How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  The shop was warm and merry with the occasional ting of crystalline flakes pinging against the glass.

  “Well, that’s true, but I like to think we’d have become friends anyway.”

  Ginger glanced over at her tall, lithe friend. “You can come to the wedding as my assistant.”

  “And flaunt my shame in front of everyone as the help of the help? No thanks.”

  Ginger laughed. “Good point. You can get Victor Reynolds to take you to a romantic dinner instead.”

  “Ha! Haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

  Ginger lowered her paint roller. “Really? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . I’m twenty-nine, divorced, living in my hometown with my parents, in my old bedroom, and when all is said and done, I can’t keep the interest of Victor Reynolds.” Ruby-Jane’s expression soured. “Victor Reynolds . . . who couldn’t get a date to save his life in high school.”

  “You and me . . .” Ginger rolled paint against the wall. “The single sisters in solidarity.”

  “Ugh, so depressing. At least you have a life calling. A skill.” Ruby-Jane loaded her roller with paint. “You can take an ordinary woman and make her extraordinarily beautiful.”

  “I love what I do.” Ginger glanced around the shop. “And I want to make this the best place in the county for hair, makeup, and all things beautiful. Next year, I hope to have an esthetician on staff.”

  She stepped back to admire the beige-pink covering the dull yellow wall. Beautiful. She loved it.

  Making things—women—beautiful was her calling, her duty in life. She channeled every ounce of her heart and soul into her work because the truth was, she could never do it for herself.

  And this weekend Ginger would play her role as a behind-the-scenes stylist, or as Tracie Blue called her, “the beauty-maker,” for the Alabama society wedding of the year, if not the decade.

  Socialite Bridgett Maynard was marrying the governor’s son, Eric James. A pair of Rosebud High sweethearts, the beautiful people, united under their umbrellas of success and wealth.

  While Ginger was looking forward to working with Bridgett, she did not look forward to the weekend. She’d have to live among them at the old plantation.

  “Well, if anyone can make this place a success, it’s you, Ginger. Last time I saw Mrs. Henderson, she was still smiling over how you styled her hair.”

  “Grandpa was the first to tell me I could see the beauty in everyone else.” She saw it that day Mrs. Henderson sat in her chair, with her wilting, over-dyed, over-permed hair. “I believed him. He’d buy me a new baby doll every month because I’d cut the hair off the old one. Right down to their plastic scalps.” Ginger’s heart laughed. “Mama would get mad. ‘Daddy, stop wasting your money. She’s just going to destroy this one.’ And he’d say, ‘She’s becoming who she’s meant to be.’ ” Ginger added paint to her roller and started a slow roll along the wall, the blue sparkle of her grandpa’s eyes making her warm and sentimental.

  She missed Gramps, a stable force in her trailer park life, always making her feel safe. Especially when Daddy left. And again after the fire.

  Then came Tom Wells. Ginger shook his name free from her thoughts. He didn’t deserve any part of her memories. Handsome high school boy who disappeared on her and broke her heart.

  She’d pushed him out of her mind until she moved back to Rosebud. Until Bridgett walked into the shop three months ago, begging Ginger to be her wedding stylist, and the boxed memories of her youth in Rosebud, of her high school days, busted out.

  “Can I ask you something?” Ruby-Jane said, pressing the last bit of paint in her brush against the wall. “Why did you leave Tracie Blue? Really. Not because Maggie called you about this place.”

  “It was time.”

  “Did something happen? It wasn’t because of your scars—”

  “Nope.”

  “Because that would be crazy, you know. You were on the road with her for three years. Your scars weren’t a factor.”

  Oh, but they were.

  Tears blurred Ginger’s eyes as she covered the old wall with a thick swath of paint. Goodbye old. Hello new. She hated lying to RJ, but talking about her departure from Tracie Blue sliced through the wounds no one could really see.

  Ugly. That’s what one tabloid called her. She’d found an article on the Internet one day last year naming the ugliest stylists to the stars. And Ginger Winters was number one.

  Where they found that odd picture of her with her neck exposed, she’d never know.

  Ginger swallowed a rise of bitter bile, inhaling, wrestling to shove the accusation out of her mind.

  Yet she wasn’t sure how to get it out of her heart. The words formed wounds and scars beneath her skin, creating tentacles of shame no long sleeves or colorful scarves could cover.

  Ginger stepped back once again to admire her portion of the wall. “What do you think?”

  “I like it,” Ruby-Jane said. “A lot.”

  “Me too.” The shop was starting to really feel like hers.

  The top-of-the-hour news came on the radio. Ginger peeked at the wall clock. Eleven. “Hungry? Let’s order lunch from Antony’s,” she said, cradling the brush handle against her shoulder, tugging her phone from her jeans pocket. “I’m thinking a large cheese pizza.”

  “You’re singing my song. Oh, order some cheese bread too.” Ruby-Jane stepped back, inspecting her work. “Love this color, Ginger. The shop is going to look amazing.”

  “I was searching online for new light fixtures last night and . . . Hey, Anthony, this is Ginger down at Ginger Snips. Good, good, how are you? Yes, please . . . a large cheese . . . thin crust, yep . . . and an order of cheese bread. No, for Ruby-Jane . . . I know, she’s a carb addict.”

  “I am not.”

  “Sure, one of us will come down to get it.” Hanging up, Ginger slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Let’s just take the money from petty cash.”

  As the words left her lips, the bells hanging from the front door clattered against the glass as a customer pushed in.

  Glancing around, she rested her roller on the paint tray. Ginger sucked in a breath. Tom Wells Jr.

  Her skin flamed as she adjusted the dark orange scarf tighter around her neck. She’d rather face Tracie Blue’s paparazzi than Tom Wells.

  “Well, look who it is. My, my, Tom Wells Jr.” Ruby-Jane crossed over and gave him a big hug. “What brings you to town? Ginger, look what the cat dragged in.” RJ sort of shoved Tom further into the shop.

  “I see.”

  “Ruby-Jane, hey, good to see you. Ginger . . . it-it’s been a long time.” He ran his hand over his long, wavy hair as his blue gaze flipped from Ruby-Jane to Ginger who wobbled, powerless in his presence. “Are y’all open? Is Maggie around? I was hoping for a quick haircut.”

  Ruby-Jane smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Good ole Maggie Boyd retired.” She shoved him forward again, indicating behind his back that Ginger should talk to him.

  “So Maggie finally took that trip to Ireland? I wondered why the sign said Ginger Snips.”

  “S-she’s in Ireland as we speak. I-I own this place now.” Ginger’s voice faded, weak under the thunder of her heartbeat. She reached for her brush handle and faced the wall. Get a hold of yourself. Remember what he did to you. If she had any gumption at all, she’d roll him with paint.

  “Remember we studied calculus together, Ginger?”

  “I remember.” She cut him a glance, trying so hard to be cool, but Tom Wells, with those blue eyes and mammoth shoulders, was standing in her shop.

  Ruby-Jane stepped around him, still communicating to Ginger with glances and expressions. “It’s been a long time, Tom. Since you left town our senior year. What brings you back?”

  “Yeah it’s been awhile. I-I’m back . . . for the wedding. Bridgett and Eric’s.” He seemed reserved, almost shy. Definitely a lot more humble. “I’m the best man.”

  Ginge
r pressed the roller brush against the wall. What? He was one of Eric’s groomsmen? She’d be around him all weekend?

  “I hear it’s going to be the wedding of the decade.” Ruby-Jane flicked her hand toward Ginger. “She’s the stylist for the whole shebang.”

  “Really?” Despite his expression, Tom sounded impressed. “Not surprised. You were always good with hair, if I remember right.” He brushed his hand over his thick hair again, glancing around. “As you can see, I’m in desperate need of a haircut. But looks like you’re not open.”

  His smile darn near skewered Ginger to the wall. Simmer down, he’s just passing through . . . do not feel for him.

  “Sorry but we’re painting today. You can go to the new shopping plaza south of town if you need a cut.”

  “The roads are horrible,” Tom said, stepping close enough for his subtle fragrance to slip beneath the paint fumes and settle on her. “Big backup on Highway 21.”

  “You know how it is in the South,” Ruby-Jane said. “We can’t drive in a rainstorm, let alone ice or snow.”

  Tom laughed, shaking his head. “Very true.” He raised his gaze to Ginger. “So is it possible to get a cut here? This is the only time I—”

  “Absolutely.” Ruby-Jane set her paintbrush down and kicked the visqueen aside, leading Tom to a chair across the room. “Ginger, does this station work?” She mouthed some sort of pinched-lipped command, gesturing toward Tom. “You ready?”

  It was then Ginger noticed her arm, peeking out from under the cloak, her scars exposed. And he’d been looking right at her. Could the floor just open up and swallow her whole? She lowered her brush to the tray and tugged her sleeve down, stretching it to the tips of her fingers.

  Tom Wells . . . in her shop. In her chair . . . waiting for her to touch his hair. The very notion made her feel like she might fly apart.

  “Listen, if Ginger doesn’t want to—” He tried to get up, but Ruby-Jane shoved him back down.

  “She does. She’ll be right with you. Ginger, can you show me where we keep the petty cash? I’ll run and get the pizza.” RJ snatched her by the arm and led her to the back room.

  “What is wrong with you?” RJ, who knew perfectly well where the petty cash was located, took a painting of a pasture off the wall, revealing the safe, and spun the dial. “Tom Wells . . . hello!” She reached in for the petty cash bag. “If he’s not better looking than he was in high school, I’ll eat the pizza and the box. And sweet. He seems so sweet. How unfair, you know? Men get better-looking with age and women just sag.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” Ginger kept her voice low but intense. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. He was the only guy I’ve ever loved, who ever paid one lick of attention to me, and he dumped me before our first date.”

  Ruby-Jane took out a twenty, then closed up the money bag in the safe. “His family moooved, remember?” She slipped from her paint cloak, dropping it over the back of a chair.

  “But he didn’t tell me he was leaving. How hard is it to pick up the phone. ‘Uh, Ging, can’t make it. Dad says we’re moving.’ Then afterward, he never called or e-mailed.”

  “So go in there and botch his haircut if you want, get him back for it. But girlie-girl,” Ruby-Jane wiggled her eyebrows, “it’s Tom Wells. The Tom Wells. Besides, that was twelve years ago. Don’t tell me you still hold a grudge.”

  Tom Wells, a two-named brand which meant gorgeous, athletic, smoldering, knee-weakening, kissable—

  Ginger grabbed RJ. “Don’t leave me alone with him. Stay here. I’ll be done in ten minutes.”

  “Forget it. The pizza will be cold.” RJ smirked and walked around Ginger into the shop. “Say Tom, we ordered too much pizza. Want to hang around for a slice?”

  Note to self: fire Ruby-Jane.

  The front door bells rang out as RJ left, waving at Ginger through the glass. No worry, RJ. What goes around comes around.

  “Ginger,” Tom said, rising from the chair. “I’m not going to force you to cut my hair.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment and her pulse throbbed in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she could see the small white swirl of snow drifting over them. Even if she turned him out, she’d have to see him at the wedding. Might as well cut his hair, then she could ignore him this weekend.

  “It’s fine.” She motioned toward the wash bowls, removing the cloak she wore for painting and tying on a clean Ginger Snips apron. “Take the one on the right.”

  Tom situated himself in the black chair as Ginger rested his head against the bowl.

  “H-how are you?” he said as she sprayed his head with warm water.

  “Good.” She hesitated, then raked her fingers through his luscious hair. In high school, she’d daydreamed of cutting Tom’s dark, heavy locks. Then when Mr. Bickle paired them as calculus study partners, she darn near thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

  The fragrance of his cologne subtly floated through her senses and she exhaled, trying to rein in her adrenaline, but one touch of his soft curls and her veins became a highway for her desires.

  This is nothing. Just another client . . . just another client.

  Ginger peeked at Tom’s face, a best-of composite from the Hollywood’s Golden Age leading men. Cary Grant’s sophistication with Gregory Peck’s smolder all tied together with Jimmy Stewart’s lovable, everyday man.

  Steady . . . She pumped a palmful of shampoo and lathered his hair, catching her reflection in one of the mirrors.

  Her scarf had slipped, exposing her frightful scar, which beamed red with her embarrassment. Ginger pinched the scarf back into place before Tom could look up and see her.

  She’d never get used to it. Never. The ugliness. The memory of the fire, of the day she realized she was marked for life. Of lying in bed, tears slipping down her cheeks and knowing no one would ever want her. Even at twelve, the truth trumpeted through her mind.

  No one . . . no one . . . no one . . .

  Reclined against the shampoo sink with Ginger’s hands moving through his hair, massaging his scalp, driving his pulse, Tom regretted his fine idea to step out on this snowy day for a quick haircut.

  Had he realized Maggie sold the place to Ginger, he’d have braved the slick roads and traffic boondoggle to try the new salon on the other side of town.

  Yes, he knew he’d have to see her sooner or later—the latter being optimal—but not his first full day back in Rosebud. Not lying back in her sink with her hands in his hair.

  He’d thought to leave as soon as Ginger said they were closed but then Ruby-Jane pushed in and, well, here he sat.

  “Ginger,” he began, clearing his throat. “How long have you—”

  “Sit up, please.” She pushed lightly on his shoulder. When he sat forward, she draped a towel over his head and dried his hair, stirring his dawning emotions. “Take a seat.” She motioned to the station where Ruby-Jane had deposited him.

  He peeked at her in the mirror as she removed the towel and snapped a cape around his neck. “How long have you been back in Rosebud? And six months ago I hear you were on the road with Tracie Blue?”

  She angled in front of him, taking up her shears and comb. “And yes, I was.”

  Brrr. He figured it was warmer outside than inside the shop.

  Raising the height of the chair, Ginger combed through his hair, her subtle fragrance sinking into him. She smelled romantic, if he could claim romance as a scent, like a melting, sweet Alabama summer evening. The fragrance gathered in the hollow place between his heart and ribs.

  “Trim the sides? A little off the top?” she said.

  “Yea, sure, buzz the sides a bit. Don’t like it creeping down my neck and on my ears . . .” When she stepped to one side, the paint fumes swooshed in, replacing her perfume and bringing him back to reality. He had come in for a haircut, not a rendezvous with an almost romance of his past.

  Besides, she didn’t even seem to care that he drifted into her shop quite by accident. Maybe s
he didn’t remember the affection between them, how he flirted with her, seeking a sign, a hint, of her interest in him.

  He’d just invited her to the movies when Dad announced they were moving. Leaving town in the middle of the night. Tom didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to anyone, let alone Ginger Winters.

  “Tip your head down, please.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest, inhaling a long breath for himself, then exhaling one for her.

  Should he just open with, “I’m sorry?” Or just let the past be the past?

  She must have had boyfriends since high school. After all, she toured with Tracie Blue, seeing the world, meeting all kinds of people. Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Or a fiancé. He watched her left hand in the mirror. No ring.

  “So you never said. How long have you owned the shop?” Small talk. Maybe he could get her to open up.

  “Six months.” She exchanged her shears for the clippers.

  “Are you glad to be back in Rosebud?” He relaxed, attempting a smile, trying to catch her gaze.

  “Yes.” She tilted his head to one side and buzzed around his ears.

  “Good . . . good . . . Me, too.”

  She snapped off the clippers and reached again for her shears, twirling them between her fingers, a trick he’d like to see again.

  Either she was having a bad day or she really loathed him. Yes, he stood her up . . . twelve years ago. Surely she understood, considering the circumstances.

  “Pretty rare to see snow in Rosebud.”

  “Very . . .”

  “I’m back too. In Rosebud.” He shifted in his seat. “For more than the wedding.”

  She slowed, glancing up, peering at him through the glass. “G-good.” She faced him toward the mirror, checking the sides of his hair for an even cut.

  “It’s pretty nice about Bridgett and Eric, no?” All of Alabama knew the governor’s son, a former Crimson Tide star tailback, was getting married.

  “Yes, it is.” The conversation stalled as she blasted the blow-dryer over his head, then pumped a drop of gel into the palm of her hand and ran it through his hair, inspiring a race of chills over his skin.