How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  She’d tossed and turned half the night, trying to piece together Edward and Tom’s story as she listened to the rain. It peeled off around midnight as a strong wind swept over the grounds, batting the western corner of the homestead.

  Mama and Reverend Wells? Ginger counted a half a dozen times she’d seen Mama talking to the senior pastor, but she never imagined there was anything more than a how-do between them.

  Mrs. Wells, Tom’s mama, was a beautiful, well-respected woman. And nice. Not cranky and twisted-up like her own mama, used and spit out from too many poor relationship choices.

  Mama never listened to anyone when it came to men. She picked her man and that was it. The police could show her a rap sheet a mile long but if Mama believed in him, wanted him, she hung on like a dog with a bone.

  Dressed and ready for the day, Ginger chose a scarf from her duffle—a dark forest green—and wound it around her neck. She wanted to get her stuff from the car and get to the main house before Tom showed up. She didn’t need him to rescue her.

  But his defense of her last night resonated with her. He’d stood up for her. The notion warmed her with some sort of hope.

  With a glance in the mirror, she secured her scarf, then headed out, slipping on her jacket and looping her purse over her head. If she learned anything as Shana Winter’s daughter, it was not to mistake kindness as affection. Or love. She’d end up like Mama if she didn’t watch it—bitter and used up.

  She already knew no man would ever want to hold her ugly, scarred body.

  Dawn had not yet kissed the meadow, so if she hurried, she’d be at the house before Tom was out of bed. Plan for the day? Avoid him as much as possible.

  But when she opened the door and stepped into the crisp morning, she was confronted with a white orb of a light and Tom Wells astride a ginormous horse.

  “Good morning.”

  Ginger stumbled back, hand over her heart. “Good grief, you scared me. What are you doing here so early?” She pointed to the mocha-colored beast. “On that?”

  “Waiting for you. Help you get your car out of the mud.” He aimed the flashlight at her feet. “It’s still a mess out there.”

  “Well then, let’s go.” She hammered down the steps with a manufactured bravado, shoving past him and his monstrous mount.

  “Ginger, you don’t have to walk.” Tom chirruped to the horse, bouncing the flashlight over the grassy, muddy path still shadowed in the remainder of night.

  “I’m not getting on that thing.” Ginger pointed back at the horse and plodded on, jumping over the muddiest parts, grateful for Tom’s light since she’d clearly forgotten hers. “What happened to Scott’s truck?”

  “He got stuck himself doing some midnight mudding. The Maynards’ stable horses are here, so I borrowed one to come help you.”

  “Seriously . . . with a horse?” Ginger’s next step sank into a gloppy rut hidden by a clump of wild grass.

  “Have you seen this brute? He could pull a barn off its foundation. He’s a worker, Ginger.” Tom landed the light on her, his sweet chuckle floating down around her. But she didn’t dare look up. “We hitch your VW to his harness, he’ll be like, ‘What’s this little thing chained to me?’ ” Tom’s laugh traveled through the cold dawn.

  Ginger stopped, glancing up at him. “You think this is funny? I have a job to do and you’re making jokes.”

  “Then why are you being stubborn about help? Ginger, get on the horse.” Tom extended his hand toward her. “You’re sinking deeper as we speak.”

  “I’ve got this.” The farther away she strode from the house, the softer the ground and the wetter the grass. Her feet plunged into the mud, loading down the hem of her jeans.

  “You got this?” Tom dismounted and sloshed alongside her, guiding her with the flashlight’s wide beam. “Mind telling me how you’re going to get your car out of the mud?”

  She stopped, turning around, causing him to pull up short just before she spun into his thick, sculpted chest. “I . . . have . . . no . . . idea. There, you happy?”

  He stiffened, drawing back. “Wow, forgive me. I didn’t know you wore bitter so well.”

  She stepped into him, releasing the scent of clean cotton and soapy skin. “I find out about your dad and my mama from Ed Frizz? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He sighed, running his hand the length of the horse’s reins, aiming the flashlight down at his feet. “I didn’t know myself until a few months ago. At the time of the move, my parents told my sister and me they had marriage issues to work on but that everything would be all right. When I told Dad I was returning to Rosebud to start a church, he gave up the rest of the story. That Shana Winters was the reason he had to leave.”

  “What kind of reason? Edward seemed to know a whole sordid bunch.”

  “Yeah, Ed’s a blowhard. He likes playing the role of big shot but he doesn’t know any more than I do.”

  “But he thinks he does and he’s using it to tell you what to do.”

  “No, he’s not. It’s just Ed being Ed.” He sighed and clicked to the horse to walk on. “Let’s just get your car out of the mud, then you can drive to the house.”

  Ginger stopped, wrestling with the sense she was the bad guy in this scenario. Tom was the hero, literally riding up on a dark horse to save her. How then was it her fault Tom’s father and her mother had been somehow involved? Which made Ed cast shadows on her?

  Ginger’s emotions flowed into words. “Hey, I’m not the bad guy here.” She chased after him, stumbling into yet another sloppy mudhole to coat the hem of her jeans. “No one said a word to me. Never heard one shred of Rosebud gossip. Come on, I’m the scarred, freak girl. Surely someone was dying to tell me how my mama toppled the county’s most successful preacher.”

  Ginger’s intensity shaved the ice from the air. The gelding raised his head, snorting, his breath billowing from his broad nose.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Ginger. But between now and three days ago, when was I supposed to do that? ‘Hey, I haven’t seen you in a dozen years, and oh by the way, how about your mom falling in love with my dad? What a trip!’ ”

  “Is that what happened?” Now that would be typical Mama. Always loving what she couldn’t have, from cars to men to other people’s daughters—the pretty, smoothed-skinned ones.

  “Yes.” He peered down at her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I left town without talking to you. And for never writing or calling. I was so mad for so long, then I didn’t know what to say once I got over myself.”

  “T-thank you. Sorry for hating you ever since.”

  “Hating me?” He slapped his hand to his chest. “Really?”

  “Okay, maybe not hate but really, really dislike. Strongly.” She spied her poor, sinking Bug in the distance. Reaching for his arm, she raised the flashlight’s beam. “There she blows.”

  “She looks so sad. I think she missed us.”

  “Do you hate her? My mom?” Ginger jumped a puddle, heading for her car. “For whatever she did?”

  “There’s no benefit in hating anyone. Takes too much energy and returns so little. In truth, though, my parents both say the whole situation worked for good.”

  “Worked for good? I find that hard to believe.” Ginger glanced over at Tom, the pale light of dawn rising behind him, accenting his broad shoulders.

  “It’s a gift of God. Working all things for good.” He muttered a low “whoa” as they approached the VW. “Easy, Clyde.”

  “So this is Clyde?” Ginger hesitated, reaching up to stroke his nose. Clyde shoved his head against her palm. She jumped back with a short laugh.

  “He likes beautiful women,” Tom said, walking the workhorse around to the front of the car.

  He’d said it again. Called her beautiful. Twice in less than twelve hours. The notion warmed her down to her cold toes. But surely he didn’t mean it. Not really. Perhaps in some metaphorical, symbolic way. But oh, she wanted to believe.

  Kneelin
g by the car, Tom hooked a set of chains to the chassis, talking to Clyde in low, tender words. “Good boy . . . you can do this . . . hang with me gentle giant . . . then we’ll get you home, cleaned up, with a bucket of oats for breakfast.”

  Emotion swelled in Ginger’s chest. No one had ever spoken to her in such sweet tones except Grandpa.

  Not even when she was pulled from the fire, when she lay in a hospital bed weeping from the pain, did anyone offer her kind encouragement.

  “Ginger,” Mama used to say. “Stop all these tears. There’s just no other way to heal but go through the treatments. Now, come on, do you want to watch Gilmore Girls reruns with me?”

  Tears pushed to the surface as Tom hopped up, claiming, “Ready.” Ginger ducked behind the back of the car to hide her swimming eyes.

  “Born ready.”

  “You all right?” His soft tone drifted over her shoulder and into her soul.

  “Yeah, whatever, let’s just do this.” Ginger wiped her eyes clear and ducked behind the car, hands on the engine’s hood, bracing to push, her feet sinking into the wet, cold ground.

  “Ginger, you don’t have to—”

  “Tom, can we just get this done? I need to get cleaned up before Mrs. James comes down for her appointment.”

  “Okay. But you drive, I’ll push.” He bent over her, his nose inches from hers. She could see straight through his sea-blue eyes and into his guileless soul.

  “D-drive?” She swallowed.

  “Steer? Find the high ground . . .” Tom threaded Clyde’s reins between the open door and the windshield.

  “Yeah, right.” She tugged her keys from her pocket, her heart firing. No, you can’t do this. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath, shutting down her heart’s puttering. “I drive, you push.”

  He grinned. “Sounds like a plan. Ready?” Tom stepped back, but held a narrow gaze on Ginger. “You sure you’re all right?” He angled forward. “I mean with the news and all. It’s okay if you’re not. We dumped a shocking truth on you last night. Did you call your mom?”

  “No. And Tom, stop trying to be Mr. Fix It. Let’s goooo already.”

  “Pardon me for caring.” His sharp tone pierced her fragile facade. When he moved to the back of the car, Ginger sat behind the wheel.

  Oh, Mama . . .

  “Here we go,” he called. “Clyde, chirrup. Go boy, go.”

  Ginger shifted into neutral and gripped the wheel as Clyde lowered his head and leaned into his harness, air clouds swelling from under his nose. Ginger turned the ignition but the wet engine sputtered and moaned. The tires spun and whirred, finding no traction.

  “Push,” she called.

  “I’m pushing.”

  Tom chirruped to Clyde again and in one lunge, the grand beast freed the car from the mud. With a shout, Ginger fired up the engine by popping the clutch. The small motor sputtered to life.

  Shifting into neutral, Ginger jumped out. “We did it.”

  But no one told Clyde his mission was complete. With an easy gait, he trotted on, the engine sputtering.

  “Hey, horse, wait—” The back wheel-well grazed Ginger’s leg, shoving her to the ground, face first into a very cold puddle.

  “Ginger, are you all right?” Tom, trying not to laugh, extended his hand.

  “Do I look all right?” She clasped her hand in his, rising from the mud, watching as Clyde picked up his pace, gaining the feel for old Matilda, and galloped toward the plantation house, the open car door swinging from side to side, Clyde’s reins slapping the Bug’s interior.

  “Ginger, why didn’t you grab the reins?”

  “B-because . . . y-you didn’t tell me to grab the reins. Why didn’t you grab them?” She flipped her hand at him, ignoring the flutter in her middle inspired by Tom’s sparkling grin. She scooped the mud from her shirt and jeans. “Look at me . . . I’m covered.” With a grumble, she adjusted her scarf and started walking, cold, muddy water slinking over the top of her ankle boots.

  “Want some company?” Tom skipped alongside her.

  “Only if you can keep quiet.” The breeze nipped at her, and the golden warmth of the sun peeking over the edge of dawn seemed galaxies away.

  She needed to think, deal with the big issue, the dark hole in the pit of her stomach. A hole formed long before she learned that her mama had liaised with a pastor, before Tom Wells Jr. ever entered her life.

  This particular hole existed despite her résumé of a big-city career, successful years with Tracie Blue, or ownership of Ginger Snips in the center of Main Street.

  She, Ginger Lee Winters, was stuck. In life. In her heart. In what she believed about God, herself, and Tom. Cold tears threatening, Ginger quickened her pace, avoiding the heat of Tom’s gaze.

  “You okay?” The tenor of Tom’s voice sweetened her mood.

  Ginger squinted up at him.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Tom evened his stride to match hers. “Maybe because I like you.”

  Ginger laughed, loud, plodding on through the long grass, combating the swirling, swooning sensation of Tom’s confession. Like her? No man liked her. Not in the way his tone indicated.

  After a moment she stopped. He was a man of God—maybe he knew the answer to her nagging question. “Does God care?”

  “Yes.” Sure. Without hesitation. Catching her off guard. She expected him to pause, ponder, hem-and-haw. Because how could a man really know if God cared?

  “Yes? Just like that?” She snapped her fingers in the icy air.

  “Yes, just like that.” He didn’t move his eyes from her face. And she flamed on the inside.

  Ginger walked on. “Okay, yeah, I guess it’s too early in the morning for a serious conversation.”

  “I am serious. Any time you want to talk, let me know.”

  She glanced over at him, saying nothing, feeling more conflicted and twisted up than before she asked the question.

  If God cared, where was He when she was trapped in the fire? Where was He in the years following? She liked being mad at Him, thinking He owed her something.

  But at the moment, what bothered her more than the news about Mama or that God left her in a fire, was the fact that Tom Wells Jr. looked every bit like she imagined Jesus might if she met Him in person. Warm, kind, without accusation, but with a blue-eyed intensity.

  However, on this cold wedding morning, she was not ready to trust any overtures of kindness, of love. Not from Tom Wells. And especially not from God.

  The atmosphere in the third-floor atrium was electric. Gone were the cold, embedded fragments of her morning in the mud with Tom and Clyde, who, by the way, nudged Ginger’s shoulder after Tom unhitched him from the car as if to say, “You’re welcome.” She felt a rush of joy at the tenderness of the gentle giant.

  However, digging out of the mud, communing with horses, cracking open her heart, even the tiniest bit, to Tom Wells, and musing over her past and the existence of God was completely out of Ginger’s element.

  But in a room full of women, doing hair? This was Ginger Winters’s wheelhouse. And she intended to never leave. Gone were her insecurities and trepidations.

  Once she and Tom arrived at the barn, where Clyde had taken the VW, Ginger accepted Tom’s help to unload and haul in her crates and cases. They did so in a contemplative silence that was not quite comfortable but not at all awkward.

  He bid her a quick good-bye when they were done, holding onto her gaze for a second longer than her beating heart could stand, then jogged down the hallway.

  Ginger slapped her hand over her heart, willing every beating corpuscle to forget the handsome visage of one Tom Wells Jr.

  Ducking into the bathroom, she’d rinsed off in a hot shower, soaping away the chill of the dawn, cleaning off the mud and sending any lingering thoughts of him down the drain.

  Then she dug clean clothes from her bag and tugged on her spare boots, entering the atrium, her heels resounding on the tile.


  By three-thirty, she’d coiffed, twisted, teased, and sprayed the hair of three grandmothers, two mothers, one great-aunt, seven bridesmaids, and two flower girls.

  All the while the music was blasting everything from Michael Bublé to Jesus Culture to Beyoncé’s “All the Single Ladies.”

  Laughter tinged along with the music, becoming a part of the melody and percussion.

  Right now the bridesmaids were circling Bridgett, turning up the music, belting out the lyrics with their heads back, arms wide. “You call me out beyond the shore into the waves . . . You make me brave . . .”

  Ginger closed her eyes, leaning against the makeshift beauty station, breathing in the lyrics. If there was a God who cared, could He make her brave? She liked the idea of it all.

  A blip of laughter from the older women chatting on the matching sofas caught her attention.

  They reclined in their wedding attire, the glitter in their dresses snapping up the light draining through the high arching windows, and sipping a fruity Ginger Ale punch.

  “I sure could have used a song like this on my wedding day.” One of the grandmas pointed to the singing circle. “I was so nervous I could barely stand let alone belt out a song with my bridesmaids. It took all of my gumption to make it down the aisle.”

  “That’s nothing,” said the great-aunt. “At my wedding, Daddy turned to me just as the pianist started the bridal march and said, ‘Lovie, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want.’ Lord a-mercy, I liked to have crowned him right then and there.”

  Ginger smiled and checked her watch, picking up her own punch glass. Three forty-five. An hour and forty-five minutes until the wedding. So as soon as Bridgett was done singing about bravery, Ginger would have her in the chair.

  Hair and makeup was her world. Where she was in command, captain of her destiny. But out there, in the everyday world, she was the poor, pitied, scarred one. And now the daughter of the woman who took down a preacher.

  Which was why she’d remain hidden in her shop behind long sleeves and peacock-colored scarves. And she’d glean a little of life from the women and men who entered her shop, sat in her chair, and told her their stories.