“I was searching online for new light fixtures last night and . . . Hey, Anthony, this is Ginger down at Ginger Snips. Good, good, how are you? Yes, please . . . a large cheese . . . thin crust, yep . . . and an order of cheese bread. No, for Ruby-Jane . . . I know, she’s a carb addict.”
“I am not.”
“Sure, one of us will come down to get it.” Hanging up, Ginger slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Let’s just take the money from petty cash.”
As the words left her lips, the bells hanging from the front door clattered against the glass as a customer pushed in.
Glancing around, she rested her roller on the paint tray. Ginger sucked in a breath. Tom Wells Jr.
Her skin flamed as she adjusted the dark orange scarf tighter around her neck. She’d rather face Tracie Blue’s paparazzi than Tom Wells.
“Well, look who it is. My, my, Tom Wells Jr.” Ruby-Jane crossed over and gave him a big hug. “What brings you to town? Ginger, look what the cat dragged in.” RJ sort of shoved Tom further into the shop.
“I see.”
“Ruby-Jane, hey, good to see you. Ginger . . . it-it’s been a long time.” He ran his hand over his long, wavy hair as his blue gaze flipped from Ruby-Jane to Ginger who wobbled, powerless in his presence. “Are y’all open? Is Maggie around? I was hoping for a quick haircut.”
Ruby-Jane smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Good ole Maggie Boyd retired.” She shoved him forward again, indicating behind his back that Ginger should talk to him.
“So Maggie finally took that trip to Ireland? I wondered why the sign said Ginger Snips.”
“S-she’s in Ireland as we speak. I-I own this place now.” Ginger’s voice faded, weak under the thunder of her heartbeat. She reached for her brush handle and faced the wall. Get a hold of yourself. Remember what he did to you. If she had any gumption at all, she’d roll him with paint.
“Remember we studied calculus together, Ginger?”
“I remember.” She cut him a glance, trying so hard to be cool, but Tom Wells, with those blue eyes and mammoth shoulders, was standing in her shop.
Ruby-Jane stepped around him, still communicating to Ginger with glances and expressions. “It’s been a long time, Tom. Since you left town our senior year. What brings you back?”
“Yeah it’s been awhile. I-I’m back . . . for the wedding. Bridgett and Eric’s.” He seemed reserved, almost shy. Definitely a lot more humble. “I’m the best man.”
Ginger pressed the roller brush against the wall. What? He was one of Eric’s groomsmen? She’d be around him all weekend?
“I hear it’s going to be the wedding of the decade.” Ruby-Jane flicked her hand toward Ginger. “She’s the stylist for the whole shebang.”
“Really?” Despite his expression, Tom sounded impressed. “Not surprised. You were always good with hair, if I remember right.” He brushed his hand over his thick hair again, glancing around. “As you can see, I’m in desperate need of a haircut. But looks like you’re not open.”
His smile darn near skewered Ginger to the wall. Simmer down, he’s just passing through . . . do not feel for him.
“Sorry but we’re painting today. You can go to the new shopping plaza south of town if you need a cut.”
“The roads are horrible,” Tom said, stepping close enough for his subtle fragrance to slip beneath the paint fumes and settle on her. “Big backup on Highway 21.”
“You know how it is in the South,” Ruby-Jane said. “We can’t drive in a rainstorm, let alone ice or snow.”
Tom laughed, shaking his head. “Very true.” He raised his gaze to Ginger. “So is it possible to get a cut here? This is the only time I—”
“Absolutely.” Ruby-Jane set her paintbrush down and kicked the visqueen aside, leading Tom to a chair across the room. “Ginger, does this station work?” She mouthed some sort of pinched-lipped command, gesturing toward Tom. “You ready?”
It was then Ginger noticed her arm, peeking out from under the cloak, her scars exposed. And he’d been looking right at her. Could the floor just open up and swallow her whole? She lowered her brush to the tray and tugged her sleeve down, stretching it to the tips of her fingers.
Tom Wells . . . in her shop. In her chair . . . waiting for her to touch his hair. The very notion made her feel like she might fly apart.
“Listen, if Ginger doesn’t want to—” He tried to get up, but Ruby-Jane shoved him back down.
“She does. She’ll be right with you. Ginger, can you show me where we keep the petty cash? I’ll run and get the pizza.” RJ snatched her by the arm and led her to the back room.
“What is wrong with you?” RJ, who knew perfectly well where the petty cash was located, took a painting of a pasture off the wall, revealing the safe, and spun the dial. “Tom Wells . . . hello!” She reached in for the petty cash bag. “If he’s not better looking than he was in high school, I’ll eat the pizza and the box. And sweet. He seems so sweet. How unfair, you know? Men get better-looking with age and women just sag.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Ginger kept her voice low but intense. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. He was the only guy I’ve ever loved, who ever paid one lick of attention to me, and he dumped me before our first date.”
Ruby-Jane took out a twenty, then closed up the money bag in the safe. “His family moooved, remember?” She slipped from her paint cloak, dropping it over the back of a chair.
“But he didn’t tell me he was leaving. How hard is it to pick up the phone. ‘Uh, Ging, can’t make it. Dad says we’re moving.’ Then afterward, he never called or e-mailed.”
“So go in there and botch his haircut if you want, get him back for it. But girlie-girl,” Ruby-Jane wiggled her eyebrows, “it’s Tom Wells. The Tom Wells. Besides, that was twelve years ago. Don’t tell me you still hold a grudge.”
Tom Wells, a two-named brand which meant gorgeous, athletic, smoldering, knee-weakening, kissable—
Ginger grabbed RJ. “Don’t leave me alone with him. Stay here. I’ll be done in ten minutes.”
“Forget it. The pizza will be cold.” RJ smirked and walked around Ginger into the shop. “Say Tom, we ordered too much pizza. Want to hang around for a slice?”
Note to self: fire Ruby-Jane.
The front door bells rang out as RJ left, waving at Ginger through the glass. No worry, RJ. What goes around comes around.
“Ginger,” Tom said, rising from the chair. “I’m not going to force you to cut my hair.”
Their eyes locked for a moment and her pulse throbbed in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she could see the small white swirl of snow drifting over them. Even if she turned him out, she’d have to see him at the wedding. Might as well cut his hair, then she could ignore him this weekend.
“It’s fine.” She motioned toward the wash bowls, removing the cloak she wore for painting and tying on a clean Ginger Snips apron. “Take the one on the right.”
Tom situated himself in the black chair as Ginger rested his head against the bowl.
“H-how are you?” he said as she sprayed his head with warm water.
“Good.” She hesitated, then raked her fingers through his luscious hair. In high school, she’d daydreamed of cutting Tom’s dark, heavy locks. Then when Mr. Bickle paired them as calculus study partners, she darn near thought she’d died and gone to heaven.
The fragrance of his cologne subtly floated through her senses and she exhaled, trying to rein in her adrenaline, but one touch of his soft curls and her veins became a highway for her desires.
This is nothing. Just another client . . . just another client.
Ginger peeked at Tom’s face, a best-of composite from the Hollywood’s Golden Age leading men. Cary Grant’s sophistication with Gregory Peck’s smolder all tied together with Jimmy Stewart’s lovable, everyday man.
Steady . . . She pumped a palmful of shampoo and lathered his hair, catching her reflection in one of the mirrors.
Her s
carf had slipped, exposing her frightful scar, which beamed red with her embarrassment. Ginger pinched the scarf back into place before Tom could look up and see her.
She’d never get used to it. Never. The ugliness. The memory of the fire, of the day she realized she was marked for life. Of lying in bed, tears slipping down her cheeks and knowing no one would ever want her. Even at twelve, the truth trumpeted through her mind.
No one . . . no one . . . no one . . .
Reclined against the shampoo sink with Ginger’s hands moving through his hair, massaging his scalp, driving his pulse, Tom regretted his fine idea to step out on this snowy day for a quick haircut.
Had he realized Maggie sold the place to Ginger, he’d have braved the slick roads and traffic boondoggle to try the new salon on the other side of town.
Yes, he knew he’d have to see her sooner or later—the latter being optimal—but not his first full day back in Rosebud. Not lying back in her sink with her hands in his hair.
He’d thought to leave as soon as Ginger said they were closed but then Ruby-Jane pushed in and, well, here he sat.
“Ginger,” he began, clearing his throat. “How long have you—”
“Sit up, please.” She pushed lightly on his shoulder. When he sat forward, she draped a towel over his head and dried his hair, stirring his dawning emotions. “Take a seat.” She motioned to the station where Ruby-Jane had deposited him.
He peeked at her in the mirror as she removed the towel and snapped a cape around his neck. “How long have you been back in Rosebud? And six months ago I hear you were on the road with Tracie Blue?”
She angled in front of him, taking up her shears and comb. “And yes, I was.”
Brrr. He figured it was warmer outside than inside the shop.
Raising the height of the chair, Ginger combed through his hair, her subtle fragrance sinking into him. She smelled romantic, if he could claim romance as a scent, like a melting, sweet Alabama summer evening. The fragrance gathered in the hollow place between his heart and ribs.
“Trim the sides? A little off the top?” she said.
“Yea, sure, buzz the sides a bit. Don’t like it creeping down my neck and on my ears . . .” When she stepped to one side, the paint fumes swooshed in, replacing her perfume and bringing him back to reality. He had come in for a haircut, not a rendezvous with an almost romance of his past.
Besides, she didn’t even seem to care that he drifted into her shop quite by accident. Maybe she didn’t remember the affection between them, how he flirted with her, seeking a sign, a hint, of her interest in him.
He’d just invited her to the movies when Dad announced they were moving. Leaving town in the middle of the night. Tom didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to anyone, let alone Ginger Winters.
“Tip your head down, please.”
He dropped his chin to his chest, inhaling a long breath for himself, then exhaling one for her.
Should he just open with, “I’m sorry?” Or just let the past be the past?
She must have had boyfriends since high school. After all, she toured with Tracie Blue, seeing the world, meeting all kinds of people. Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Or a fiancé. He watched her left hand in the mirror. No ring.
“So you never said. How long have you owned the shop?” Small talk. Maybe he could get her to open up.
“Six months.” She exchanged her shears for the clippers.
“Are you glad to be back in Rosebud?” He relaxed, attempting a smile, trying to catch her gaze.
“Yes.” She tilted his head to one side and buzzed around his ears.
“Good . . . good . . . Me, too.”
She snapped off the clippers and reached again for her shears, twirling them between her fingers, a trick he’d like to see again.
Either she was having a bad day or she really loathed him. Yes, he stood her up . . . twelve years ago. Surely she understood, considering the circumstances.
“Pretty rare to see snow in Rosebud.”
“Very . . .”
“I’m back too. In Rosebud.” He shifted in his seat. “For more than the wedding.”
She slowed, glancing up, peering at him through the glass. “G-good.” She faced him toward the mirror, checking the sides of his hair for an even cut.
“It’s pretty nice about Bridgett and Eric, no?” All of Alabama knew the governor’s son, a former Crimson Tide star tailback, was getting married.
“Yes, it is.” The conversation stalled as she blasted the blow-dryer over his head, then pumped a drop of gel into the palm of her hand and ran it through his hair, inspiring a race of chills over his skin.
She snapped off the cape, dusting the final hair clippings from his ears and neck. “Do you like it?” Her words came at him but not her gaze as she turned away, draping the cape over another chair.
“I do, thank you.” He leaned toward the mirror. “The rumors were right. You’re good.”
“Thanks.” She waited for him at the reception desk and he wished she’d smile or laugh, or kick him in the knee. Then the ice would be broken. “That’ll be twenty dollars.”
“Twenty?” He opened his wallet. “That’s all?”
“It’s Rosebud.”
He grinned, slipping a ten and a twenty from his wallet, regarding her for a moment. “I’m sorry, Ginger.” The confession came without much thought, without an agenda. He was free to flow where the moment took them.
She froze, reaching for his money, glancing up at him with gleaming hazel eyes. “You’re sorry?”
The front door pushed open and Ruby-Jane rushed in with the cold breeze, a large pizza box and three sodas in her arms, the aroma of hot tomato sauce and baked dough mingling with the paint fumes.
“I’m home, kids. Lunch in the back room. Tom, dude, awesome cut. Isn’t Ging the best?”
“She’s the maestro.” He smiled at Ginger, willing her to receive his apology.
“I told Anthony you were here in town and he said he’d heard you were starting a church. Is that true?” Ruby-Jane disappeared in the back room, emerging a moment later with a soft-looking cheesy bread stick. “Come on, y’all. It’s nice and hot. Help yourself, Tom.”
“Thank you, but I can’t stay.” Tom motioned to the front door, taking a step back. Besides, if Ginger’s stiff posture was any indication, he was not wanted. “I have a meeting. And yes, I’m back in town and starting a church. First service is a week from Sunday at the old First United Church on Mercy Road, northwest of town. You know the place.” He stepped toward the door. “Ginger, thanks for taking the time to cut my hair. I appreciate it. See you this weekend?”
She nodded. Once. “Guess so.”
As the door eased closed behind him, Tom stepped down the sidewalk and into the icy breeze. What was it about Ginger that awakened a longing in him? The ache to be her friend, to laugh with her, to share his heart, to listen to hers, to touch her scars and tell her everything would be all right?
To tell her she was beautiful.
But how could he ever be in a romantic relationship with her? What would his parents say?
Shake it off. He didn’t come back to Rosebud to win Ginger’s heart. He came to start work, to follow God’s call, and perhaps restore his family’s reputation and legacy. Not to remind people of his father’s failing. That he’d packed up his family and exited in the dark of night amid possible scandal, abandoning his church, his reputation, and for a brief moment, his faith.
Tom had to be more than aboveboard. In all of his dealings. For his new church plant to bloom.
But heaven help him, Ginger Winters was as beautiful as ever, if not as raw and wounded as when he last saw her. And as crazy as it sounded, somewhere deep inside him, beneath all the layers of propriety, beneath any trepidation, Tom longed to be the man in her life.
Just like he did the first time he laid eyes on her.
She felt bad treating him like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe, but Tom Wells? Sh
e’d have been more prepared for the Man in the Moon to walk in asking for a close buzz than him.
After Tom left the shop, Ginger sat up to the back room table, sorting out her feelings, eating pizza while Ruby-Jane talked. “Dang, I might have to recommit myself to Jesus and go to Tom’s church. I mean, mercy a-might girl, he’s gorgeous and a man of God—”
“Ruby-Jane, please, do not be bamboozled. You remember how the whole family snuck out of town, a scandal chasing after them?” Ginger took a small bite of pizza, her appetite a bit frosted by her own attitude toward Tom. “Like father, like son.”
“What was that all about, anyway?” Ruby-Jane said.
“Who knows? Who cares?” Ginger didn’t. At least she liked to think she didn’t. What kind of sane woman still carried pain about a boy standing her up over a decade ago?
“I care. My future husband might be Rosebud’s next big preacher.” Ruby-Jane slapped another slice of pizza on her plate. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re still mad at him for leaving town without telling you.”
“He didn’t just leave. He vanished.”
“Ging, they didn’t vanish. We heard they moved to Atlanta.”
“But not from him directly. I thought we were friends, you know? But not a peep out of him until twenty minutes ago when he walked in here.” Ginger pushed away from the table, sad she’d lost her appetite for Antony’s pizza. “Can we get back to painting?”
“So you are still mad.” Ruby-Jane wiped the corners of her mouth with a wadded-up napkin. “It was twelve years ago.”
“I’m not mad.” But she was and it bothered her to her core. “Come on, let’s get back to work. I want to get at least one wall painted before I leave on Friday.”
“You know he’s Eric’s best man. He’s going to be around allll weekend at this Maynard-James wedding extravaganza.”
“I heard. I was standing here when he said it. So what’s your point?”
“I think you’re into him. Still. And you’re mad at him. Still.”
“You’ve inhaled too many paint fumes. I’m not into him. I’m not mad at him.” Ginger headed into the shop, removing her apron and reaching for the slightly paint-stained cloak.
A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings Novella) Page 2
