A Brush With Love (4 page)

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.