A Brush With Love (3 page)

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 scarf 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? She’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.

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.”