by Cindy Kirk
Tom anchored the broom against the side of the pew and went to his office for his jacket. Win her to Jesus? Was she in need of winning? How do I relate to her? What do I say? He muttered in prayer as he returned to the sanctuary, meeting Pop in the middle of the aisle.
A simple but sweet answer to his questions rose up and lingered in his heart.
Tell her she’s beautiful.
The rain started the moment Ginger left Rosebud city limits on Friday evening. Blasting the radio, she was exhausted.
She’d painted late into the evening Wednesday—the one wall took forever and still needed another coat—then filled Thursday and Friday with her regular and snow-day appointments.
In between clients, she answered frantic, last-minute texts from Bridgett suggesting “one more thing” or wondering if “there’s time to perm Aunt Carol’s hair”?
So now as she drove south toward the Maynards’ Magnolia plantation on the southwest corner of the county, the winter light masked by rain-weighted clouds, she wanted nothing more than a long, hot bath and her bed.
Bridgett informed her she was sharing a room with one of the bridesmaids, Miranda Shoemaker. Ginger didn’t mind as long as she had her own bed.
To be her charming, make-them-beautiful self, all she required was a good night’s sleep. The bridal party wouldn’t need her tonight, so she hoped to excuse herself after introductions and slip off to her room.
Tracie Blue always knew that about her. Ginger needs her sleep. She made sure she had her own space on the touring buses.
Now, driving the twenty miles down a desolate highway through a frigid, icy monsoon, Ginger exhaled the day’s tension, and Tom drifted across her mind.
He was back in town.
Ginger gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter, shifted in her seat, and adjusted the seat belt of her ’69 VW Bug.
How could that fact make her heart smile after twelve years? Years in which he’d not once contacted her.
Nevertheless, his presence changed everything about this weekend. She’d signed on as the stylist, to be a person behind the scenes, detached from the wedding, the guests, and the celebration. That was fine with her. She’d perfected that persona while working for Tracie.
But now, a small part of her wanted to be a woman, not just a servant, and to be seen by him. She had visions of participating in the wedding festivities, and they disturbed her. Rattled her well-built, well-structured emotional barriers.
She’d only felt this way one other time in her life. In high school. When Tom Wells Jr. was her calculus study partner. Grrr, this whole thing irritated her, making her feel like an emotionally trapped seventeen-year-old.
Around the next bend, between the skinny pines and live oaks, Ginger spotted the golden lights of the plantation house, glowing like a low moon rising on the thin, wet, dark horizon.
She pulled around the curved driveway, parked, and dashed to the veranda, the rain easing off as the storm clouds inhaled for a second breath.
She was a professional. Just the stylist. Detached and aloof, a hired hand.
Shivering in the dewy, cold air, Ginger rang the doorbell, fixing on a smile when an older woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door.
“Hey, I’m Ginger Winters. The stylist.”
The maid stood aside. “They’re in the drawing room.”
“Thank you.” Ginger stepped inside, offering her hand. “And you are?”
“Eleanor.”
“Eleanor. Nice to meet you.”
The woman’s stern expression softened. “Yes, you too. This way.” She led Ginger through a small, formal living room and a massive library, then down a short corridor where laughing male and female voices collided.
Eleanor paused at a set of double doors. “Tonight’s dinner is buffet, on the sideboard. Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Ginger hesitated as she stepped from the marble hallway onto the plush emerald-and-gold carpet, scanning the room. No one noticed her. But that wasn’t unusual.
A pale glow from the teardrop chandelier hovered above the room as if too good for the thick, heavier gold light emanating from the wall sconces and table lamps. On the farthest wall, deep-red curtains framed a working white stone fireplace. Despite its size, the drawing room was warm and cozy, inviting.
Come on in. Even you, Ginger Winters.
Several women sat reclined on a matching set of white sofas by the fireplace, wine glasses in hand. The fire crackled and popped, the flames stretching into the flue.
But the sofas by the fire were not for her. The beauty of the fireplace aside, Ginger avoided flames of any kind. From bonfires to matches, lighters, and sparklers, to men who made her heart feel like kindling.
Speaking of men, she’d not spotted Tom yet. To her right, she saw the groom, Eric, with several others watching ESPN on a large flat screen.
To her left was Bridgett and a mix of folks talking at the wet bar. There was Edward Frizz and Brandi Heinly, one of Bridgett’s friends from high school. They were all part of the beautiful and bold to which Ginger had no admittance.
Since no one saw her, should she just walk in? Hey y’all? The aroma of roast beef and something cheesy whetted her appetite. She’d snatched a slice of cold pizza for breakfast but had eaten nothing since.
But first, she needed to connect with Bridgett, let her know she’d arrived. Then beginning tomorrow morning, she’d start washing and setting hair for the mothers at nine o’clock.
Ginger inched across the room, arms stiff at her sides. “Bridgett, hey, I’m here.”
“Ginger!” A beaming and bright Bridgett wrapped her in a happy hug and walked her to the center of the room. “Girls, this is Ginger Winters, the one I was telling you about, Miss Marvelous. Her straight iron is a magic wand.”
Ginger smiled and waved toward the women on the sofa. “Nice to see y’all.”
One of the women rose up on her knees, leaning on the back of the sofa. “Did you really tour with Tracie Blue?”
“I did, yes. Three years.” One lingering benefit of working for a superstar? A great conversation piece.
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it. She is my favorite singer.” This from Sarah Alvarez, another bridesmaid and Rosebud High alum. “How exciting. What dirt can you give us on her?” Sarah wiggled her eyebrows as she joined the other women on the sofa.
“None I’m afraid. I signed a confidentiality agreement. She could sue me for more money than I’ll make in three lifetimes.”
Sarah made a face, shrugged and turned away, rejoining the conversation around the fire.
“Never mind her,” Bridgett said, slipping her arm through Ginger’s. Her burned one, but she didn’t pull free. Her sweater was thick enough to hide the scars. And Bridgett wasn’t holding on too tight. “Come over here. You remember my handsome groom, Eric.”
He glanced around, pulling away from SportsCenter long enough for a, “Nice to see you again.”
“You remember Edward and oh, look, there’s Tom Wells—”
Ginger pulled away from Bridgett as Tom entered through a doorway across the room. A low, creeping shiver started in her bones. “H-hello everyone.” She tried for a sweeping glance past the men but her gaze clashed with Tom’s.
He watched her with those blue fireballs he used for eyes. One look and she felt engulfed, aching to be with him.
He terrified her more than the man-made flames across the room. Those flames she understood and could avoid. But the kind Tom Wells ignited seemed impossible to predict, avert, or extinguish.
“So, that’s everyone,” Bridgett said. “Help yourself to the buffet. There’s wine and beer, but if you don’t drink, the fridge is full of water, soda, and tea. We’re just hanging out, talking wedding. Can you believe I’m getting married?” Bridgett squeezed Ginger’s arm, giggling, effervescing.
“I’m happy for you.” Ginger smoothed her hand down her sweater, tugging at the end of the sleeve to make sure her scarred hand was cov
ered. “It’s exciting. Rosebud High’s prom king and queen and most likely to marry . . .”
“I know, what are the odds? We’re actually getting married. After eight years apart I never thought I’d see him again, let alone marry him.” Bridgett leaned over the chair where Eric sat, roping him in her arms, and kissed his cheek. “But, well, love’s arrow doesn’t miss, does it?”
Oh yeah it does. By a county mile.
“So . . .” Bridgett turned around with a clap of her hands. “Fill your plate and join us girls on the sofa. We can talk hair.”
Ginger looked back at the cluster of bridesmaids. By the fire. A sliver of panic cut through her delicate confidence.
“It’s easier to eat sitting at the counter.” Tom’s bass declaration offered a welcomed truth, drawing Bridgett’s attention.
“Guess you’re right, Reverend Tom.” Bridgett wrinkled her nose at him. “All right, Ginger, grab a bite but don’t let this scoundrel keep you too long. Lindy and Kyle want to talk to you about their hair ideas for tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it,” Ginger said, turning to the buffet with a backward glance at Tom. How did he know?
She filled her plate and set it on the counter two seats down from Tom, who nursed a frosty root beer. “Are there any more of those?”
“At your service.” He hopped up, rounded the bar, and pulled a cold soda bottle from the fridge. He twisted off the top and slid it toward her. “On the house.”
She laughed, covering her mouth with her smooth left hand.
“Wow, I got a laugh out of you.” Tom came around the bar and took the stool next to her, relaxing with his elbows on the bar.
“Don’t act so surprised.”
“But I am. I didn’t know I possessed the power.”
“Very funny.” She lifted the soda bottle and took a hearty swig of sweetness. “Sorry about the other day . . .”
“I get it. Caught you off guard.”
Making sure her sweater sleeve covered her hand, Ginger split apart a fluffy yeast roll, the kind her Gram used to make when she was a kid. She popped a steaming piece in her mouth.
“What? No butter?”
She smiled, shaking her head, relaxing a bit. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Tom Wells made her comfortable. He made her want to be a better person. “My grandma made rolls like these for holiday dinners and birthdays when I was growing up. They were so good they didn’t need butter. We’d eat them plain or maybe with homemade black raspberry jelly.” Her voice faded. Those times ended right after Ginger turned thirteen. A year after the fire. An aneurysm claimed Gram’s life when she was only sixty.
“My grandma made dumplings.” Tom shook his head, humming. “Best thing you ever put in your mouth.” He peered at her. “But the same thing happened to us. She died and so did the tradition.”
“I keep telling myself I’ll learn how to do it but—”
“Life gets in the way.”
Ginger set her roll down and reached for her napkin. “Thank you.” She nodded toward the sofa and fireplace. “For that.”
“Bridgett can be a little obtuse.”
“Apparently you’re . . . What’s the opposite of obtuse?”
“Bright, smart, intelligent, handsome, sexy.”
Ginger choked, wheezing a laugh, pressing the back of her hand against her lips. She finished swallowing her roll, washing it down with a nip of root beer. “Someone doesn’t think well of himself.”
He grinned. “I like hearing you laugh.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Ginger shifted around in her stool and adjusted her scarf, making sure it was in place, covering her flaw. Under the heat of his gaze, she felt exposed and transparent, as if he could see the things she longed to hide.
“They’ve been talking about you.” Tom gestured to the women on the sofa with his root beer bottle. “Apparently Bridgett hired some world-renowned photographer for the weekend and they are counting on you to work your wonders.”
“Women like to feel beautiful. Especially in photos. Double especially for a wedding.”
“You say that like you’re not one of them.”
His words and the tenor of his voice confirmed her suspicion. He read her, saw through her. Ginger tore another corner bite from her roll. “I say it like it’s true. Don’t read anything into it. Women like to be beautiful and men prefer them that way.”
“I suppose so.” He turned his root beer bottle with his fingers, glancing toward her. “But there’s two kinds of beautiful.”
“Only two?” She peeked at him and forced a relaxing exhale. He’s just being nice, Ginger.
“Touché.” His soft laugh tapped a buried memory of sitting in the library, trying to get him to study calc problems for a quiz instead of doodling caricatures of Mr. Bickle. “I was thinking of outside beauty and inside beauty.”
“What of all the layers and nuances in between?”
“Touché again.” He tapped his bottle to hers.
“Either way, I have a big weekend ahead, doing my thing, making women beautiful.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I do.” She nodded with a strange wash of rising, hot tears. She hid them with a dab of her napkin. “Ruby-Jane says it’s my superpower.”
“It’s good to do something you’re good at and that you love.”
“I think so.” But how could she give words to the underlying truth? That she ached to do it for herself. How she envied women with smooth skin who wore sleeveless tops in the summer with low v-necks.
On her days off, when she cleaned her apartment, she wore a tank top and scooped her hair into a ponytail, feeling free.
“I was thinking maybe you could come to church next week. See me off on my inaugural Sunday.” He pushed his hand through the air as if sailing.
“Church?” She cut a bite of roast beef. Funny how talking with him encouraged her appetite. But church? “I don’t think so.”
“Didn’t you go for awhile? When we were in high school?”
“Until my mother suddenly stopped going and started working Sunday mornings.” She shrugged. “Wasn’t sure I liked it all that much anyway.”
She bought the message about a loving God. She really did. But when she tried to reckon with Him about the night she was trapped in the trailer fire, about the pain and agony of second-and third-degree burns, she couldn’t find love in any of it.
If God delivered those young guys out of the fire in the Old Testament, Daniel’s friends, why didn’t He do it for her? Did He love them more? She’d concluded that He must.
“Why didn’t you go on your own?” Tom said as a commotion arose from the sofas.
A shrill, “I can’t believe you’re here!” shot through the room before Ginger could answer. One of the bridesmaids, Miranda, launched from the couch and into the arms of a man standing just inside the drawing room doors.
“I told you I’d make it, baby.” He swept her up, kissing her, wanting her.
Ginger turned back to her plate, feeling every movement, every emotion of the couple at the door through the ugly lens of jealousy.
She would never have that . . . never. Even if some man did want her, one look, one touch at her relief-map skin and he’d turn away. Experience was her truth.
“Cameron, you made it.” Eric broke his trance with SportsCenter and football highlights, coming around to greet the most recent guest.
“Cameron Bourcher,” Tom whispered toward Ginger. “I met him at the bachelor party. He’s a Wall Street dude, comes from money, almost engaged to Miranda. Or at least she thinks so.”
Ginger glanced toward the door, at the cuddling couple surrounded by the wedding party. “Looks to me like she might be right.”
Cameron bent down, giving Miranda another kiss, holding her close, his arm about her waist. Her smooth-skinned waist.
“Now we’re all here.” Bridgett beamed, wrapping her arms around Eric. “What an amazing weekend. Our wedding, darling. So far, so perfe
ct. Except, oh—” Bridgett turned to the bar. To Ginger. “Ginger, I’m sorry. Now there’s no room for you. Cam will be sharing with Mandy.”
Everyone stared at her. Even the chandelier light seemed to brighten and angle Ginger’s way, spotlighting her embarrassment.
“Oh, okay, n-no problem.” But yes, a huge problem. Floor, open up, let me in. The slight comfort and ease she’d allowed herself, sitting with Tom, vanished under the hot stares of the beautiful people.
“What? No.” Tom slipped from his stool. “Don’t kick her out. Cameron can bunk with me and Eric.”
Cameron laughed. “No offense, Tom, but I didn’t fly a thousand miles to bunk with you and the groom.”
“Of course, of course,” Bridgett said, moving between Tom and Cameron, batting down the contention. “I’m sorry, I should’ve planned better. Oh, bother, we don’t have any more rooms in the house. Lindy could share, but she’s such a light sleeper and I promised her a private room. The rest of the family arrives in the morning and will need their rooms to rest and get ready. I’d hate for the staff to have to redo them . . . Oh, I know. Ginger,” Bridgett crossed over to her, eyes wide with her pending solution. “You can stay out at the homestead tonight.” The bride peered at the others, satisfied with her quick solution.
“The homestead?” Tom said. “That place at the end of the property? It’s like a mile away.”
Ginger snatched Tom’s arm. What was he, reverend attorney? She didn’t need his defense. “Tom, it’s okay. Don’t make more out of the situation than necessary.”
“Thank you, Ginger. Yes, Tom, it’s a bit far but it’s very nice. Daddy’s been fixing it up. Ginger, you’ll love it. It’s right on the edge of the woods.”
“Is there a road to this homestead?” Tom insisted on defending her. “Last time I was here, the old road had been busted up. You had to cross a field to get there.”
“Yes, Tom,” Bridgett said with a sigh. “There’s a road, sort of, a path really.”
“Is it safe?”
“Of course.” Bridgett laughed, but not in a fun way. More of an aghast way.