A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings Novella)

by Hauck, Rachel

  Yet, the thumping of her pulse and the anxious flutter in her chest told her otherwise. She was hurt, really. Worse, she might still be into him. Seeing him kicked open a door she thought she’d bolted and barred.

  “You know what, Ginger?” Ruby-Jane said, entering the shop behind her, carrying a piece of pizza and her painting cloak. “Not everything is about your past, growing up in the trailer park, or your scars.”

  Ginger took up her roller brush. “I never said it was.”

  “When I see you cold and stiff with Tom, being brusque, I know you have feelings for him. Still. But you see yourself as that trailer park girl with the burn scars, not good enough for anyone.”

  “I am that trailer park girl.” Ginger pushed back her sleeve. “And I’m still very scarred. Look, he’s a dude who came in for a haircut. End of story.”

  “A dude who came in for a haircut?” Ruby-Jane laughed, her mouth bulging with pizza, her brown eyes sparkling. “Ginger, you should’ve seen your face when I said he might be my future husband. You went pale, then pink, then green.”

  “You are such a storyteller.” Ginger aimed her roller toward the ceiling, rising up on her tiptoes to cover as much of the wall as she could without a ladder. She’d have to get the stepladder from the shed out back to cut in at the top. “Did you check with Michele and Casey to make sure they can handle the appointments for this weekend?”

  “Talked to them yesterday, boss. And you know I’ll be around to help out.” Ruby-Jane took up her own paintbrush. “Don’t fall back into high school, Ginger, okay? I like the confident salon owner who knows she’s a fabulous stylist.” RJ tugged on Ginger’s scarf. “Even though you still hide behind this kind of getup.”

  Ginger moved away from RJ’s touch, settling the scarf back into place, concealing the rough, puckered texture of her skin. “Some things will never change.”

  But other things could. Like the interior of this shop. Like her reputation as a swag shop owner in Rosebud’s revitalized downtown, the hometown of Alabama’s governor.

  Like not letting men like Tom Wells Jr., preacher or otherwise, get to her. Men like him married waif-like blondes with God-kissed, sculpted faces, diamondesque smiles, and pristine, smooth skin.

  “You know, Ginger, since I’ve known you, you’ve hidden behind long sleeves and scarves. I get it.” Ruby-Jane eased the roller up and down the wall. “You aren’t comfortable with your burn wounds. Just be sure you don’t cover up too much and keep a man like Tom Wells out of your life. You never know, he might be your passion’s flame.”

  Oh Ruby-Jane. Didn’t she understand? Longing for that kind of flame, the flame of love and passion, was the most terrifying fire of all.

  Wednesday afternoon, Tom swept the rough, wide boards of the old sanctuary floor with a wide straw broom he’d found in the storeroom. Like most of the church’s furnishings, the broom was probably from the 1950s. Starting a new church with only enough funds to pay his meager salary meant he was janitor and secretary as well as pastor, preacher, and counselor.

  Dust drifted up from the floor and swirled in the dappled sunlight falling through the transom over the stained glass windows.

  He hummed a song from last night’s worship practice, his chest vibrating with the melody, the lyrics skimming through his spirit.

  . . . you fascinate us with your love.

  He’d thought he might have to add worship leader to his duties—with his elementary guitar skills—until a talented young woman, Alisha Powell, volunteered for the job.

  Last night Tom sat in the back of the sanctuary observing her first band practice and nearly wept with gratitude, sitting in the presence of God, feeling for the tenth time since he arrived in Rosebud that he’d returned home by the inspiration of the Almighty.

  “Well, I see you found the most important tool.”

  Tom glanced toward the back of the sanctuary. Pop. He leaned on the broom, smiling as his grandfather sauntered down the center aisle.

  “Did you come to make sure I worked the broom right?” Tom extended his hand toward Pop.

  The old man waved him off and drew Tom into his embrace. “I reckon you can handle sweeping up well enough. But glad to know you can sweep as well as you preach.” Pop eased down on the front pew, taking in the altar and pulpit, raising his gaze to the ceiling, then fixing his eyes on Tom. “Preached my first sermon here when I was nineteen.” He pointed to the pulpit. “I think that old thing was here way back then.”

  Tom sat next to him, resting the broom against his leg. “What’d you preach on, Pop?”

  “Walking worthy of His calling. Fulfilling every desire for goodness and the work of faith with power.”

  “Second Thessalonians.”

  “Good,” Pop slapped his thighs and pushed to his feet. “Number one job of a preacher. Know the Word. Live it, pray it, sing it. So, Edward Frizz worked a deal for this old place?” He stepped up and moved behind the pulpit.

  “He did me a solid. Found this place for sale, cheap, right before we signed a big, expensive lease on . . .” Tom paused, about to stir up painful memories.

  “Your dad’s old church?” Pop said it for him.

  Tom dashed the broom bristles against the floor as he stood. “That building was in good shape. Way more modern than this place, but expensive. And, I don’t know, I didn’t want to—”

  “Be in his shadow?” Pop leaned over the brown, thirsty wood pulpit. “Remind folks of what happened?”

  “I just want to walk my own path. You and I both know Rosebud is populated with a lot of people who attended Dad’s church. They know he left under suspicious circumstances. I only found out recently what happened and why we left town in the middle of the night. But I can guarantee there’s a boatload of folks with their own ideas. I came here because the Lord directed me. Not to drag up the past and its suspicions.” Tom pointed the broom handle at the ancient pipe organ behind the baptismal. “I want a fresh start. Even if we have to do it in this old place. With that big, old organ in place.”

  Pop came down the platform steps. “Your daddy did the right thing leaving the way he did. Cutting ties. Not taking anything but his family and the necessities.”

  “Didn’t seem so at the time.”

  Pop made a face. “No, but you turned out all right.”

  “After a wild detour in college and too many drunken fraternity nights.”

  “Which led you to say, ‘Okay God, I’m Yours,’ after waking up week after week with your face in the toilet bowl.”

  Tom laughed, shaking his head, grateful to be in his grandfather’s presence, finding comfort in the old man’s wisdom and spirit of peace. “Looking back, I can see God’s hand in my life, even in the family’s sudden departure from Rosebud, but at the time?” Tom ran the broom lightly over the dry hardwood. “I was convinced Dad and God had ruined my life.

  “So, you think anyone under the age of fifty will come here next Sunday morning? Walking over from the parsonage this morning, I realized the church looks and feels so old. White clapboard exterior, steeple, narrow foyer, long, rectangular sanctuary, stained-glass windows.”

  “You just be faithful to your calling and to the Lord. Let Him do the drawing and choosing.”

  Tom leaned against the side of a pew. The light had shifted and a kaleidoscope of colors moved across the white plaster. “Think I can do this?”

  “Does it matter what I think?” Pop took a seat again and sat back, hands on his knees, his plaid shirt smooth against his lean chest. “It only matters what He thinks, and that you’re confident in His love for you and His leadership.”

  “Guess that’s the trick for everyone who wants to follow Jesus.”

  “Best thing I can tell you is love Him with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength. You do that and you won’t have time for any other kind of hanky-panky.”

  Speaking of hanky-panky . . . “I ran into Ginger Winters this morning.”

  Pop furrowed his brow. “Not
sure I recall—”

  “She’s the daughter of the woman—”

  “Ah,” Pop nodded with realization. “I see.”

  “She owns a salon on Main Street now. Where Maggie’s used to be. I went in to get a haircut for Eric’s wedding this weekend and found Ginger there instead of ole Maggie.”

  “I’d heard she’d retired. But news travels slow out to the farm.” Pop peered at Tom with a twinkle. “What’s with this Ginger gal? Other than being the daughter of—”

  “Right . . . Well, we were friends, starting to get close when everything went down. I didn’t even know her mom and Dad knew each other.”

  He never got to ask Ginger how she felt about him. School had just started. They had a couple of study sessions together but not much more. But when he was around her, his heart felt things new and wonderful. He wanted to be a better person.

  She, on the other hand, was hard to read. She kept her feelings close.

  “Did you break her heart?”

  “I don’t know. We were supposed to go to the movies the night Dad had me packing my stuff.” Tom shook his head, staring past Pop at the choir door. “I never called her. I felt too embarrassed. I didn’t know what to tell her. ‘We’re sneaking out of town. My dad’s a jerk.’ So I just left it. Never wrote to her. Never called.”

  “Twelve years is a long time, Tom. I hardly think she’s holding a grudge because a high school boy didn’t pick her up for pizza and a movie. She might know the whole story since her mama was involved.” Pop rubbed his chin. “Though Tom Senior did manage to keep it all so very quiet.”

  “I don’t know what she knows except I stood her up.” The Thursday afternoon he had asked her out, after school, he’d almost kissed her as they stood by his car. But Eric and Edward dashed onto the scene, out of nowhere, rabble rousing, full of pre-football practice mischief, and spoiled the whole mood.

  Then, seeing her today? He felt like some dangling part of his heart had been put back into place. Ginger was all right. Doing well. And still beautiful. “Well, anyway,” Tom said, glancing down, sweeping the floor. “She went on to do some pretty great things. She was a stylist to Tracie Blue. She’s a major country music—”

  “I know Tracie Blue,” Pop said, smiling. “Very impressive for Ginger.”

  Tom laughed. “And how does an old evangelist like you know about Tracie Blue?”

  “Facebook.”

  “Facebook?”

  Pop nodded. “Your Aunt Marlee hooked me up.”

  “I’m not even on Facebook, Pop.” Tom laughed and stamped the broom against the floor.

  “Well, get Marlee to set up your profile thingy.” But Pop sobered. “Tom, best advice? Don’t stew on this Ginger business. Make it right if you think something is amiss, but don’t stew. Don’t assign thoughts and emotions to her based on what you think and feel. That’s how the world gets messed up.”

  Pop, such a well of wisdom and truth. “She’ll be at the wedding. Guess I could find a moment to speak to her.”

  “Just don’t try to make her some sort of project.” Pop leaned forward, tapping Tom on the arm. “Let God see to her eternal soul. You point her to Him, not to yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Dad’s given me the same speech.”

  “He should. Because that’s what messed him up. Taking on people projects. Feeling responsible. Letting others see him instead of Jesus. He always struggled with his pride. I busted him many a time on it. But God redeems. God heals,” Pop said. “However, you, dear boy, must remember why you returned to Rosebud. It wasn’t just because Edward Frizz called asking you to start a new church.”

  “And not just because I want to see Dad’s name and reputation restored.”

  “No.” Pop’s laugh barreled from his chest. “You best let that part go. You start worrying about reputations and you’ll be sunk before you even start.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Gaze at Him, not yourself, your family, the name Wells, or the past. You know King Saul’s downfall? He cared more about what men thought than what God thought.”

  Tom listened, mulling, thinking, trying to connect the gnawing in his gut over Ginger Winters with his thoughts, with what Pop was saying, with the truth.

  “You know,” Pop said, pushing to his feet. “If you want to really help this girl, win her to Jesus.”

  “Isn’t that making her a project?”

  Pop grunted. “No, it’s showing her love. Everything else is lust or pride. Leading her to Truth, at the risk of your own heart and reputation, is love. How about we finish this over lunch? I’m starved.”

  Tom anchored the broom against the side of the pew and went to his office for his jacket. Win her to Jesus? Was she in need of winning? How do I relate to her? What do I say? He muttered in prayer as he returned to the sanctuary, meeting Pop in the middle of the aisle.

  A simple but sweet answer to his questions rose up and lingered in his heart.

  Tell her she’s beautiful.

  The rain started the moment Ginger left Rosebud city limits on Friday evening. Blasting the radio, she was exhausted.

  She’d painted late into the evening Wednesday—the one wall took forever and still needed another coat—then filled Thursday and Friday with her regular and snow-day appointments.

  In between clients, she answered frantic, last-minute texts from Bridgett suggesting “one more thing” or wondering if “there’s time to perm Aunt Carol’s hair”?

  So now as she drove south toward the Maynards’ Magnolia plantation on the southwest corner of the county, the winter light masked by rain-weighted clouds, she wanted nothing more than a long, hot bath and her bed.

  Bridgett informed her she was sharing a room with one of the bridesmaids, Miranda Shoemaker. Ginger didn’t mind as long as she had her own bed.

  To be her charming, make-them-beautiful self, all she required was a good night’s sleep. The bridal party wouldn’t need her tonight, so she hoped to excuse herself after introductions and slip off to her room.

  Tracie Blue always knew that about her. Ginger needs her sleep. She made sure she had her own space on the touring buses.

  Now, driving the twenty miles down a desolate highway through a frigid, icy monsoon, Ginger exhaled the day’s tension, and Tom drifted across her mind.

  He was back in town.

  Ginger gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter, shifted in her seat, and adjusted the seat belt of her ’69 VW Bug.

  How could that fact make her heart smile after twelve years? Years in which he’d not once contacted her.

  Nevertheless, his presence changed everything about this weekend. She’d signed on as the stylist, to be a person behind the scenes, detached from the wedding, the guests, and the celebration. That was fine with her. She’d perfected that persona while working for Tracie.

  But now, a small part of her wanted to be a woman, not just a servant, and to be seen by him. She had visions of participating in the wedding festivities, and they disturbed her. Rattled her well-built, well-structured emotional barriers.

  She’d only felt this way one other time in her life. In high school. When Tom Wells Jr. was her calculus study partner. Grrr, this whole thing irritated her, making her feel like an emotionally trapped seventeen-year-old.

  Around the next bend, between the skinny pines and live oaks, Ginger spotted the golden lights of the plantation house, glowing like a low moon rising on the thin, wet, dark horizon.

  She pulled around the curved driveway, parked, and dashed to the veranda, the rain easing off as the storm clouds inhaled for a second breath.

  She was a professional. Just the stylist. Detached and aloof, a hired hand.

  Shivering in the dewy, cold air, Ginger rang the doorbell, fixing on a smile when an older woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door.

  “Hey, I’m Ginger Winters. The stylist.”

  The maid stood aside. “They’re in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you.” Ginger stepped inside, offer
ing her hand. “And you are?”

  “Eleanor.”

  “Eleanor. Nice to meet you.”

  The woman’s stern expression softened. “Yes, you too. This way.” She led Ginger through a small, formal living room and a massive library, then down a short corridor where laughing male and female voices collided.

  Eleanor paused at a set of double doors. “Tonight’s dinner is buffet, on the sideboard. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Ginger hesitated as she stepped from the marble hallway onto the plush emerald-and-gold carpet, scanning the room. No one noticed her. But that wasn’t unusual.

  A pale glow from the teardrop chandelier hovered above the room as if too good for the thick, heavier gold light emanating from the wall sconces and table lamps. On the farthest wall, deep-red curtains framed a working white stone fireplace. Despite its size, the drawing room was warm and cozy, inviting.

  Come on in. Even you, Ginger Winters.

  Several women sat reclined on a matching set of white sofas by the fireplace, wine glasses in hand. The fire crackled and popped, the flames stretching into the flue.

  But the sofas by the fire were not for her. The beauty of the fireplace aside, Ginger avoided flames of any kind. From bonfires to matches, lighters, and sparklers, to men who made her heart feel like kindling.

  Speaking of men, she’d not spotted Tom yet. To her right, she saw the groom, Eric, with several others watching ESPN on a large flat screen.

  To her left was Bridgett and a mix of folks talking at the wet bar. There was Edward Frizz and Brandi Heinly, one of Bridgett’s friends from high school. They were all part of the beautiful and bold to which Ginger had no admittance.

  Since no one saw her, should she just walk in? Hey y’all? The aroma of roast beef and something cheesy whetted her appetite. She’d snatched a slice of cold pizza for breakfast but had eaten nothing since.

  But first, she needed to connect with Bridgett, let her know she’d arrived. Then beginning tomorrow morning, she’d start washing and setting hair for the mothers at nine o’clock.