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?”
“Mama, I know.”
“Know what?” She came to the table, chin up, gaze down. “Oh, shoot, I forgot ice. Give me your cup.”
Ginger pressed her hand on Mama’s. “About you and Mr. Wells. Tom Senior.”
Mama snatched the cup, and her hand, from Ginger’s grasp. “What in the world are you talking about?” She jammed the plastic cups under the ice dispenser. “This town is a gossip petri dish.”
“Apparently not, Mama. I never heard word one about you and Pastor Wells before. Is it true? Are you the reason he left town?”
Mama pressed her forehead against the fridge, filling the cups to the brim with ice. “Certainly not. Who told you such a wild tale?” She came to the table and sat with a harrumph, tucking her bobbed copper hair behind her ears.
“Edward Frizz. Tom confirmed it.”
“Just like that?” Mama scooped more rice than she’d ever eat onto her plate. “They walked up to you at Bridgett Maynard’s wedding, of all places, and said, ‘Hey, your mama ran Pastor Wells out of town?’ Land sakes, that was twelve years ago. Some folks have to learn to let things go.” Her hands trembled as she dumped almost all of the Moo Goo Gai Pan over her rice.
“You’re seriously going to eat all the Moo Goo?”
“Oh, see what you made me do?” Mama shoveled some of it back into the container. “Ginger, I don’t know what possessed—”
“Is it true? You and Pastor Wells?”
Mama set the container down, her eyes glistening, and stared toward the bright kitchen, sniffling, running her hands through her hair. “You were to never know.”
“Why not?”
“How in the world did Edward Frizz find out?”
“I don’t know about Edward. But Tom, of course, knows. His dad told him the whole story when he decided to return to Rosebud. Tom’s starting this new church.”
“I suppose . . . So, Tom’s dad told him? Warned him?” Mama’s eye sparked with a wild, rebellious glint. “Stay away from the Winters women?”
“Who knows? Probably.” Ginger’s stomach rumbled, asking for food, rejecting the forming rock of tension as any kind of nourishment. Tom certainly didn’t heed his daddy’s warning. “Did you have an affair?”
“No! No . . .” Mama broke open a set of chopsticks and swirled her chicken through a pile of fried rice but never took a bite. “Remember Parker Fox?”
“I think. Wasn’t he the banker you dated?”
“I finally thought I’d found me a good one, you know? He adored you.”
“If you say so.” None of Mama’s boyfriends ever adored Ginger.
“He wasn’t a drinker or doper. He wanted a nice suburban life. Just like I wanted when I married your daddy.”
“So what happened?” Ginger scooped a forkful of rice and beef into her mouth, exhaling, willing this conversation to be about truth. Maybe healing.
“He asked me about your scars.”
Ginger set down her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “He didn’t want a stepdaughter with such ugly scars?”
“No, Ginger, why do you always assume the worst?”
“Because it’s usually true.”
“He wanted to know how it happened. So I told him. He was aghast. First that you were trapped in a trailer fire but mostly because I’d left
you alone. I told him you were twelve and that I’d only gone down to the Wet Your Whistle for a beer and burger with a guy from work. That was too much for him and he wanted out.” Mama snapped her fingers. “He didn’t feel I’d be a fitting mother should we ever have kids.”
Ginger shoved her food about her plate. “I’m sorry, Mama.” But in a small way, she understood Mr. Fox.
“I was pretty messed up. Started having nightmares of you trapped in all sorts of fires. Only I couldn’t rescue you. I’d wake up in a panic, trembling like a pup in a rainstorm.”
“Where was I? How did I not know this?”
“You were sixteen, trying to figure out life for yourself. Wasn’t fitting for me to dump my burden on you.”
“But we were supposed to be the Gilmore Girls. Best friends and all.” A bit of the sarcasm she loathed coated her response.
“Don’t be impertinent, Ginger. Anyway, that’s when we started attending church.”
“And you hooked up with Pastor Wells?”
“I did not hook up. I started wondering if this God business was what I needed. We needed. I had a few questions and Pastor Wells agreed to meet with me. We discovered we both liked nature and art. He lent me a book on John Audubon. I showed him a few of my sketches. I started attending the women’s Bible Study on Tuesdays before work and I started stopping by his office before I left.” Mama lifted her gaze. “He was so kind, you know? Actually listened to me. No man, not even Parker Fox, ever really listened to me before.”
“So you had an affair? With a married man of God?” Ginger shuddered. Having experienced fire, she had a deathly fear of hell. And of the God, if He existed, who claimed He could send her there. Real or imagined, she tried to avoid ticking God off at all costs. So messing with His men was way off limits.
Another reason to avoid Tom Wells Jr.
“We didn’t have an affair.” Mama snatched up her glass of sweet tea, taking a big gulp. “But I was falling for him. Found myself thinking of him all the time.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “He started living in here more than he should. I was falling in love . . . So I told someone.”
“Who?”
“The leader of the women’s Bible study, Janelle Holden.”
A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings Novella) Page 8