A Brush With Love (8 page)

“Well, then, I guess I should get back.” He made a face as he set down his shoes and slipped in his feet.

“Oh, Tom.” She whirled toward him. “See, I knew you shouldn’t have come. Now you have to go back in the rain. By yourself.”

“Like I said, I’ve been in worse.”

“It’s freezing out there. You’ll catch a cold or something. I don’t think Bridgett and Eric will like you hacking and sneezing through their big society wedding tomorrow.”

“Can’t stay here, though, can I?” His gaze met hers and for a moment, he was back in high school, watching her in math class, wondering how he could work up the nerve to ask her out. She was so walled and guarded. Then and now.

“I guess not.” She stepped toward him. “See you tomorrow then.”

“See you tomorrow.” In that moment, it felt like something passed between them. But he couldn’t quite grab onto it.

“Hey, why don’t you try Eric again? He did say he needed his best man tonight. He could come get you.”

Tom slipped out his phone, none the worse for the muddy wear, and rang Eric. Again, no answer. He tried Edward to no avail.

He offered up his silent phone to Ginger. “Guess I’m trekking.” Tom gestured to the fireplace. “I noticed firewood out back. Do you want—”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m an electric-heat-and-blankets girl all the way.”

“Right, sorry.” He reached for her hand, the one she didn’t hide under the sleeve of her sweater, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “If I had to be out on a cold, rainy night, I’m glad it was with you.” He stepped toward the door. “Good night.”

“Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you call me? That night? To tell me you were leaving?”

With her questions, time peeled back, and he saw her waiting at her apartment for him to come. But he never did. “I didn’t know I was moving until I went home. Dad announced he’d resigned from the church and we were
going to Atlanta. No debate, no questions, no argument. I was seventeen years old and my father had just destroyed my world.”

“Why didn’t you stay with your Granddaddy? Or one of your friends?”

“Dad refused. Insisted we move as a family. The night we packed up to go, Dad and I argued so much we almost threw punches. Then my sister came out of her room, hysterical, begging us to stop.” Ginger listened with her arms wrapped about her waist, the warm light of the homestead haloing her. “It scared me, humbled me, when I saw her pain. Then I saw the angst on my father’s face and I gave up my fight. I didn’t understand everything that was going on, or why we were heading out of town like bandits, but it had my dad, and mom, in knots. I’d never heard them so much as raise their voices to each other, but that night, they weren’t even speaking. Nevertheless, I still managed to be a major pain-in-the-backside. I barely spoke to him for two months after we moved. Though he tried really hard to make things right between us.” Tom winced at his confession. “Now I realize at the worst time in his life, his family was all he had and all he wanted.”

“Trust me, if you have family, you have everything.” She shivered but he wasn’t sure it was because of the cold, muddy water clinging to her jeans.

“I’m sorry I never called you, Ginger. Or e-mailed. You were my friend and deserved better. I thought maybe we’d become more than friends. But when we moved, I put Rosebud and everything about it behind me.”

“More than friends?” Her eyes glistened. “Even if you’d
stayed in Rosebud, we’d never have been anything. We were barely friends. Your
friends
would’ve never allowed it.”

“Allowed what? For us to be friends? Or more than? My friends had no say in my relationships.” He took a watery step toward her.

“Are you sure? Seemed to me they had everything to say about your relationships. Who you hung out with, when and where. Every time we had study hall together, they pestered you to skip out. They barely spoke to me when we were together, forget when we weren’t.”

“Ginger, I could make up my own mind. Even then. They had no say. I asked you to the movies, didn’t I?”

She furrowed her brow, shrugging. “As a payback for math help.” She smoothed her sandy colored hair over her shoulder, and shoved her scarf into place. “We would’ve never been anything more.”

“If I wanted there to be more—”

A bold knock startled away the intimacy of their conversation and Tom opened to find Edward on the veranda, Scott and his four-wheel drive idling by the steps.

“We’ve come to rescue you.” Edward barged inside. “Passed the VW on our way . . .” He gave Tom the once over. “Man, what happened to you?”

“We tried to push the car out.” Tom followed Edward’s glance across the room where Ginger stood on the other side of the reading chairs.

“Ginger,” Edward said.

“Edward.”

“You know our boy here is starting a church?” Edward clapped Tom on the shoulder.

“So he said.”

“No offense, but considering all that happened with Tom’s dad, we can’t be too careful. Especially around you.”

“Around me?” She fiddled with her scarf, smoothing it higher up on her neck. “What are you talking about?”

“Edward, let’s go.” Tom tugged on his arm, reaching for the door knob.

But Edward remained planted, his smile neither warm nor pleasant. “You know what I’m talking about, Ginger. I realize time has passed and with Tom not being married the rules are different, but nevertheless, there
are
expectations. We have to protect him from scandal and gossip all the same. He needs a good start in Rosebud if the church is going to make it.”

“Edward, that’s enough.” Tom jerked him toward the door. “Ginger, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Edward, what are you talking about? ‘Protect him from scandal’?” Ginger gazed at Tom, her lips pressed in defiance.
See? Your friends won’t let you.

“She doesn’t know?” Edward glanced at Tom, incredulous.

“Ginger, you’re freezing and muddy. We’ll get out of your hair,” Tom said. Ed and his big mouth. He never did have any tact. “Say . . . I’ll come get you in the morning. What time?”

“Don’t dismiss me, Tom Wells. What don’t I know?”

“Nothing, Edward is just talking. You know, how it’s probably not good for Rosebud’s newest, young, single pastor to be alone on a dark and rainy night with a beautiful woman.”

She snapped back, her expression sober, the sheen in her eyes a blend of confusion and what-did-you-just-say? But she stayed on task. “Edward, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t you know, Ginger?” Edward stepped around the
wingback chair toward her. His voice was smooth, his movements calculating.

“Edward, enough.” Tom came around the other side, pressing his hand into the man’s chest. “Let’s just go.”

“Your mom was the reason Tom’s dad had to leave town. Or at least she was the final blow.”

Tom dropped his head with a heavy exhale. Edward had been wanting to do this since Tom agreed to start the church. He thought Tom should, “Get it out in the open.”

“We don’t need any gossip or scandal cropping up.”

Ginger glanced between them. “Excuse me? My mom? The woman who hates church? Who . . . wouldn’t . . . even . . . take me?” Her words slowed as some sort of revelation dawned. But only for a moment. “No, no, not my mama. Preachers were definitely not her type.”

“Say what you will, but Shana Winters was in love with Tom Wells Sr.”

“Edward!” Tom shoved him out the door.
What was wrong with him?
“Ginger,” Tom paused inside the threshold. “I’ll come for you in the morning.”

“What are you talking about? She never even knew Tom Sr., let alone fell in love with him. My mother and your father? It’s laughable.” She turned away from them, disbelief tainting her expression. “My mother? She’s a lot of things, but not a home wrecker.”

“You’re right. She wasn’t a home wrecker,” Tom said. He could deck Edward. Seriously. “We can talk about this later.”

“No. Edward brought it up, so let’s talk about it now. My mother is responsible for your family leaving town, for your father losing his church? For you never calling me again?”

“Okay, here’s the truth. My
father
is responsible for losing his church, for us leaving town, and
I’m
responsible for never calling you.”

“So my mother wasn’t involved? Edward is lying?”

“Not exactly lying. Your mother and my father were friends—”

“He said something about love.”

“Ed,” Tom said. “Can you give us a moment?”

He started to protest, then turned for the door. “Hurry, it’s late. Eric’s waiting for us.”

As the door clicked closed, Tom reached for Ginger but she stepped away. “Edward doesn’t know the whole story.”

Ginger exhaled, the light in her golden eyes dimming as she closed the small window she’d opened to him.

“Then what is the whole story?”

From beyond the door, the truck horn sounded. Tom grumbled low. Wait until he was alone with Ed.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll pick you up and we can talk about it in the morning.” He smiled, coaxing her agreement. “Go, shower, get warm. I’ll see you at . . .”

“Eight. But is there any truth to what he said?” she said after a moment.

“Some.” He peered at her, gaze holding gaze.

She sighed, sinking down to the chair, then standing back up, remembering she was wet and muddy. “Even more reason now.”

“Reason for what?”

“That we can’t be more than friends. I told you your friends won’t let you.”

“And I told you, my friends have no say. See you in the
morning, Ginger. And please, do not worry about this. Trust me.” The door clicked closed behind him and he jogged toward the waiting truck. Climbing in, he thumped Edward in the head. “Nice going.”

“She needed to know.” The man showed no remorse. “But really, Tom, her? Of all the women in southern Alabama?”

Tom mulled over the challenge as Scott revved the truck toward the big house, the powerful beast undaunted by the muddy, rutted terrain.

Why not Ginger Winters? She was kind and considerate, more than the man next to him who claimed to be a Christian. Every time Tom saw her in the past few days, she caught a piece of his heart.

But could he be more than friends with the daughter of the woman who played a role in his father’s demise?

Yeah, Tom had some praying to do. A conversation with God was about to go down. He’d be open, listening. But in the moment, the answer to Edward’s question was a resounding,
Yeah, her. Really.

She’d tossed and turned half the night, trying to piece
together Edward and Tom’s story as she listened to the rain. It peeled off around midnight as a strong wind swept over the grounds, batting the western corner of the homestead.

Mama and Reverend Wells? Ginger counted a half a dozen times she’d seen Mama talking to the senior pastor, but she never imagined there was anything more than a how-do between them.

Mrs. Wells, Tom’s mama, was a beautiful, well-respected woman. And nice. Not cranky and twisted-up like her own mama, used and spit out from too many poor relationship choices.

Mama never listened to anyone when it came to men. She picked her man and that was it. The police could show her a rap sheet a mile long but if Mama believed in him, wanted him, she hung on like a dog with a bone.

Dressed and ready for the day, Ginger chose a scarf from
her duffle—a dark forest green—and wound it around her neck. She wanted to get her stuff from the car and get to the main house before Tom showed up. She didn’t need him to rescue her.

But his defense of her last night resonated with her. He’d stood up for her. The notion warmed her with some sort of hope.

With a glance in the mirror, she secured her scarf, then headed out, slipping on her jacket and looping her purse over her head. If she learned anything as Shana Winter’s daughter, it was not to mistake kindness as affection. Or love. She’d end up like Mama if she didn’t watch it—bitter and used up.

She already knew no man would ever want to hold her ugly, scarred body.

Dawn had not yet kissed the meadow, so if she hurried, she’d be at the house before Tom was out of bed. Plan for the day? Avoid him as much as possible.

But when she opened the door and stepped into the crisp morning, she was confronted with a white orb of a light and Tom Wells astride a ginormous horse.

“Good morning.”

Ginger stumbled back, hand over her heart. “Good grief, you scared me. What are you doing here so early?” She pointed to the mocha-colored beast. “On that?”

“Waiting for you. Help you get your car out of the mud.” He aimed the flashlight at her feet. “It’s still a mess out there.”

“Well then, let’s go.” She hammered down the steps with a manufactured bravado, shoving past him and his monstrous mount.

“Ginger, you don’t have to walk.” Tom chirruped to the horse, bouncing the flashlight over the grassy, muddy path still shadowed in the remainder of night.

“I’m not getting on that thing.” Ginger pointed back at the horse and plodded on, jumping over the muddiest parts, grateful for Tom’s light since she’d clearly forgotten hers. “What happened to Scott’s truck?”

“He got stuck himself doing some midnight mudding. The Maynards’ stable horses are here, so I borrowed one to come help you.”