A Brush With Love (12 page)

“Hoping?”

“Yes,” she glared down at Ginger. “And what of it? Don’t I have the right to a good man? One who cares, listens, understands?”

“Not when he’s married to another woman. How did I not know about this? How was it not all over school? One of the most popular boys, a football star, upped and disappeared at the beginning of his senior year and no one came at me?”

“I agreed to keep quiet if they agreed to keep my name out of it for your sake. Everyone seemed more twisted up about Tom Senior and what was going on in his life than about me. I’m sure Janelle was all ready to blab if Tom didn’t step down and leave. She didn’t care about me. She cared about getting Tom out and her husband in.”

“Then he must have had feelings for you. I mean, to leave the way he did.”

“I don’t know. We never spoke again. But I heard there
were other issues with the church, with his wife, and I was the icing on the cake.” Mama shrugged, swirling her tea, the ice clinking against the sides. “Who knows what’s really true?”

“So that’s why we never went to church again?”

“I figured they’d brand me with a scarlet
A
or something.” She shook her head. “And I was pretty sure God didn’t want to see the woman who caused His man to resign his church.”

“Were you at least sorry?”

“Sorry? I was confused. And poor Tom. It seemed like such a brouhaha over something so one-sided.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew how upset I was by Tom Junior disappearing without a word.”

“Because I felt so foolish.” She returned to the table, shoving her plate forward, cupping her tea in her hands. “I’d lost my friend Tom and my women’s group. I didn’t need you loathing me any more than you already did.”

“I didn’t loathe you.”

“Yeah, whatever . . . So, now you know.” Mama popped the table with her palm. “Aren’t you proud? Oh, who am I kidding? It’s just more of the same. Where was I the night of the fire? Where was I half your teen years?”

“Can we not rehash this?” Ginger spent most of her teen years and twenties forgetting the past. Trying to build a future with her handicaps.

“I suppose not. You don’t need further proof I failed you.”

“Mama.”
Sigh
. “You didn’t fail me.” Ginger wanted her confession to at least sound true even if she didn’t believe it. Not entirely.

“Look at you, all scarred on your arm and side, across your back and that sloppy skin graft on your neck. That’s what government-funded medical care will get you. And you have a sexy figure. But can you show it off? Wear a nice bikini down to the lake? No—”

“Mama, stop. I don’t need an inventory. I see myself every morning in the shower. Can we talk about something else? How’s your Moo Goo?”

“Cold.” Mama picked up her plate for the microwave. “What’s going on with you and Tom Junior?”

“Nothing.” A low warmth crept across Ginger’s cheeks. At least she had the treasure and memory of his touch.

“Are you sure?” Mama’s tone lightened, her words lilting and teasing. “He was mighty handsome as a young man.”

“Mama, no, come on.” The bit of rice Ginger scooped into her mouth went down sticky and dry. “I’m no more right for him than you were for his daddy. Even if Tom Senior wasn’t married, Mama, you never cared about serving your own daughter let alone serving others or being a woman of faith.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about how I failed you.”

“I didn’t. I don’t.”

“Look, Ginger, just because I messed up with Tom Senior doesn’t mean you can’t like his son. If there’s something between you, then—”

“Is it seven o’clock already?” Ginger scooted away from the table, downing the last of her tea. “I need to run. The shop’s books await.”

“Ginger, don’t deny your heart.”

She snatched up her purse, a Hermès Birkin clutch
gifted to her by Tracie. Styling for celebrities had its perks. “I’m not denying my heart. Tom Wells is not for me.”

If she said it enough, her heart would believe it.

“Listen to me.” Mama grabbed her by the shoulders. The only touch Ginger allowed without flinching. “I ruined things with your daddy because I was young and stubborn.”

“He left you, Mama.”

“But he wanted to come back and I wouldn’t let him. Thought I wanted something better. How did that work out for me? All these years later and I’m alone.”

“No, Mama, you’re not alone.” Ginger drew her into a hug, resting her chin on her shoulder. “You have me.”

“And that is a true gift.” Mama stepped back, her eyes glistening. “Now go on, get your books done. How’s that cute apartment of yours?”

“Good. I like living above the shop.”

“Thanks for dinner,” Mama said.

“Thanks for the truth.”

Ginger made her way down the concrete steps to her car, tossing her bag into the passenger seat, glancing up to the pale light outside Mama’s door.

Tonight she’d discovered a few things about her own heart. She appreciated Mama more than she realized.

And she learned to never make the same mistakes. Which meant loving the wrong man. Ginger marked an
X
on the image of Tom Wells drifting around her soul. He was officially off-limits, no matter how much she yearned for his tender touch.

On Thursday evening, Tom stepped out of the Rosebud
Gazette
office and inhaled the smooth fragrance of an Alabama winter, feeling rather pleased. His interview with Riley Conrad had gone well.

Her questions were thought-provoking and interesting. They laughed and reminisced about Rosebud traditions, recalled old names and faces. Including his father.

“Can you tell me? Did he leave town in disgrace? Did he have an affair?” Riley said.

“No, to both counts. He did have some issues to work out and along with my grandfather and mother’s wisdom and support, he resigned his church, took a job in Atlanta, at which he became very successful, and fixed the things he needed to fix in his life. Look, being a pastor doesn’t have to be a lifelong call. My father came to the end of that season in his life.”

“But it took an outside situation to force him to make a change.”

“Doesn’t it for almost everyone? You left Rosebud, Riley. Why’d you come back?”

She gave him a wicked grin. “Outside situation.”

Tom paused on the corner of Main and Alabaster, the glow of a street lamp on his shoulders. Riley’s piece would be this Sunday morning’s feature and hopefully inspire Rosebud’s citizens to check out Encounter Church.

So, now what? Tom glanced left where Alabaster curved around into Park Avenue, ending at Mead Park. To his right was Main Street and downtown.

He’d parked his car in front of Sassy’s Burgers, where he’d eaten every night this week. Most of the shops were open late on Thursday and their golden light fell across the sidewalk in large squares.

Including Ginger Snips. The main window glowed with a
string of white lights. Was she there? It was after seven. Tom brushed his hand over his slightly gelled hair, wishing he needed a trim. Wishing he had an excuse to stop by the shop.

But did he need one? Couldn’t he pop in to say hi? He’d told Ginger he wanted to be friends.

He stepped off the curb, ducking in front of a car turning left, and took long strides to Ginger Snips before he changed his mind.

He found the front door open, paint fumes scenting the breeze.

“Well, looky what the cat dragged in again.” Ruby-Jane spotted him. Tom took a cautious step over the threshold. “What brings you here on a Thursday evening,
pastor
?”

“I was down—” He paused when Ginger emerged from the back room with a paint tray and a bucket swinging from her hand, “—at the
Gazette
.”

She stopped when she saw him. “Tom, what are you doing here?”

“Just saying hi. So, y’all are painting tonight?”

Ruby-Jane huffed, folding her arms. “That’s what she tells me. Of course the other two, Michele and Casey, get a pass.”

“Leave it alone, RJ. You know why.”

“Still doesn’t seem fair. Just because they have families.”

Ginger set her tray down without a word or a backward glance. “We can waste time talking about it or get to work and be done with it.”

Tom slipped off his jacket and draped it over the nearest chair. “Can I help?”

“No,” Ginger said. “We only have two roller brushes.”

Ruby-Jane shot him a sly smile. “No worry. He can have mine.”

“No, he can’t.” Ginger rose up, steel in her words, a hard glint in her eyes. “Stop yapping and start working.” She peeked at Tom. “Word of advice. Don’t hire your friends to work for you.”

“Duly noted.” He nodded, trying to hold her gaze.
You okay?
The recessed light dripping down from the ceiling haloed her chestnut hair and reflected in her hazel eyes.

She was breathtaking. But he couldn’t see her for himself, could he? He had to see her as God’s daughter. Pop’s advice from before the wedding had been coming back to him all week, “If you love her, win her to Jesus,” along with the whisper of the Lord, “Tell her she’s beautiful.”

“I meant it,” he said. “I can help.”

“It’s okay, Tom.” Ginger hoisted the big paint can, sloshing some over the side as she filled the tray. “We got it.”

Tom stepped over, reaching for the handle as she tried to set it down without hitting the corner of the tray.

His fingers grazed hers. When he looked at her, she was looking at him. His pulse drummed in his ears. “Y-you can let go.”

She hesitated. Then, “Ruby-Jane and I are perfectly capable of doing the job.”

“I never said you weren’t. But many hands make light work.”

“Hey, Ging,” Ruby-Jane said, walking over to Tom, offering him her roller. “I need to run. Daddy just called and Mama’s made a big ole spread for the entire family.” RJ
held up her phone as if to prove her story. “Apparently my brother just drove into town . . . So, y’all two got this?”

“What brother?
All
your people live in town.” Ginger rebuffed Ruby-Jane with a stiff lip and a firm jut of her chin. “RJ, you
can’t
leave.”

“Family first. Besides, I’m on salary, not an indentured servant. Tom, I hereby dub you my replacement.” Tom reached for the long handle. “Do me proud.” Ruby-Jane edged toward the back door. “See you in the morning, Ginger.”

“RJ? RJ, wait.” Ginger chased her to the back room but to no avail. When she returned, she took up her roller and slapped it against the wall, mumbling, “. . . brother who just drove into town, my eye.”

“She seems to think we should spend some alone time together.”

Ginger rolled, rolled, rolled on the paint. “I had enough of you last weekend, no offense.”

“None taken. Now, where can I power up some tunes? Let’s get this place painted and beautiful.”

She wanted to be indifferent. Take him or leave him. Forget
Tom Wells was in her shop, singing along with the music from his iPhone piped into the shop through the sound system.

She just wanted to paint, get the job done, go up to her apartment and cleanse her senses of any reference to Tom’s soapy scent.

“How’s it looking?” Tom pointed to his cut-in work at the top of the wall, just under the ceiling.

“Great.” She gave him a thumbs up, then went back to her portion of the wall.

Actually, he irritated her. Why was he here? What did he want with her? Why did he volunteer to do the neck-breaking cut-in work, even borrowing a ladder from Fred’s Grocer across the street, to do the job?

And the music? Smooth and soothing, raining down peace in the shop, watering her soul.

“. . . you’re beautiful
,” Tom sang softly with the music, to himself.

Ginger pressed her roller against the wall, squeezing out the last of the beige-rose paint.

“. . . I can tell you’ve been praying.”

“Who is this? Singing?”

“Gospel artist, Mali Music.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither had I until a few years ago. He’s the real deal. I like him.”

Real deal? As opposed to a fake deal? Christians and their language . . . that irritated her most. Their two-faced kindness. Their faux helpfulness. Since her discovery of truth with Mama, Ginger had grown a pound of sympathy for her mother. Shana had tried to get it right, to be honest.