked a drop of melted ice cream from the back of his spoon. “Good point for a sermon,” he said suddenly, putting his spoon down. He grabbed a pencil and jotted a few quick notes, then looked up at Annabelle with a sheepish expression. “Sorry, but I don’t often get ideas for sermons ahead of time. I usually spend the Saturday before stewing over them.”

“You always did like to put everything off until the last minute.” Her face softened with memories. “I remember one research paper for your environmental studies class, I think it was, that you basically wrote the night before it was due. You finished it about dawn.”

Gregory remembered that one too. He’d planned on writing it a week or two ahead of time, but his relationship with Annabelle had been newly serious and he’d been too intrigued with the physical
passion between them to think about something as mundane as how to repair the pollution damage to the Chesapeake Bay.