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

by Hauck, Rachel

  Eyes flooding, she rolled paint onto the wall, her back to Tom. “You’d better get back to work or we’ll be here all night.”

  “But first . . .” He rested his hand against her shoulder and turned her to him. “Tell me you’re beautiful.”

  She refused, eyes averted, unable to contain her tears. In her ears, her pulse roared.

  “Ginger.” He touched her chin, turned her attention to him. “Say it. It’s the first road to healing. You are beautiful.”

  “I’m not your project, Tom.”

  “Agreed. But you are my friend. And I hate to see my friends believe lies about themselves.”

  “I believe what’s true.”

  “Then say it. ‘I’m beautiful.’ ”

  She dropped her roller brush and crossed the room. “You’re infuriating. Why do you care? I’m the daughter of the woman who helped ruin your father’s ministry. I asked her about it, by the way, and she confessed. She loved your father but nothing happened between them.”

  “That doesn’t disqualify you from God’s love, from my friendship, or from admitting you’re beautiful.”

  “Tell that to Edward. What would he say if he saw you in here, with me?”

  “Edward isn’t my God or my conscience. My father and family have moved on, Ginger. Seems your mama has moved on, too. But you’re stuck as the trailer fire girl. So let’s put a big bucket of water on that fire by confessing your beauty.”

  Stuck. Isn’t that what she confessed Saturday morning, standing in the muddy meadow? But she’d never give Tom the satisfaction. Ginger gestured toward the door, willing him to go and leave her be. “You can go, Tom.”

  “Not unless you say it.” He didn’t respect her space at all. He came up to her and swept his fingers over the scar on her neck. Ginger nearly buckled at his touch.

  “Why do you want me to say it?” Her voice wilted as she spoke.

  “Because I want you to combat the lie in your heart with truth.”

  “If you get the burned girl to say she’s pretty, do you earn a gold star from God?”

  “Man, are you really so cynical? Ginger, I like you. I always have and I’ve always seen a beautiful woman—”

  “Who allowed himself to be intimidated by his friends?” She used the courage he admired to push back.

  “I was seventeen. Give me credit for maturing a little.” He walked to the front door, flung it open. “You want me to defend you to Edward Frizz? To Rosebud?” He ran into the middle of Main Street. “Hey Rosebud, Alabama—”

  Ginger dashed to the door. “Tom, no, what are you doing?”

  Arms wide, head back, Tom shouted, “Ginger Winters is a beautiful woman. And I don’t care about her scars! I don’t care what her mama—”

  “Oh my word, stop. Get in here.” Ginger steamed into the middle of the street, hooked him by the arm, and dragged him to the shop. “You’re making a fool of me.”

  “You? I was the one doing the shouting.”

  “You are so infuriating. I don’t get this. Why does any of this matter to you?”

  “Remember the end of the movie The Proposal? Drew says to Margaret, ‘Marry me because I’d like to date you.’ ”

  “Y-yes . . .”

  “I’d like you to believe the truth about yourself, so then maybe, if you decide you can give Jesus a try, you’ll let Him in, and see yourself as you really are from His perspective, incredibly beautiful.”

  “What does that have to do with the movie?”

  “Because, then, if you’d have me, I’d like to date you.”

  Her tears spilled. “I can’t risk my heart with you. With God.” What was she doing before he started all this beautiful nonsense? Oh yes, painting. Ginger picked up the paint tray. “I think you should go.”

  “Say it. ‘I’m beautiful.’ ”

  “I’m not playing, Tom. Go.” She walked to the back room, trembling, with barely enough strength to hold herself upright.

  “Will you come to church on Sunday? Please.”

  “I said, go, Tom, just go.”

  She hid in the dark corner until she heard his footsteps echoing across the shop, then fading away out the front door.

  Slowly she sank to the floor, cradling her face against the top of her knees, running her hand over her scars.

  Horrid. Ugly. The opposite of beautiful. She’d cried oceans of tears mourning that reality, and no one—not God or Tom Wells Jr.—could ever convince her otherwise.

  On Sunday morning, Tom sat in the old parsonage parlor, sunlight streaming through the window, praying through the swirl of excitement and peace in his soul.

  First Sunday morning in his own church. He never, ever thought this would be his reality, his passion, but at the moment he knew he was in the right place at the right time.

  For such a time as this.

  His sermon was ready. His notes typed into his iPad. Alisha had the worship band prepped, arriving at nine for their pre-service rehearsal. Above all, his heart was ready.

  If it was only Tom, the band, and the Holy Spirit who showed, Tom would consider the day a huge success.

  If Ginger showed, he’d mark his first Sunday with a miracle.

  He’d thought about her all weekend, prayed for her, for himself. Had he crossed lines, demanding she declare she was beautiful? Was it too intimate? Too romantic when he had no freedom to pursue her?

  It was one thing for a believing man to have affection for a non-believing woman. It was another thing entirely to woo her heart, defraud her, then brush her aside.

  He didn’t want to be that man.

  If he was going to pastor this church, he had to find a wife who believed. Who could run this race with him.

  He didn’t care if she played the piano, led a Bible study, or managed the women’s ministry. But he cared for her to be surrendered in wholehearted love to Jesus. To kick Tom’s butt when he needed it.

  Lord, here’s my heart. My thoughts of Ginger. Have it all.

  The mantel clock that came with the house ticked eight-thirty. Tom rocked out of the chair, taking his iPad from the side table. Might as well walk over to the church, get things powered up and going.

  He was about to exit out the kitchen door when a loud knock sounded from the front. When he opened it, Edward stood on the other side.

  “Did you see this?” He held up the Sunday Gazette and barged into the parsonage.

  “No, not yet. I was going to read it after church.”

  “What in the world did you tell her?” Edward crossed into the parlor, popping open the paper and holding up the front page for Tom to see.

  THE TALE OF TWO PASTORS

  HOW WILL ROSEBUD FARE WITH A THIRD GENERATION WELLS PREACHER?

  BY RILEY CONRAD

  Tom snapped the paper from Edward. “How will Rosebud fare? What is she talking about? We discussed the church, how and why I came back to Rosebud, what I hoped to accomplish.”

  “Clearly she doesn’t want another church in this town. Especially one headed by a Wells man. I ask again, what did you tell her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t read like nothing. She exposes the whole scandal.” Edward walked toward the kitchen. “Got any coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure, use the Keurig.” Tom dropped to the rocker, iPad tucked under his arm, anxiety mounting.

  Tom Wells Jr. is in Rosebud, seeking a flock of his own. With the American church becoming more of a consumer than a provider of spiritual insight, one has to wonder if he isn’t one of the many up-and-coming young pastors with charm and good looks aiming to do nothing but build his own kingdom on the backs and with the pockets of the Rosebud faithful.

  “This is an opinion piece.”

  Edward returned, mug in hand, blowing on his coffee. “Yep.”

  A bit of backstory. Wells is the grandson of well-known, popular evangelist Porter Wells, who traveled the country holding tent revivals for twenty years before taking his message international. He eventually returne
d to the States to continue his ministry in large churches and on television.

  The elder Wells retired back to Rosebud in the middle 2000s. His son, Tom Wells Sr., followed in his footsteps, planting a church in Rosebud and building the congregation to more than two thousand people before scandal routed him out twelve years ago.

  What scandal? An affair. Not of the obvious kind but the emotional kind, which some declare more devastating than a physical affair. Pastor Wells spent too much time with a woman in need. Feeling defrauded, she confessed her feelings to a trusted friend who reported the misbehavior to the church elders and leaders.

  The Wellses left town in a shroud of mystery, leaving nothing behind but questions and wounded hearts. My grandmother was one of the disappointed and questioning faithful. What happened to our beloved pastor?

  Tom lowered the paper and sighed. “She’s taken up her grandmother’s offense.”

  “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 o
f 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.”