How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  “Look,” he said, stepping forward, addressing the entire wedding party like a jury. Tom, please shut up. But Ginger couldn’t release the words. Speaking out would only draw more attention to this humiliating situation. “Let Ginger stay in my room. I’ll go out there.”

  “Kind of need you here, man,” Eric said, securing his arm around Bridgett, holding her close. “You’re my best man.”

  Enough. Ginger hopped off her stool. “Bridgett, thank you for dinner.” She mined every ounce of cheer and joviality. “I’ve not unloaded my things yet so I can easily move. Point me in the direction of the old homestead.”

  “Perfect.” Bridgett walked Ginger through the clustered bridal party, and guest, Cameron Bourcher, out of the drawing room, down the hall, their footsteps echoing with fading ooohs and ahhhs over Cameron, who apparently arrived via his private jet.

  “Really, Ginger, the old homestead is lovely.” Bridgett walked with her onto the veranda, into the rain-soaked night. Bridgett’s instructions to the homestead billowed in the frosty air.

  “Go to the end of this driveway . . .” she circled her hand in the air. “Turn left like you’re going back to the main road. About twenty yards down . . .” She leaned toward Eric, who had just joined them. “Wouldn’t you say about twenty yards?”

  “Roughly. Just look for the sign.”

  “Right, the sign. It’s on your left. It says ‘Homestead.’ Can’t miss it. Turn there and just keep going straight until you run into the old place. A one-story ranch.”

  “Do I need a key or anything?”

  “Nope, Daddy keeps it unlocked.”

  “Then how can you say it’s safe?” Tom’s voice boomed over Ginger’s left shoulder.

  “Because it’s a mile out that way . . . because the plantation is gated.” Bridgett swatted at Tom. “Stop being a killjoy. The homestead is safe, Ginger.”

  “The woods aren’t gated.” Tom moved to the edge of the veranda, staring into the darkness.

  “And what’s back there?” Bridgett demanded. “Nothing but deer and wildlife.”

  “Maybe a bear or two.”

  “Now you’re just making stuff up.”

  Ginger stepped forward, unwilling to be an object in their debate, tugging her keys from her jeans pocket. “Turn left at the sign?”

  “You can’t miss it.” Bridgett smiled. “See you in the morning. Come early for breakfast. Oh, Ginger, tomorrow’s my big day.”

  “I’ll be here at eight to set up.” Ginger took one step down. “You’re going to be beautiful.” If she was banished to the outer regions of the Maynard plantation, she was going to do it with grace. “I’m bringing my A-game tomorrow.”

  “I knew you would. I showed you the look I wanted, right? The one on Tracie’s last album. That was your handiwork?”

  “It was, and I’m all set to make you even more beautiful than Tracie.” Now, let’s forget this mess and move on. Ginger moved down the steps, through the freezing rain, keys gripped in her hand.

  If she was known only for making others beautiful, if that was her life’s signature, wouldn’t that be enough?

  Slipping behind the VW’s wheel, Ginger slammed the door and fought a surprise wash of tears. No, it wasn’t enough. The heart wants what it wants. And Ginger’s heart wanted love and freedom from her scars.

  But for now, she was tired, and mulling this over would only make her sad and she didn’t want to be sad. It took too much energy.

  Ginger started the engine and shifted into first, willing her thumping heart to settle down. She’d promised Bridgett her A-game. And being tired and sad was not part of her strategy.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the rest of the guests had come out to the veranda. They huddled together, laughing, being the bold and beautiful.

  Easing off the clutch, she cut the wheel to move around a giant truck with mud on the tires and undercarriage when the passenger door jerked open and a wet, shivering Tom Wells dropped in.

  “Excuse me? What are you doing?”

  “I’m going with you.” He reached for the center dash sliders. “Got any heat in this old thing?”

  “Tom, no, you don’t have to come with me.” Ginger moved the silver slider to the right, powering up the heat. Hear that, heart? You don’t need him.

  “It’s raining, freezing, dark, with an obscure path. Shoot, I’d want someone to go with me. Besides, I heard Eric ask if the power had been turned on and Bridgett didn’t know. There’s a power box on the side of the house.”

  “Tom, you still don’t have to come with me. I’ll figure it out.” Wasn’t that the way she lived life? On her own, figuring it out?

  He glared at her through the muted light of the dash and their visual exchange did something to her. Something scary and wild. Like making her want to touch him.

  But she’d never touched a man other than to wash his hair.

  “Really,” she said with a wide, forced smile. “I’m fine.” Ginger patted his knee, once, oh so lightly, but she felt a plump of muscle beneath her fingertips.

  “Too bad.” He caught her hand, giving it a tender squeeze. “I’m riding along. Now, let’s get moving.”

  The night rain poured from celestial buckets. Tom rode silently alongside Ginger, debating with himself why he’d forced her to accept his help.

  So he could apologize for the past? So he could be near her? All of the above?

  Watching the overgrown and rutted road through the VW’s bouncing headlights, it was hard to see exactly where they were going. Man, it was dark and wet out. For this alone, he was glad he nudged in.

  “Careful, Ginger, there’s a big—” Tom braced as the nose of the VW Bug crashed into a rain-gutted rut. “Rut.” Did Bridgett sincerely mean to send Ginger out in this gully-washer alone?

  “Sorry.” She jerked the wheel right, then left, down shifting, trying to maneuver through the pitted path.

  “This is crazy. We’re a mile from a marble and crystal plantation with three stories. Couldn’t you have slept in one of the many parlors or living rooms?”

  “Tom, don’t, please.”

  Fine. He could tell his ranting only wounded her more. But it just burned him that Bridgett had so casually booted Ginger from the house.

  “ ‘With slaughterous sons of thunder rolled the flood,’ ” he said.

  She clutched, shifted, jerked the wheel, voice tense when she said, “So you read Tennyson?”

  “Just that one line. He claimed to have written that line when he was eight.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I suppose I have to.” The VW slowed, wheels spinning in mud, then shot forward, and continued down the socalled road. “I can’t challenge him on it, can I?”

  She laughed softly. “No, you can’t. Do you read a lot?”

  “As I have time. Some poetry. Novels. Theology books. Memoirs.”

  “I love books. Novels, poetry, memoirs, no theology though.”

  “I remember you as the math whiz.” He liked the gentle turn of the conversation.

  “I like math, but I read a lot when I was recovering from . . .” She hit another deep rut. Muddy water shot in front of the headlights. “Ah, this is no man’s land.”

  “I’m sure Bridgett didn’t realize—”

  “Don’t say a word to her.” Ginger released the wheel long enough to scold him with a wagging finger. “It’s bad enough she announced there was no room for me in front of everyone. It’s another thing if you go to her complaining on my behalf.”

  “She should know,” Tom said, his voice metered with the bumping and swaying of the VW—which was rapidly losing the rutted field versus small car battle.

  “Then speak for yourself. Leave my name out of it. I mean it. I’ll be gone soon enough.”

  He cut a glance her way. The dash lights accented the smooth angles of her face and set off the highlights of her sable-colored eyes.

  “Can I at least pay for you to drive this li
ttle beast through a car wash?”

  Ginger laughed, the engine moaning as she gently eased the car through a hungry puddle and nearly stalled. “Where is this homestead she spoke of so highly?”

  “Keep going.” Tom squinted through the rain. “It’s so dark out here.”

  Another rut and the Beetle Bug’s engine whined, stuttered, knocked. Ginger patted the dash. “Almost there, Matilda. Come on, baby.”

  “Yeah, come on Matilda.” Tom ran his hand over the metal dash. “Good girl, you can do it.”

  The VW splashed through a large puddle, then found traction on a patch of solid ground. Ginger gaped at him, shifting into a higher gear. “Seems even Matilda is subject to your charms.”

  “Even Matilda? I’m not sure my so-called charms work on any of the ladies.”

  “Ha, right. Weren’t you the one who made sure you had a date every Saturday night?”

  “Is there anything your elephant brain doesn’t remember?”

  “Yes, like why I agreed to do this wedding.” Ginger groaned as the VW nosed into another pothole and ground to a stop, jerking the two of them forward.

  She clutched and shifted, urging the car onward. But the Bug moaned and rattled, and the tires spun without traction.

  “Reverse,” Tom said. “See if we can back out.” Nothing doing. More tire spinning and slipping, more engine lamenting. “Cut the wheel left, then hit the gas.”

  But the ground was too drenched and the revving engine lacked the horsepower to heave the little car out of the mire.

  “Ginger?”

  “What?” She stared straight ahead, letting out a heavy sigh.

  “We’re stuck.”

  “I’m so glad you came with me, Tom. Otherwise I’d sit here wondering all night what happened.”

  He liked being with her one-on-one, liked when she shed her shyness and timidity. “Fine, I’m Captain Obvious. It’s the way I roll.” Tom peered through the dash to the edge of the headlights. If there was a homestead on the horizon, he couldn’t see it through the rain. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he glanced back to see if the big house was in view. Might be easier to turn around than go forward. But it wasn’t. “So what’s your plan?”

  “Can we call someone? Who owns that big monster truck? Can they get us out?”

  “Scott Ellis owns the truck. I don’t have his number but I can try Eric or Edward, have them send him out.” Tom tugged his phone from his jeans pocket, calling Edward first, then Eric. No answer with either one. “Guess we’re on our own.”

  “Let me try Bridgett.” Ginger reached behind her seat, pulled her bag around, and dug out her phone. Her effort netted the same result as Tom. No answer.

  Guess there was only one thing to do. He reached for his door handle. “I’ll push. Stay in first gear. When I say go, gently, and I do mean gently, let off the clutch and give it a little gas.” Tom cracked the door open, letting in the wet and the cold. “Cut the wheel to the left, and try to find the most solid ground you can.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” She motioned to the door. “You’re seriously going to push?”

  “Unless you want the honors.”

  She hesitated, then unsnapped her seat belt. “Yes, of course, I should push. It is my car.”

  Tom snatched her arm before she could open her door. “Do you want my manly-man card too? Please, I’ll never live it down with the guys if they hear you pushed. Let me do this. You’re the driver of this team.” Beneath the wooly knit of her sweater, he could feel the rough, ribbed skin of her arm. He’d always wanted to ask her about how it all happened. He’d only heard bits and pieces of a trailer fire. How painful it must have been. Then to live with the constant reminder . . .

  “We’re not a team.” She slipped her arm from his touch.

  “Okay . . . we are for now. Unless you want to sit here all night.” He jostled her shoulder, also coarse and jagged beneath her sweater. “Come on, if I can’t push us out of this, I’ll hand in my man and Marine cards.”

  She reared back. “You were a Marine?”

  “Yes, and still am, I guess. Hoorah. Just no longer on active duty. Ready?” Popping open his door, Tom’s first step sank into a pool of icy water, filling his shoe with ooze. Nice. He sloshed around to the back of the car, the rain soaking his hair and jacket, slipping down his collar, trickling down his neck and back.

  At the back of the old Beetle, Tom anchored his backside against the car, hooking his hands under the fender as he tried to find good footing. He’d bet his ruined Nikes that the temperature had dropped a southern, damp, frigid degree or two in the past fifteen minutes.

  “Ginger?” he called, glancing around, the rain water draining into his eyes and the crevasses of his face. “Ready?”

  The engine whirred, coming to life. Tom ducked into place. “Okay, go!”

  He pushed, his feet anchored against nothing but ooze, as Ginger fed the Bug a bit of gas.

  But all combined, their efforts produced nothing but spinning tires and spewing mud. Extracting his feet from the sucking mud, Tom sloshed over to Ginger’s window and tapped on the glass. She inched it open.

  “Hey, Tom, I think we’re still stuck.”

  He laughed. “Now you’re Captain Obvious. I’m going to rock the car a bit. You didn’t eat a lot of food at the buffet, did you?”

  “Such a funny man you are.” She shut the window and faced forward, a slight, happy curve on her lips.

  Yeah, she wasn’t as hard and defensive as she let on. Tom rounded back to the VW, the rain still thick and heavy. If it took this to get to know her, to break down the barriers, he’d do it again. And again.

  “Okay, Ginger, give this Beetle Bug some juice!”

  The engine rumbled as she let off the clutch. Tom rocked the car, straining to dislodge it, adding his Marine muscles to the German horsepower.

  Come on . . . He’d dealt with worse in Afghanistan. Lord, can You get us out of this?

  The car lurched free, dropping a shivering, soaked-to-the-bone Tom into the mud. The red taillights beamed five feet ahead. Ginger tooted the horn in celebration.

  Thanks, Lord.

  Pushing out of the mud, Tom scrambled for the passenger door. But Ginger stuck out her hand as he started to sit.

  “I just had the car detailed.”

  “W-what?”

  “And these are leather seats.”

  “Y-you’re joking.” Meanwhile, rain slithered down his face, into his ears, and pooled at the base of his neck.

  “Yeah, I’m joking. Get in here. You’re letting in the cold air.” Her laugh warmed his soul.

  “You’re a regular riot, Alice.” He dropped into the seat with a squishy slosh. “Where’s a hero’s welcome when he deserves one?”

  “You’re right. Thank you. Very much. The stallion of Rosebud to my rescue.” She shoved the heat slider to high and eased the Bug forward.

  “Boy, you do remember everything. The stallions of Rosebud . . . I haven’t thought of that nickname in a long time.” He ran his hands though his drenched hair but there was no place to dry his cold, wet hands. “Sorry about this mess.”

  “When you don’t have a life, you pay close attention to others.” She chuckled softly. “I can still see you, Eric, Edward, and Kirk Vaughn strutting down the school halls, three abreast, patting your chests on football Fridays, rapping some stallions of Rosebud song.”

  Tom laughed. “Yep, ‘We’re the stallions . . . of Rosebud High . . . fear the name, we’re what we claim, when you’re not looking, we’re gonna crush ya . . .” He drummed the rhythm on the dash. “Ole Kirk, I miss him.” Kirk had gone pro but died in a small aircraft crash while doing mission work during the off season.

  At his funeral, Tom’s heart first stirred toward full-time ministry. Something he swore he’d never do. He’d watched his father and wanted nothing of that life.

  “Such a senseless death.”

  “I can still hear Eric’s voice w
hen he called to tell me . . . I couldn’t believe it.” Tom glanced at her. “But Kirk died doing something he believed in. At his funeral, I stood in the back of Brotherhood Community Center—there had to be a thousand people crammed in there—and bawled like a baby. That day changed me.”

  “How did that day change you?” The VW nosed down again. Ginger urged the car with a bit more gas, trying to move quickly through the rut.

  “I just knew. No more fooling around with God. I had to get serious.”

  “Serious with God? Were you not serious? The preacher’s kid?”

  “I was the opposite of serious.” The car hit another water patch and fishtailed sideways before listing to port, finding another rut and sinking. The engine gurgled and died with a tired sigh.

  “No, no, no,” Ginger rocked in her seat, trying to reignite the engine. But the rain, ruts, and mud had won. “Matilda, we were almost there.” She pointed to a small light on the distant horizon before turning to Tom. “See if you can push.”

  “Ginger, face it. Elements one, VW Bug with humans, zero.” Tom leaned out his door, looking under the car. “The back left is buried.” He ducked back inside. “We’re going to have to walk.”

  “Walk? In this?” Ginger angled over the wheel, peering at the rain. “Maybe we can wait it out.”

  As if the heavens heard, the clouds rumbled, lightning flickered, and the rain fell in double-time. The car sank a bit lower.

  Tom offered her his hand. “I say we run for it. You with me? Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Dear diary, Bridgett Maynard’s wedding was a blast. I got to run in the rain and mud.” Ginger popped open the glove box, producing a flashlight, then slipped the keys from the ignition and reached around behind the seat for her purse and small duffle bag. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I was on a patrol like this one night in Afghanistan.”

  “In a VW?” Ginger clicked on the flashlight, shot open her door, and stepped out. “Oh, wow, it’s cold. And muddy. Ew, I’m sinking.”

  “No, in a Humvee. And hold on.” He sloshed his way around to her and without hesitating or pausing to see if she’d care, he slipped his hand into hers and pulled her past the car onto a piece of solid ground. “Better?”