A Brush With Love (14 page)

“It’s an opinion piece, bro. Of course she’s got an agenda.”

“I want a rebuttal.”

Edward’s countenance darkened. “My advice? Leave this be. The more you make of it, the more you fan the flames. Keep reading.”

But he didn’t want to keep reading. He wanted to toss the paper aside and go back to his place of contentment and contemplation. He wanted his heart to be soft for worship and the Word.

But he needed to know what preconceived notions would arrive with the congregants this morning.

The truth of the story was buried since the Wellses left town so quickly, literally in the cover of night, the congregation being told only that Wells
had an extraordinary opportunity in Atlanta and felt “the Lord wanted him to take it.”

So the lies compounded. Rosebud rumors suggested Wells had an affair, but with whom? When? Above all, why?

Maybe he took “love your neighbor as yourself ” a bit too literally.

When I realized his son was back in town, I wanted to know the rest of the story. So I did some digging. Who was the woman in the center of the Wells scandal? Why hadn’t the complete story ever been told?

I found a lead with a former church member, Janelle Holden.

“I was leading the women’s ministry when one of the newer members, Shana Winters, confessed to me rather out of the blue that she was in love with Pastor Wells. That he’d been counseling her, helping her, befriending her.”

According to Holden, Wells admitted to counseling Winters, whose daughter Ginger Winters owns Ginger Snips, a local salon, and was tragically scarred in a trailer fire at the age of twelve.

The senior Wells denied having an affair of any kind, but when the church board called an inquiry, he did admit to an emotional connection with Winters that went beyond propriety.

So, he abandoned his flock and fled town. Are you following my case here?

Twelve years Rosebud has rested, free from charlatans using the “Word of God” to dupe the weak and the willing.

Enough. Tom slapped the paper into Edward’s open palm. “This will humiliate Ginger. She’ll probably never darken the sanctuary doors now.”

“Were you hoping she would?”

“Yes, Edward, I was because she needs Jesus. Frankly, I’m
thinking you need a good dose of the Spirit yourself.” Tom started for the door. “By the way, Ed, yeah, really,
her
. She’s gorgeous, smart, caring and yeah, a bit physically flawed, but I’d take her over some . . . beauty queen any day.” Tom slammed the door behind him.

“Tom!” Edward called after him. “Think of your career . . .”

But he kept on walking toward the church, the nine o’clock bells ringing for the first time in over two decades, waking up the community, waking up Tom’s heart.

Come, take up your cross, and follow Me.

Ginger woke to the sound of church bells. But they didn’t sound like they emanated from Bridge Street Baptist. These chimes were older, distant, coming from the west.

Climbing out of bed, she opened her front window, letting in the crisp, pristine breeze as she peered down onto Main.

You’re beautiful.

Tom’s voice had moved into her head and no amount of shop hustle and bustle, Tracie Blue music, or back-to-back movies on the Hallmark Channel could get him out.

You’re beautiful.

Then Friday afternoon Mrs. Davenport caught her attention in the mirror as she styled her hair. “What’s going on with you, Ginger? You look
different
. You’re positively glowing.”

You’re beautiful.
Then the melody of the song from Bridgett’s wedding crashed over her.
“You make me brave!”

Now she leaned against the screen, remembering, and
inhaled the fragrance of the January morn as the bells chimed, seven, eight, nine.

Could she be brave? Go to church? She always said she’d go if someone invited her. Technically, Tom had invited her.

Ginger hesitated. She liked her Sunday morning routine—a latte and muffin while reading the Sunday
Gazette
. But if she hurried, she could have her breakfast, skim the paper, and still make it to the morning service.

She closed her eyes.
Do it. Don’t think.
Dashing for the shower, she actually let herself meditate on the pleasure of seeing Tom Wells again.

You’re beautiful.

Peeling off her nightshirt, Ginger examined her familiar wounds, trying to see them with new eyes. She stared at her reflection.

“Y-you’re beau—” She choked. It wasn’t true. “Ginger, say it.” She heard Tom’s truth in her own voice. “Y-you are . . . you are . . .” She leaned toward the mirror. “B-beautiful.”

A quick wind swept through her apartment. Through her soul.

“Ginger, you are”—she raised her voice—“beautiful.”

The wind swirled around her again.

“Ginger!” She yelled, arms raised. “You are beautiful!”

Joy in the form of tears ran down her cheeks, somehow watering all the dry, barren places where truth had not flowered in a long time. If ever.

“Ginger Winters, you are beautiful!”

Tom did his best to focus on the music, the songs, and
worshipping his Lord, but felt the pressure of his inaugural Sunday morning. Along with the humiliation of bad press.

Alisha, God love her, curled her lip at the article. “Who cares? Is it true? No. Let God defend you, Tom.”

Her confidence stirred his.

Now, as Alisha brought worship to an end, Tom prepared to take the pulpit. He’d not looked over his shoulder for the entire worship set so he had no idea if one or a hundred people filled the old, wooden pews.

In truth, he wanted to see one face. Well, two. Pop’s and Ginger’s. Mostly Ginger’s. He needed to know she was okay. That the article hadn’t stirred up bad memories.

The last note rang out from the keyboard and Alisha nodded to Tom. Go time. Up the platform steps, he faced the sanctuary and his heart soared.

The place was full. To the brim. Standing room only.

“Good morning. Welcome to Encounter—”

“Is it true?” A woman in the second row rose to her feet. “Your father nearly had an affair?”

Tom recognized her from the old days. Shutting off his iPad, he came around the pulpit, his eyes drifting over the people. “Is that why you all are here?”

Heads bobbed. Voices assented.

The heat of confrontation beaded along his brow. “Then let’s just get it all out on the table. Some of the article is true. Dad had an inappropriate amount of affection for Shana Winters.” In the back, the sanctuary doors opened and Tom halted, a cold dread slipping down his back as Ginger eased inside.

No, no, not today. But it was too late to reverse rudder and preach his prepared message. To pretend the article never appeared.

He caught her gaze and she smiled, offering a small wave before accepting a seat in the last row from an older gentleman.

She looked . . . different. Radiant.

“Riley Conrad,” he said, “gave us her opinion about me and my family. She also dragged out the names of fellow, private citizens. I won’t speak for them but I can promise you my devotion to Jesus is greater than my devotion to any of you. Than to this ministry. If the Lord said, ‘Shut it down tomorrow,’ I’d do it. I’ve already been a rebel, the resentful, bitter son of a preacher and by the grace of God, I don’t care to go back. Come to Encounter Church if you want to encounter God’s love for you. If you want to love others. If you want to share life and the Gospel with the Rosebud
community. Don’t come here if you’re looking to gain something for yourself. If you have any sort of agenda. Come here if you love or want to love Jesus.”

Tom shot a glance toward Ginger, who was on her feet, moving forward. “Can I say something?” Her voice carrying through the crowded sanctuary. Heads turned. Voices murmured.

“Are you sure?” Tom said. He could see her trembling.

“Hey, some of you know me. But for those who don’t, I’m Ginger Winters.” She held up a copy of the Gazette. “My mama and Tom’s dad had a friendship that went too far in my mama’s heart. It caused some problems for Reverend Wells, and he chose to leave. He has his reasons, and if you want to know, ask him.”

Tom watched, surprised, astounded. Something had happened to Ginger Winters.

“But don’t hold what our parents did against Tom here. When we were in high school, and no one wanted to talk to the freaky burned girl, me, he did. This past weekend at a wedding, he treated me like I mattered when others didn’t. He made me see that I expected them to treat me that way because that’s how I see myself.” She smiled up at him. “I guess I was listening.”

“Amazing,” he said, moving toward her. “Considering I talked way too much.”

Ginger faced the congregation again. “He challenged me to believe the truth. That I was, am, beautiful. Scars and all. He told me Jesus loved me and while I’m not sure what all that means, I’m starting to wonder if this Gospel business isn’t exactly what I need. I’ve never trusted any man with my heart.
Shoot, I barely trusted anyone. But I’d trust Tom Wells. With every part of my being.” Her voice wavered and watered. “He challenged me to tell myself I was beautiful and this morning, for the first time, I looked into the mirror, saw my hated scars, and told myself I was beautiful. Out loud.” Her smile rivaled the sun peeking through the windows. “And for the first time,” a bubbly laugh overflowed from within her, “I believe it.”

Eight months later . . .

That January day it had snowed in Rosebud changed Ginger’s life in ways she never imagined. Just goes to show, true love causes even the most closed heart to fling wide.

“Okay, the final touch.” Ruby-Jane, in her maid of honor dress, a silk tea-length of royal plum, plopped an old, wooden chair next to Ginger and stepped up, holding the rhinestone clips of the Bandeau veil.

“Careful, RJ.” Michele raised up on her tiptoes, pensive, wiping a bit of sweat from her brow. “That updo is two hours of work. Don’t
undo
it in two seconds.”

“As if. You put enough spray in her hair to withstand a hurricane.” Ruby-Jane patted the top of Ginger’s teased bouffant.

The air conditioner kicked on, humming as it swirled the room with cool air.

“Rubes, careful, please. It might not fall down but it could crack.” Ginger cut a glance at Michele, laughing, reaching for her hand. “Thank you. I’ve not seen it yet but I know your work. I’m sure it’s stunning.”

“No,” Michele smoothed down what must have been a flyaway strand, “
you
are stunning. Ginger, I can’t believe how much you’ve changed. I guess I shouldn’t say that but—”

“It’s true.” Twitters and electric pulses crisscrossed Ginger’s middle. She inhaled, her legs trembling, buckling a little as Ruby-Jane settled on the veil.

She had changed. She’d listened to Tom and believed she was beautiful. But it took letting Jesus have her whole heart to truly
get
it. To let the truth settle in and change her identity. Tom walked her through it all. As a friend. Then five months ago, she woke up one morning to realize she was completely in love with him.

A month later, during a pizza and movie night in her apartment, he slipped to one knee, kissed her hand, and proposed. “Will you marry me? Please?”