The Rebel and His Bride (5 page)

And yet, as the afternoon wore on and they cleared the table and did the dishes together, she kept seeing flashes of the old Gregory beneath the grown-up surface. Who had said, “The more things change, the more they stay the same”? she wondered.

It was strange to see hauntingly familiar glimpses of the boy she’d known. Strange and disconcerting. It was strange to see Gregory’s open boyish grin on a man’s angular face. Disconcerting to see the golden-brown eyes that had shared so many intimate glances with her now gazing at her with the warm appreciation of a man.

Still, she found herself relaxing as their conversation gradually became less stilted. They even discussed old times—the more innocent ones, anyway—and mutual friends. As she dried a dish he’d handed her she asked, “So whatever happened to Joe Matthews, anyway? The last I heard of him, he was head over heels in love with an animal-rights activist and had gotten thrown into jail with her for helping with a lab break-in somewhere in northern Virginia. Do you know how long they spent in jail?”

To her surprise, Gregory flushed and concentrated on the plate he was washing as if it were expensive china instead of department-store stone-ware. “Not long. We—they were released the next day.”

Annabelle’s eyebrows rose until they met the
wispy strands of hair that fell over her forehead. “We?
You
were involved?”

He sighed. “I was arrested too.”

“But this was just, what, about six years ago? You were already a minister by then, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Didn’t you get in trouble?”

He was silent for a moment. “The powers-that-be weren’t exactly pleased. Neither was the congregation of my first church.”

“What happened?”

“It was a nice, but very conservative church in northern Virginia. They asked me to resign. I did. It was as simple as that. Next stop, White Creek.”

“But I don’t think there’s anything more strait-laced than a small town. I can’t imagine the people here not minding if their preacher gets thrown in jail. Even if the cause is a good one.”

“The people here can be a little conservative, but they’re also honest enough to be themselves—and to allow me to be myself. They actually seem to like that I stand up for what I believe.”

Annabelle had always liked that about him too. It was just that in standing up for his causes, he’d sometimes forgotten to stand
by
her.

“And,” he added, “it’s not like I’m the only slightly unconventional one in town, you know.”

She had to give him that. Gregory looked positively tame next to corncob-pipe-smoking Magda, who swore she was a Gypsy, and Lute and her orange-haired grandmother doing wheelies on motorcycles,
and even Sebastian, whom Danni swore could talk to animals. White Creek, for all its small-town conventionality, was remarkably accepting of idiosyncrasies.

Annabelle looked at her watch. “It’s about four twenty-five. How long will it take you to get to the hospital?”

“It’ll take about thirty minutes, so I guess I’d better go.”

“Thanks for helping with the dishes.” She dried her hands on a gaily embroidered dish towel, wincing when she rubbed her still-tender palm.

Gregory took her hand again. “I’m sorry, Annabelle.” His eyes were solemn.

“It’s okay. It hardly hurts now.”

“I don’t like the idea of you hurting at all,” he said softly.

What about all those times I used to hurt and you weren’t there? Whenever I needed you, you were always involved in something else
. She didn’t say those things out loud, but wondered if some remnant of her old hurt showed on her face, because Gregory reached out and ran the fingers of his free hand over her cheek.

“I can’t stand the thought of you in pain,” he said.

God, he sounded so sincere, like he truly meant it. “I—it’s okay. Really.”

“I’d feel better if you’d let me put some ointment on it before I go,” he murmured, but he
wasn’t looking at her palm. Instead, his gaze was fastened with heated intensity on her lips.

“It’s not necessary,” she said, wishing she could take a deep breath. She couldn’t seem to look away from his eyes, so like the eyes of the boy, yet so different. The past was getting all confused with the present, she thought just before his lips covered hers and the confusion disappeared.

It didn’t matter whether the feelings were current or ancient. What mattered was the hot, slick pressure of his mouth on hers and the warmth of his hand on her cheek. His other hand rested at her waist, and she could feel it through the fabric of her blouse as acutely as if it were bare skin he touched. The languor that overtook her and made her clutch at him for support was both familiar and achingly new.

As Annabelle’s soft body melted into his, Gregory groaned and slid both arms around her to hold her close. He tore his lips from hers to draw in a ragged breath, then buried his face in her hair. For one sweet tormented moment he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest, her heart beating next to his, then he felt the breath that shuddered through her and the ever-so-slight stiffening of her back.

Still he wasn’t prepared when she pulled away, schooled her face into cool politeness, and made a point of looking at her watch again. “You’re going to be late, Rev.” The only indication that she was
as affected as he, was the barest tremor in her voice.

“Annabelle—”

“I’ll get your coat and tie.” She spun on her heel and left the room.

Gregory ran a hand through his hair, shaping it into auburn spikes. “Damn!” he muttered, then glanced up and said a quick “Sorry.”

Annabelle shoved his coat and tie at him and was holding open the front door while he was still struggling with the passion that had ripped through him just moments before. “See ya,” she said, and shut the door behind him.

As Gregory headed his car toward Norfolk he figured he’d better pray for patience. The good Lord had to know it was going to take bucketloads of it to deal with Annabelle.

Mid-June in White Creek was usually warm and a little on the humid side, but Tuesday dawned downright hot and grew hotter as the day wore on. When Annabelle pulled up in front of the church that evening, it hadn’t cooled down a bit, even though it was seven o’clock. Thank heaven the church was air-conditioned, she thought, or the play rehearsal would have been miserable.

Will be miserable, she corrected herself when she noticed all the church windows were wide-open. To heck with conventions, she decided, and managed to shimmy out of her panty hose. She
undid another button at the neck of her blouse, then fished around in the bottom of her purse until she found a rubber band so she could fasten her hair in a ponytail. Maybe now she wouldn’t die from the heat, she’d only pass out.

Several fans were placed around the sanctuary stirring the hot air, and a dozen or so children ranging between the ages of six and twelve milled around the front while Elsie Wilson watched them. Smiling, Annabelle walked in and called out a cheery, “Hi, I’m Annabelle.”

The children responded with some shy smiles and hellos and one “Yo, baby,” from a freckled nine-year-old boy with an engagingly impudent grin. No sooner had Annabelle set her purse down and removed the script she’d tucked inside than Mrs. Wilson said, “I need to get back to the Food Mart so Buddy can make his date with Daisy. I’m sure you’ll manage just fine.” She handed Annabelle a stack of papers. “Here are some extra copies of the children’s scripts.”

Annabelle smiled ruefully. So this was what Elsie Wilson and Clara Walling had meant when they’d said “help out.”

“Okay, guys,” she said to the children after Mrs. Wilson left, “it’s going to take a little while for me to learn everybody’s names, so bear with me. Now, let me see what we’ve got here. Can I have George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Patrick Henry, and Paul Revere here on my right, the
militia on my left, and Martha Washington and Betsy Ross right here?”

She began going over the play with the children, pausing occasionally to fan herself with her script or blot the perspiration from her forehead with a tissue. The children, typically, didn’t seem to mind the heat, but after about an hour and a half, their attention began to wander. Suddenly she saw smiles light up their faces. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was Gregory. She could feel that irksome gaze of his on the back of her neck.

She watched as he greeted the kids. They seemed at ease with him and he had a special word for each of them. One thing she’d learned as a teacher was that you had more success dealing with children if you treated them with respect and gave them credit for knowing a few home truths. This was something a lot of adults had trouble realizing. Not Gregory. He seemed to know instinctively how to speak
to
kids, not at them. What a wonderful father he’d be, she found herself thinking, and hurriedly pushed the thought away.

As Gregory continued talking with the kids, Annabelle could see a special gleam in the eyes of the four girls involved in the play. Apparently even the youngest of the female gender were not immune to his charms. But she was, she told herself. She was.

“You kids go back to your rehearsal,” Gregory said as he ruffled the hair of six-year-old Emmy
Tanner. “I’m just going to go over here and rattle the cage of the air-conditioner monkey to see if I can get him to go back to work.”

“Bribe him with a bunch of bananas for me,” Annabelle muttered as she again blotted her forehead with a tissue already damp with perspiration.

“Can’t take the heat?” Gregory asked, and hoisted a worn leather tool belt.

“I love the heat,” she said. “I just love it the most when it’s air-conditioned.”

They rehearsed another twenty minutes, then the parents showed up to take the children home, except for the Wainscott boys, who lived across the street from the church. Gregory walked to the front door and watched until they’d crossed the street and scampered up their sidewalk. Turning back, he saw Annabelle standing behind him, her purse strap over her shoulder and her car keys in her hand.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked dryly.

“Um, yeah. I don’t want to leave Gran alone too long.”

“Annabelle, it’s not like she’s bedridden or anything. If there’s a problem, I’m sure she can pick up the phone with her good arm and make a phone call. Maybe she could even stand on her two perfectly good legs and run for help. And knowing Virgie like I do, she’d probably hit an intruder over the head with her cast and lecture him until he felt so guilty he’d turn himself in.”

Annabelle smiled. “You’re probably right, but I have things I need to do.”

“Wash your hair? Wash out silky red blouses like the one you wore Sunday?” He smiled, too, and his gaze held a definite challenge. “One would think you’re trying to avoid me, Annabelle.”

“Not at all,” she said quickly. “I just know you have things to do as well, and I’ll let you get to them.”

“I could use your help.”

“I don’t know what I could possibly do. I don’t know a thing about writing sermons or picking out next Sunday’s hymns.”

“Actually I could use your help with the air conditioner.”

“I know even less about those.”

“I’m trying to put the compressor back in and just need an extra pair of hands for a few minutes.” He sighed. “You can do that, can’t you? For the sake of all those poor souls who’ll be frying at tomorrow night’s choir practice if I don’t get it fixed?”

“Why don’t you call a repairman?”

“It’s not in the church budget.”

“And I don’t suppose you can just request a few dollars at the drop of a hat.”

“This is a rural community, with small farms and small businesses. The people in the congregation give what they can financially, and what they can’t, they make up for by giving their time. In the long run, that’s really what matters.”

Annabelle nodded, and he went on.

“There’s never a lot of money, but when the church needs painting, it gets done. Bosco donates the paint, various members of the congregation donate their time. Clara Walling always makes sure there are flowers on the altar Sunday morning, even if she has to go into her own garden and clip some of her prize dahlias to do it. If a family falls on hard times, the congregation makes sure there’s always food on their table and shoes on their kids’ feet. You can’t ask for much more than that. And if it means I have to be a repairman on occasion, so be it.”

She followed Gregory to the corner window, where the air conditioner was lying in pieces. He quickly had everything reassembled and asked her to hold the front piece in place while he tightened the screws that held it on. As she knelt next to him on the floor, she was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body. He detected the faintest trace of White Shoulders, her favorite scent.

It was odd how evocative an aroma could be. He could remember the light, sweet fragrance of White Shoulders surrounding him as they fell together on his twin bed. He could remember burying his face in her White Shoulders—scented hair as he thrust into her.

He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the memories away. Seeing her this summer was going to kill him. Had he been another man, he would
have tried to seduce her back into his arms and love her out of his system. Being a minister, he could only pray. He definitely believed in the power of prayer and prayed often, but never so much as he had since Annabelle came back into his life four days ago.

The prayers were usually full of pleas for patience and self-control. He figured he was going to have to add a plea to make abstinence more bearable. Annabelle reminded him of his humanity, reminded him that beneath his ministerial robes and spiritual leanings, he wasn’t only a man of God. He was a man.

“Gregory, what’s wrong?” Annabelle asked in concern. “You look pale all of a sudden.”

“I think it’s the heat,” he murmured, and forced his attention back to the old piece of equipment he was trying to coax a few more days out of. Yeah, it was the heat, all right. Body heat. He dropped the screwdriver.

“Uh, could you hand me that, please?”

She handed him the tool. “Are you sure you’re all right?”