Say I Do

by Rachel Hauck

  Oh yeah it does. By a county mile.

  “So . . .” Bridgett turned around with a clap of her hands. “Fill your plate and join us girls on the sofa. We can talk hair.”

  Ginger looked back at the cluster of bridesmaids. By the fire. A sliver of panic cut through her delicate confidence.

  “It’s easier to eat sitting at the counter.” Tom’s bass declaration offered a welcomed truth, drawing Bridgett’s attention.

  “Guess you’re right, Reverend Tom.” Bridgett wrinkled her nose at him. “All right, Ginger, grab a bite but don’t let this scoundrel keep you too long. Lindy and Kyle want to talk to you about their hair ideas for tomorrow.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Ginger said, turning to the buffet with a backward glance at Tom. How did he know?

  She filled her plate and set it on the counter two seats down from Tom, who nursed a frosty root beer. “Are there any more of those?”

  “At your service.” He hopped up, rounded the bar, and pulled a cold soda bottle from the fridge. He twisted off the top and slid it toward her. “On the house.”

  She laughed, covering her mouth with her smooth left hand.

  “Wow, I got a laugh out of you.” Tom came around the bar and took the stool next to her, relaxing with his elbows on the bar.

  “Don’t act so surprised.”

  “But I am. I didn’t know I possessed the power.”

  “Very funny.” She lifted the soda bottle and took a hearty swig of sweetness. “Sorry about the other day . . .”

  “I get it. Caught you off guard.”

  Making sure her sweater sleeve covered her hand, Ginger split apart a fluffy yeast roll, the kind her Gram used to make when she was a kid. She popped a steaming piece in her mouth.

  “What? No butter?”

  She smiled, shaking her head, relaxing a bit. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Tom Wells made her comfortable. He made her want to be a better person. “My grandma made rolls like these for holiday dinners and birthdays when I was growing up. They were so good they didn’t need butter. We’d eat them plain or maybe with homemade black raspberry jelly.” Her voice faded. Those times ended right after Ginger turned thirteen. A year after the fire. An aneurysm claimed Gram’s life when she was only sixty.

  “My grandma made dumplings.” Tom shook his head, humming. “Best thing you ever put in your mouth.” He peered at her. “But the same thing happened to us. She died and so did the tradition.”

  “I keep telling myself I’ll learn how to do it but—”

  “Life gets in the way.”

  Ginger set her roll down and reached for her napkin. “Thank you.” She nodded toward the sofa and fireplace. “For that.”

  “Bridgett can be a little obtuse.”

  “Apparently you’re . . . What’s the opposite of obtuse?”

  “Bright, smart, intelligent, handsome, sexy.”

  Ginger choked, wheezing a laugh, pressing the back of her hand against her lips. She finished swallowing her roll, washing it down with a nip of root beer. “Someone doesn’t think well of himself.”

  He grinned. “I like hearing you laugh.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Ginger shifted around in her stool and adjusted her scarf, making sure it was in place, covering her flaw. Under the heat of his gaze, she felt exposed and transparent, as if he could see the things she longed to hide.

  “They’ve been talking about you.” Tom gestured to the women on the sofa with his root beer bottle. “Apparently Bridgett hired some world-renowned photographer for the weekend and they are counting on you to work your wonders.”

  “Women like to feel beautiful. Especially in photos. Double especially for a wedding.”

  “You say that like you’re not one of them.”

  His words and the tenor of his voice confirmed her suspicion. He read her, saw through her. Ginger tore another corner bite from her roll. “I say it like it’s true. Don’t read anything into it. Women like to be beautiful and men prefer them that way.”

  “I suppose so.” He turned his root beer bottle with his fingers, glancing toward her. “But there’s two kinds of beautiful.”

  “Only two?” She peeked at him and forced a relaxing exhale. He’s just being nice, Ginger.

  “Touché.” His soft laugh tapped a buried memory of sitting in the library, trying to get him to study calc problems for a quiz instead of doodling caricatures of Mr. Bickle. “I was thinking of outside beauty and inside beauty.”

  “What of all the layers and nuances in between?”

  “Touché again.” He tapped his bottle to hers.

  “Either way, I have a big weekend ahead, doing my thing, making women beautiful.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “I do.” She nodded with a strange wash of rising, hot tears. She hid them with a dab of her napkin. “Ruby-Jane says it’s my superpower.”

  “It’s good to do something you’re good at and that you love.”

  “I think so.” But how could she give words to the underlying truth? That she ached to do it for herself. How she envied women with smooth skin who wore sleeveless tops in the summer with low V-necks.

  On her days off, when she cleaned her apartment, she wore a tank top and scooped her hair into a ponytail, feeling free.

  “I was thinking maybe you could come to church next week. See me off on my inaugural Sunday.” He pushed his hand through the air as if sailing.

  “Church?” She cut a bite of roast beef. Funny how talking with him encouraged her appetite. But church? “I don’t think so.”

  “Didn’t you go for awhile? When we were in high school?”

  “Until my mother suddenly stopped going and started working Sunday mornings.” She shrugged. “Wasn’t sure I liked it all that much anyway.”

  She bought the message about a loving God. She really did. But when she tried to reckon with Him about the night she was trapped in the trailer fire, about the pain and agony of second- and third-degree burns, she couldn’t find love in any of it.

  If God delivered those young guys out of the fire in the Old Testament, Daniel’s friends, why didn’t He do it for her? Did He love them more? She’d concluded that He must.

  “Why didn’t you go on your own?” Tom said as a commotion arose from the sofas.

  A shrill, “I can’t believe you’re here!” shot through the room before Ginger could answer. One of the bridesmaids, Miranda, launched from the couch and into the arms of a man standing just inside the drawing room doors.

  “I told you I’d make it, baby.” He swept her up, kissing her, wanting her.

  Ginger turned back to her plate, feeling every movement, every emotion of the couple at the door through the ugly lens of jealousy.

  She would never have that . . . never. Even if some man did want her, one look, one touch at her relief-map skin and he’d turn away. Experience was her truth.

  “Cameron, you made it.” Eric broke his trance with SportsCenter and football highlights, coming around to greet the most recent guest.

  “Cameron Bourcher,” Tom whispered toward Ginger. “I met him at the bachelor party. He’s a Wall Street dude, comes from money, almost engaged to Miranda. Or at least she thinks so.”

  Ginger glanced toward the door, at the cuddling couple surrounded by the wedding party. “Looks to me like she might be right.”

  Cameron bent down, giving Miranda another kiss, holding her close, his arm about her waist. Her smooth-skinned waist.

  “Now we’re all here.” Bridgett beamed, wrapping her arms around Eric. “What an amazing weekend. Our wedding, darling. So far, so perfect. Except, oh—” Bridgett turned to the bar. To Ginger. “Ginger, I’m sorry. Now there’s no room for you. Cam will be sharing with Mandy.”

  Everyone stared at her. Even the chandelier light seemed to brighten and angle Ginger’s way, spotlighting her embarrassment.

  “Oh, okay, n-no problem.” But yes, a huge problem. Floor, open up, let me in. The slight comfo
rt and ease she’d allowed herself, sitting with Tom, vanished under the hot stares of the beautiful people.

  “What? No.” Tom slipped from his stool. “Don’t kick her out. Cameron can bunk with me and Eric.”

  Cameron laughed. “No offense, Tom, but I didn’t fly a thousand miles to bunk with you and the groom.”

  “Of course, of course,” Bridgett said, moving between Tom and Cameron, batting down the contention. “I’m sorry, I should’ve planned better. Oh, bother, we don’t have any more rooms in the house. Lindy could share, but she’s such a light sleeper and I promised her a private room. The rest of the family arrives in the morning and will need their rooms to rest and get ready. I’d hate for the staff to have to redo them . . . Oh, I know. Ginger,” Bridgett crossed over to her, eyes wide with her pending solution. “You can stay out at the homestead tonight.” The bride peered at the others, satisfied with her quick solution.

  “The homestead?” Tom said. “That place at the end of the property? It’s like a mile away.”

  Ginger snatched Tom’s arm. What was he, reverend attorney? She didn’t need his defense. “Tom, it’s okay. Don’t make more out of the situation than necessary.”

  “Thank you, Ginger. Yes, Tom, it’s a bit far but it’s very nice. Daddy’s been fixing it up. Ginger, you’ll love it. It’s right on the edge of the woods.”

  “Is there a road to this homestead?” Tom insisted on defending her. “Last time I was here, the old road had been busted up. You had to cross a field to get there.”

  “Yes, Tom,” Bridgett said with a sigh. “There’s a road, sort of, a path really.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Of course.” Bridgett laughed, but not in a fun way. More of an aghast way.

  “Look,” he said, stepping forward, addressing the entire wedding party like a jury. Tom, please shut up. But Ginger couldn’t release the words. Speaking out would only draw more attention to this humiliating situation. “Let Ginger stay in my room. I’ll go out there.”

  “Kind of need you here, man,” Eric said, securing his arm around Bridgett, holding her close. “You’re my best man.”

  Enough. Ginger hopped off her stool. “Bridgett, thank you for dinner.” She mined every ounce of cheer and joviality. “I’ve not unloaded my things yet so I can easily move. Point me in the direction of the old homestead.”

  “Perfect.” Bridgett walked Ginger through the clustered bridal party, and guest, Cameron Bourcher, out of the drawing room, down the hall, their footsteps echoing with fading ooohs and ahhhs over Cameron, who apparently arrived via his private jet.

  “Really, Ginger, the old homestead is lovely.” Bridgett walked with her onto the veranda, into the rain-soaked night. Bridgett’s instructions to the homestead billowed in the frosty air.

  “Go to the end of this driveway . . .” she circled her hand in the air. “Turn left like you’re going back to the main road. About twenty yards down . . .” She leaned toward Eric, who had just joined them. “Wouldn’t you say about twenty yards?”

  “Roughly. Just look for the sign.”

  “Right, the sign. It’s on your left. It says ‘Homestead.’ Can’t miss it. Turn there and just keep going straight until you run into the old place. A one-story ranch.”

  “Do I need a key or anything?”

  “Nope, Daddy keeps it unlocked.”

  “Then how can you say it’s safe?” Tom’s voice boomed over Ginger’s left shoulder.

  “Because it’s a mile out that way . . . because the plantation is gated.” Bridgett swatted at Tom. “Stop being a killjoy. The homestead is safe, Ginger.”

  “The woods aren’t gated.” Tom moved to the edge of the veranda, staring into the darkness.

  “And what’s back there?” Bridgett demanded. “Nothing but deer and wildlife.”

  “Maybe a bear or two.”

  “Now you’re just making stuff up.”

  Ginger stepped forward, unwilling to be an object in their debate, tugging her keys from her jeans pocket. “Turn left at the sign?”

  “You can’t miss it.” Bridgett smiled. “See you in the morning. Come early for breakfast. Oh, Ginger, tomorrow’s my big day.”

  “I’ll be here at eight to set up.” Ginger took one step down. “You’re going to be beautiful.” If she was banished to the outer regions of the Maynard plantation, she was going to do it with grace. “I’m bringing my A-game tomorrow.”

  “I knew you would. I showed you the look I wanted, right? The one on Tracie’s last album. That was your handiwork?”

  “It was, and I’m all set to make you even more beautiful than Tracie.” Now, let’s forget this mess and move on. Ginger moved down the steps, through the freezing rain, keys gripped in her hand.

  If she was known only for making others beautiful, if that was her life’s signature, wouldn’t that be enough?

  Slipping behind the VW’s wheel, Ginger slammed the door and fought a surprise wash of tears. No, it wasn’t enough. The heart wants what it wants. And Ginger’s heart wanted love and freedom from her scars.

  But for now, she was tired, and mulling this over would only make her sad and she didn’t want to be sad. It took too much energy.

  Ginger started the engine and shifted into first, willing her thumping heart to settle down. She’d promised Bridgett her A-game. And being tired and sad was not part of her strategy.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the rest of the guests had come out to the veranda. They huddled together, laughing, being the bold and beautiful.

  Easing off the clutch, she cut the wheel to move around a giant truck with mud on the tires and undercarriage when the passenger door jerked open and a wet, shivering Tom Wells dropped in.

  “Excuse me? What are you doing?”

  “I’m going with you.” He reached for the center dash sliders. “Got any heat in this old thing?”

  “Tom, no, you don’t have to come with me.” Ginger moved the silver slider to the right, powering up the heat. Hear that, heart? You don’t need him.

  “It’s raining, freezing, dark, with an obscure path. Shoot, I’d want someone to go with me. Besides, I heard Eric ask if the power had been turned on and Bridgett didn’t know. There’s a power box on the side of the house.”

  “Tom, you still don’t have to come with me. I’ll figure it out.” Wasn’t that the way she lived life? On her own, figuring it out?

  He glared at her through the muted light of the dash and their visual exchange did something to her. Something scary and wild. Like making her want to touch him.

  But she’d never touched a man other than to wash his hair.

  “Really,” she said with a wide, forced smile. “I’m fine.” Ginger patted his knee, once, oh so lightly, but she felt a plump of muscle beneath her fingertips.

  “Too bad.” He caught her hand, giving it a tender squeeze. “I’m riding along. Now, let’s get moving.”

  Chapter 5

  The night rain poured from celestial buckets. Tom rode silently alongside Ginger, debating with himself why he’d forced her to accept his help.

  So he could apologize for the past? So he could be near her? All of the above?

  Watching the overgrown and rutted road through the VW’s bouncing headlights, it was hard to see exactly where they were going. Man, it was dark and wet out. For this alone, he was glad he nudged in.

  “Careful, Ginger, there’s a big—” Tom braced as the nose of the VW Bug crashed into a rain-gutted rut. “Rut.” Did Bridgett sincerely mean to send Ginger out in this gully-washer alone?

  “Sorry.” She jerked the wheel right, then left, down shifting, trying to maneuver through the pitted path.

  “This is crazy. We’re a mile from a marble and crystal plantation with three stories. Couldn’t you have slept in one of the many parlors or living rooms?”

  “Tom, don’t, please.”

  Fine. He could tell his ranting only wounded her more. But it just burned him that Bridgett h
ad so casually booted Ginger from the house.

  “‘With slaughterous sons of thunder rolled the flood,’” he said.

  She clutched, shifted, jerked the wheel, voice tense when she said, “So you read Tennyson?”

  “Just that one line. He claimed to have written that line when he was eight.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I suppose I have to.” The VW slowed, wheels spinning in mud, then shot forward, and continued down the so-called road. “I can’t challenge him on it, can I?”

  She laughed softly. “No, you can’t. Do you read a lot?”

  “As I have time. Some poetry. Novels. Theology books. Memoirs.”

  “I love books. Novels, poetry, memoirs, no theology though.”

  “I remember you as the math whiz.” He liked the gentle turn of the conversation.

  “I like math, but I read a lot when I was recovering from . . .” She hit another deep rut. Muddy water shot in front of the headlights. “Ah, this is no man’s land.”

  “I’m sure Bridgett didn’t realize—”

  “Don’t say a word to her.” Ginger released the wheel long enough to scold him with a wagging finger. “It’s bad enough she announced there was no room for me in front of everyone. It’s another thing if you go to her complaining on my behalf.”

  “She should know,” Tom said, his voice metered with the bumping and swaying of the VW—which was rapidly losing the rutted field versus small car battle.

  “Then speak for yourself. Leave my name out of it. I mean it. I’ll be gone soon enough.”

  He cut a glance her way. The dash lights accented the smooth angles of her face and set off the highlights of her sable-colored eyes.

  “Can I at least pay for you to drive this little beast through a car wash?”

  Ginger laughed, the engine moaning as she gently eased the car through a hungry puddle and nearly stalled. “Where is this homestead she spoke of so highly?”

  “Keep going.” Tom squinted through the rain. “It’s so dark out here.”

  Another rut and the Beetle Bug’s engine whined, stuttered, knocked. Ginger patted the dash. “Almost there, Matilda. Come on, baby.”