by Cindy Kirk
The song ended and the girls laughed and cheered, drawing Bridgett into a hug, forming a magical bloom of beauty.
Ginger would never fit in their garden. She’d be pruned for sure.
But in the field of helping others, ushering every woman, young and old, into a realm of beauty, she’d thrive.
“Oh, Ginger, look, my hair is coming undone.” Miranda broke from the circle with panic in her voice, making her way to Ginger. “Look.” She patted the loose weave Ginger had given her.
“Have a seat.” Ginger patted the chair, squinting at Miranda’s sandy-beach colored updo. It was perfect. And practically impossible to fall since she’d plastered it in place.
“How about some long strands . . . for curls?” Miranda said, trying to tug strands from the clips.
“Mandy, good grief, let Ginger do her job. She’s the best. Your hair is perfect.” Bridgett stood off to the right, beaming, wrapped in a white robe and drinking a sparkling water.
“I just like long curls over my shoulder.”
“Because you always wear long curls over your shoulder. Be brave, do something new.”
Ginger smiled at Miranda through the mirror. “Trust me, this twist works perfectly for your face. If you want curls, we’d have to start all over which means washing your hair.”
Miranda made a face. “Fine, but I still think some long curls around my neck would look good.” She pointed at Bridgett. “Wait until you’re in this chair. You’ll be bossing Ginger around all right.”
“Watch me. I’m going to face away from the mirror, that’s how much I trust her.”
“Then here you go.” Miranda stood, shaking the folds from her long gown. “Your turn to be brave.”
Without a word, Bridgett turned the chair away from the mirror and sat with a glare at her friend. “Ginger, do your thing.” She glanced up. “We go back a long way, don’t we?”
“We do.” In these moments, high school became a mythical, fun place with treasured memories, where, for a brief second in time, Ginger was a part of the sorority.
“Remember when you pulled my backside from the fire the night I tried to—” A deep red blushed Bridgett’s cheeks as she stumbled over her words. “I mean, the night I tried to . . .” She swallowed, “. . . color my hair, and . . . green. Everywhere . . . green.”
“It was a class A emergency.” Ginger let the reference to fire pass. When she commanded her space, not even her dark tragedy overshadowed her.
“It was my first date with Eric and my hair was all kinds of messed up. I ran, literally, to Ginger’s house, crying the whole way.”
“And look at you now,” Ginger said.
“Marrying”—Bridgett’s voice broke—“that same man.”
“Who probably would’ve never noticed green hair.”
“True, so very true.” Bridgett’s laugh sweetened the room, and the bridesmaids ahhhed.
Ginger combed through Bridgett’s slightly curled hair, then divided it into sections, planning to fashion a light updo with tendrils drifting down the curve of her neck. Because the bride’s hairstyle should tell her story, reflect her essence.
Bridgett’s updo was intricate with twists and curls, but entirely and altogether elegant and rich.
Ginger teased the top of the hair, slipping into her space of contentment and peace. Because no matter how scarred or hideous she was to others, no one could take this away from her.
If she had any true courage, she might bless the tragedy that introduced her to her destiny, to her superpower.
As she twisted and pinned Bridgett’s hair, the women continued talking, laughing, calming the distraught wedding planner who barged into the room announcing the flowers had not yet been delivered.
Ginger watched the drama through a covert gaze, all the while twisting, tucking, and smoothing. When Bridgett’s hair was pinned and frozen in place with hair freeze, her mother called for the dress. The designer entered along with her assistant as Bridgett stood.
“Here we go.” She glanced back at the mirror, then at Ginger, her eyes glistening. “Exactly how I imagined my hair. Thank you.”
Suddenly the burn of the previous night’s banishment dissipated and all was right with the world.
Slipping from her white robe, Bridgett stepped into the fur-trimmed gown, fitting it on her shoulders and setting it on her slim waist, the crystal beading catching the light.
Then, like bustling elves, they straightened and buttoned, helped Bridgett with her shoes, then last, handed her veil over to Ginger.
“Will you do the honors?” her mother said.
Standing on a stool, Ginger fitted the comb at the base of Bridgett’s silken poof and draped the blusher over her face.
“Oh darling . . .” Mrs. Maynard cupped her hands over her mouth, not worried about her tears streaking her makeup. “You look beautiful, simply, elegantly beautiful.”
“Eric’s eyes are going to pop out of his head.” Miranda said.
Bridgett glided across the room to the full-length mirror and sighed. “Just like I dreamed.” She turned to Ginger. “I knew you’d make me beautiful.”
“I think Mother Nature took care of that for you.”
Bridgett was the perfect bride, the prettiest Ginger had ever seen. And now that her job was done, she felt herself slipping from her empowered zone into the wishing well of wanting to a part of the bold and the beautiful.
But she’d never be a bride, let alone one like Bridgett. Ginger slipped out of the atrium onto the deck and leaned against the railing, breathing deep, swallowing the truth.
Ginger watched the reception from the doorway of the plantation’s grand ballroom, away from the guests and the photographers ducking in and out of the shadows of the ornate plantation ballroom with a fresco ceiling and an imported tile floor.
The guests dined under the light of a handcrafted Waterford chandelier that disseminated light like golden scepters.
Candlelight flickered on linen-draped tables adorned with polished silver and custom-designed China. In the far corner of the room, a fire roared in the river-rock fireplace.
The aroma of prime rib and roasted duck lingered in the air as the best man and maid of honor toasted the bride and groom. While the guests cheered and silver tinkled against cut crystal glasses, Eric kissed Bridgett and the band started a Glenn Miller tune.
In less than a music measure, the dance floor was thick with folks juking and jiving.
Ginger sighed. Every hairdo she had sculpted today remained in perfect place. Of course . . .
Proud of a job well done, she debated now if she should just go on home. It was getting late and she was tired. And, despite her success with the grandmothers, mothers, aunts, and bridesmaids, she felt a little out of place and alone.
“Hey.”
Ginger glanced around to find Tom approaching. “Hey.”
“Having fun?”
“Sure.”
Tom leaned against the other side of the doorway. “Word is Bridgett’s stylist is nothing short of a wonderkid. You brought out the best in her. In all of them.”
Ginger gestured to the beaming groom. “I think he’s the one that really brings out the best in her.”
Bridgett was a vision. She’d changed into a simple white satin gown for the reception, accented with a white, wintery shrug. Eric drank her in with such adoration and desire that Ginger could only watch for a moment, feeling as if she were a voyeur into his intimate, private feelings.
With a sigh, she slipped her hand into her hip pocket. Just once, she’d like a man to look at her with such admiration. Such love. To take her in his arms and move across the dance floor.
She loved dancing. Or at least she thought she did. She’d never been on a dance floor.
“By the way, when I was giving Clyde his oats he said to tell you hi.”
She snorted a laugh, covering her lips with her fingers. He got to her way too easily. “Tell Clyde hi back.”
“He said
he’d like to give you a ride sometime.”
“How sweet. But I don’t do horses.”
“Yeah?” His tone smiled.
“Yeah.” She tried to sound fun and sexy but her shallow breath made her voice thin and weak.
“Do you like dancing?”
“I used to watch dancing videos all the time. Mama would rent them for me from Blockbuster.” Ginger stood straight, pinching her lips. Hey, no giving up secrets.
“But have you ever danced? On a dance floor? With a man?”
“Does it matter?” She faced Tom, hesitated, then gathered a wad of courage and pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, exposing the harsh terrain of her arm. She didn’t dare expose her side or back. This would be enough to gross him out. “No one wants to dance with this.”
“You seem to know what others think without asking them.” He tried to snatch her hand but she was too quick.
“I don’t need to know what they think.” She shook her arm at him. “This is ugly, not fun to touch.” She regretted her action, exposing herself to him. Really, she needed to get in her car and drive away. In a matter of mere days, Tom Wells had flashed his light over her heart and she was nearly ready to show him her deepest, darkest corners. “I’m a freak.”
“Ginger, we’re all freaks. We’re all scarred. That’s why Jesus came. Why He died and rose again for us.”
“Yeah, that’s what a girl loves when she makes herself vulnerable. A sermon. Save it for Sunday, Tom.” She flashed her palm. “I’m not interested.”
“Ginger, come on, your scars don’t bother me.” He gently took her hand in his, then, with his eyes on hers, traced the marks on her hand and wrist.
“Stop. Let go.” She tried to wrench free but he held on. “Tom, don’t . . .”
“Your scars don’t bother me.” He held her hand a bit tighter and slid his hand along the rugged texture of her arm.
“Stop . . . please.” Her whole body trembled, shaking her to her core.
The music from the bandstand changed, slowing down to a soft, melodic “Moon River.”
“How did it happen?” He turned her arm over, exposing its tender but damaged underside, and traced his fingers, moving so delicately along the puckered ridges. “I never asked. You never told me.”
“T-the . . . rattle trap . . . trailer . . .” Each stroke of his hand stole her breath. She tried to pull free again, but lacked strength and will to really be without his touch.
A tingling sensation crept up her arm and rode over her shoulder, and down her back. A gulp of pleasure filled her chest.
Never had she been touched by a man. Never, ever had she experienced such a feeling.
“You lived in a trailer?”
“North of town, off Highway 29. The wiring was rotten, eaten by squirrels.” She should pull her arm away before she puddled at his feet. Did he realize what he was doing to her?
She swallowed, drawing a deep breath. “The place caught fire . . . I was sleeping. Mama . . . had gone out . . . after I went to bed. I called and called her but she didn’t answer. I thought she was dead. I had to find her but the only way to get out of my room was to run through the flames . . . my nightgown caught on fire.”
“Ginger, that took a lot of courage.” He held their hands palm-to-palm and linked his fingers with hers. “These scars don’t make you a freak. They are not ugly.”
“Because you don’t live with them every day. You don’t see the looks, hear the whispers. ‘Oh, isn’t it a shame?’ ‘Yes, yes it is.’ ”
“Maybe they’re amazed how a girl with such obvious scars could be so beautiful.” His low tone carried an intimacy that saturated her soul with the same intoxication as his touch.
“Stop, Tom.” She broke free and shoved down her sleeve. “You’re a preacher. You shouldn’t say things that aren’t true.” Guests were coming out of the ballroom, so Ginger fell in line with them, heading toward the foyer. Time to go.
“What’s not true?” Tom followed, intense and determined.
“That I’m beautiful.”
“But you are, Ginger.” He slipped his hand around her arm. “Would you like to dance?”
“No. You don’t have to pretend to be interested in me. To be kind.” Because she’d rather have people exclaim, “Oh what a pity,” than to discover Tom Wells was just being a nice guy.
“What if I’m not pretending?”
“To be kind?”
“To be interested.”
Ginger fell against the wall, half in the light, half in the shadow and folded her arms. “After confessing to me that my mother played a part in your father’s demise? How could you possibly be interested in me? What would Edward think?”
“Who cares? I don’t. I like you. I think we could be friends.” His breath clung to “friends” for a moment longer than necessary. “Ginger, it’s a wedding. Come on, one dance.”
She gestured toward his tuxedo, then the couples coming down the hall. “The attire is formal. I’m wearing jeans.”
“You think anyone is going to care?”
“Yes, I do. Mrs. Maynard for one. There’s a governor, two senators, and a newspaper publisher in there. And a boat load of photographers.”
“So what?” He slipped his hand into hers again and the dying embers of his touch flared again.
“Tom, do you ever listen?” Her eyes welled up. He was going to make her confess it. “I’m not one of them. One of you.” She’d pulled her hand from his. “I need to get going.” Get back to her life and her world where everything was comfortable. Where her lines were clearly drawn.
“Why do you want to watch life from the shadows?”
“Did it ever occur to you I like the shadows?”
“Did it ever occur to you that you were made for so much more?”
She stared at him, her insides a hissing stick of dynamite. Once she thought she was made for more. She’d even tried for bigger things on the road with Tracie. But . . .
“Have a good evening, Tom. Good luck with your church.” Ginger headed down the corridor. She needed to escape the house, escape all the love and happiness in the ballroom, escape Tom.
But he followed her down the hall, past the bustling kitchen, warm with the smells of roasted meat and baking bread, through the grand room toward the arching foyer with the sweeping staircase.
“Ginger, please one dance.”
And risk her heart toppling over in love? She tugged open the foyer door, inhaling the sweet scent of her escape. “Good night, Tom.”
By Wednesday the warmth and sunshine had returned to southern Alabama and Ginger settled back into her weekly routine of blue hair wash-and-blowouts, and the chatter of Ruby-Jane, Michele, and Casey.
She could almost forget the weird snow day, the odd wedding weekend, and Tom Wells Jr. with his probing power-blue eyes and intoxicating, tender touch.
Just the memory of his fingers running along her arm made her shiver.
“You cold?” Ruby-Jane said, walking by with an armload of clean towels.
“What? No. Loving these warm temps.” Ginger put the finishing touches on Mrs. Darnell’s short, teased hair.
Drat that Tom Wells. She was going to have to dump her head in one of the sinks after closing and wash that man right out of her hair.
“Well . . .” Ruby-Jane stood in the middle of the shop. “Hump day. What are y’all doing this evening? Want to try that new burger place by the shopping plaza?”
“Not me,” Michele said, counting out her tips. “We’ve got basketball tonight.”
“Church for me,” Casey said.
“Ging? What about you?”
She gazed at Ruby-Jane through the mirror. “Got plans. If you’re looking for something to do, you could finish painting the shop.”
The place looked rather awkward with one long wall painted a smooth pinkish-beige while the other remained a putrid pea green.
“Ha, nothing doing. I’ll help you if you want but I’m not staying here
by myself.”
“I would but I need to take care of something.” Ginger took command of the conversation, going over Thursday’s appointments and deciding with her stylists which supplies needed to be reordered.
Then she closed the shop and picked up Chinese takeout from Wong Chow and drove across town to Mountain Brook Apartments as the winter sun drifted beyond the edge of the earth’s curve.
Pulling into a parking spot under Mama’s second floor apartment, Ginger gathered the takeout bags and jogged up the steps.
“Hey, baby,” Mama said, smiling, taking a long inhale of the food as Ginger entered. “I was surprised you called.”
“Well, we haven’t seen each other in awhile.” Ginger slipped off her sweater, straightening the long bell sleeve of her top, glancing about the small, charming apartment, decorated with Mama’s artistic flair.
“I heard the wedding was lovely.” Mama set the fried rice on the dining table as Ginger searched the cupboards for the plates. “Just use paper. In the cabinet by the sink.”
Ginger set the plates on the table. “Bridgett was a beautiful bride. But no one expected less.”
“Did you have a nice time?”
She shrugged, taking the napkins and chopsticks from the bag. “It was a job.”
“Put any yearnings into your head?” Mama wiggled her eyebrows and did a jig across the linoleum. “Maybe a wedding of your own?”
“Hardly.”
“And why not? You’re smart, successful . . . p-pretty.”
That’s how Mama always said it. P-pretty. Stumbling. Hesitating. As if she was trying to believe her own confession.
“Actually, I didn’t come to talk about me.” Ginger sat at the table, reaching for the beef and broccoli. “Did you know Tom Wells was in town? Starting a church?”
“What?” Mama’s complexion paled, but she disguised it by jumping up. “I forgot the iced tea. I made some this afternoon.”
“Tom junior, Mama. Not senior.”
Her back stiffened and the pitcher of tea shimmied. “T-that boy who stood you up all those years ago?”