Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (32 page)

Standing up, she crossed back over to her closet and took out a pair of dark, dark blue jeans and pulled them on. They’d always been a little snug, so they fit just fine now. Taking a white silk blouse from her closet, she pulled it over her head and added a periwinkle-blue cardigan. Then she twisted her hair into a modest bun and fastened it with a plain old navy blue scrunchie. She skipped looking in the mirror—half of her simply didn’t care how she looked, and the other half didn’t want to look at the deep grooves under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks.

As she headed downstairs, she heard knocking at the back door and slowed her pace deliberately. He was five minutes early and he could damn well wait. She picked up her purse from a table at the foot of the stairs and rifled through it for ChapStick, running it over her lips slowly, like she had all the time in the world. She smoothed back her bun and stepped into the kitchen as he knocked again, louder this time.

Just as she was about to open the fridge and peruse its contents for a snack, she heard him bellow at the top of his lungs, “Virginia Laire McHuid, you get your ass down here or I’ll—”

“Cain!” She whipped open the door and clapped her hand over his mouth. “Quiet!”

She could just imagine her mother’s pleasure to find Cain Wolfram screaming “ass” at the top of his lungs on her daughter’s doorstep, and she was not in the mood for her mother’s attitude this morning.

His eyes looked down at her, but he didn’t move, and it took another second for Ginger to realize that his lips were pressed to her hand. His mouth was open, and she could feel his warm breath against the skin of her palm. Staring up at him, she blinked and pulled her hand away.

“If you wanted me to kiss your hand hello,” he said, “you could have just asked.”

“Don’t be cute,” she said, fisting her hand to get rid of the lingering warmth on her skin and trying desperately to ignore the way her chest had fluttered when Cain drawled the word
kiss
.

“Okay,” he said evenly. “I won’t be cute today.”

For the first time, her eyes slipped from his face, and she realized that Cain wasn’t dressed in his usual jeans and Henley. Today, for the first time ever, she was seeing him in his uniform, and it fairly took her breath away.

He wore a navy blue top with three white stripes at the collar and another three at the cuffs, and a black, knotted neckerchief at his tanned, muscular neck. Her eyes traveled over his broad chest, and she raked her teeth over her bottom lip as her eyes dropped to the matching blue pants with a front flap fastened with thirteen buttons. On his feet he wore black formal shoes, buffed to a high shine, which touched her heart for some reason, imagining the time it had taken to get them that shiny. In his hand, he held a starched snow-white cap, which he lifted and placed on his stubbly black hair.

“I look okay?” he asked softly, his eyes uncharacteristically earnest.

She nodded, blinking back tears. The last time she’d seem someone in full service blues, it was . . . it was . . .

He’s not gone. He’s just away.

Her vision became blurry as she stared miserably at Cain’s chest, decorated with various pins and ribbons. He raised his arm and offered it to her, as though to formally escort her from the kitchen.

He’s not gone. He’s just away.

“No, thanks,” she said, refusing his arm as she finally exhaled and took another deep breath. “I’m only goin’ to this because you’re forcin’ me to.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Cain, stepping around her. His voice held a small but certain measure of censure as he added, “It’d be nice if you actually
wanted
to go.”

He preceded her out of the cottage and stopped at the passenger side of his father’s truck. He opened the door and held it for her, his eyes straight ahead, his body at full attention.

She felt mean, suddenly, for what she’d said, and flinched from the disappointment of his tone. But the feeling didn’t linger. Anger hip-bumped it to the side. She stepped over to the truck and climbed inside.

“Don’t judge me, Cain.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her. He just slammed the door shut, walked around the truck, and sat in the driver’s seat without a word. He was giving her the silent treatment, and it infuriated her further.

“You know what I’ve been wonderin’? Why are you even
here
? Why haven’t you left yet? When the goin’ gets tough, Cain gets goin’. Why are you even still
here
?”

He looked at her with side eyes as they rolled down the driveway of McHuid’s. “Hell, princess, maybe I’m just stickin’ around to annoy you. You ever think of that?”

“Often,” she snapped.

Staring out the window, her lips twitched because, even though she’d said the words as bait, she found she actually wanted an answer. She adopted a gentler tone. “I mean it, Cain. I thought you left after the . . . the . . .” Somehow she couldn’t choke out the word
funeral
. “
Why
are you still here?”

He shrugged. “Promised my pop I’d stay through to Thanksgivin’.”

Ah. So he
did
have a departure date in mind. He wasn’t staying here forever.

It was the moment that Ginger realized that, however much Cain had hurt her in the past, she was very, very sorry to learn that he was going to leave again so soon. She didn’t know what to make of his sudden visits—the way he’d forced her to take a ride or to go to this wreath laying today. She didn’t like it, and yet some part of her—small though it was—had to admit that Cain was likely the only person who could have forced her out of her destructive style of mourning and back into the world. She didn’t want to depend on him, but she was comforted by his presence nonetheless.

And to her great surprise, her heart, which she’d been so certain was dead, flickered to life and ached at the thought of him walking out of her life yet again.

***

Cain watched her at the wreath-laying ceremony: the impassive expression on her face, the way her eyes didn’t tear up. She didn’t sniffle or cry, just stood stoically beside him, accepting condolences politely, her voice devoid of emotion.

Across from them, his Aunt Sophie stared daggers at Cain, still wishing him dead, and he wished it didn’t hurt, but it did. He and his aunt had never been close, but losing Woodman had been a blow to both of them, and they could have been a comfort to each other. Instead his aunt kept her anger trained on him, which kept her an island of sorrow, isolated by fury.

Much like Ginger.

What will it take for you to break?
he wondered, stealing a glance at her neat blonde bun.
Because you’re
going
to break, princess. Eventually you’re going to have to say his name; you’re going to have to acknowledge that he’s gone. You’re going to have to scream and cry or you’ll never be able to grieve. You’ll never have any relief from the terrible sadness that’s weighing you down.

Not that Cain felt light as a feather. He didn’t. Most days he still struggled wildly with Woodman’s death and felt the sharp heartbreak of his cousin’s loss. Five weeks hadn’t softened the images of Woodman dying, nor erased his final words from Cain’s head, though Cain had noticed that, ever since he’d started honoring his promise to Woodman, he’d felt the very beginnings of a peace he’d been missing when he was drinking and raging. He wanted Ginger to know that peace for two reasons: one, because without it, she’d never find her way toward healing, and two, because it’s what Woodman desperately would have wanted for her. Cain intended to do whatever he had to do to help her find it. He’d promised.

After the ceremony, they stood with Mary-Louise and Scott Hayes for a few minutes, but Ginger looked pale and tired, so Cain finally excused them so that he could take her home. He debated what to say to her—he felt a responsibility to get through to her, but he wasn’t sure how.

Just be yourself.

The words skated through his head, and he decided to give them a try.

As soon as they pulled away from the cemetery, she sighed audibly as he looked over at her.

“You okay?

“Fine.”

“They did a nice job.”

She didn’t answer, just stared out the window.

“It was good that you went.”

Still nothing. No reaction.

“I been meanin’ to ask,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. “How’s your gran doin’?”

“Haven’t been out much.” She looked over at him, her eyes flashing.

“She’s old, Ginger.”

“What do
you
know about
my
gran? Besides, it’s none of your business where I go and what I—”

He pulled the truck over to the side of the road, and the brakes screeched as he stopped in a cloud of dust and swirling fall leaves.

He cut his eyes to her, trying to keep his voice level but failing. “You know what, Gin? I understand that you’re hurtin’. I’m hurtin’ too. But Woodman would be
ashamed
of the way you’re behavin’, and that’s the truth. Refusin’ to see his grave honored? Not visitin’ your gran? Lyin’ around all day in your pajamas? Not showerin’? Not takin’ care of yourself?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not keepin’ myself to your high standards of feminine—”

“This has
nothin’
to do with
me
. I could give a shit whether or not you deck yourself out to the nines every day, princess. This has to do with honorin’
his
memory by livin’
your
life with dignity. By bein’ the woman he loved even though he’s gone. That woman was spunky and strong. She was gorgeous and smart, sweet and carin’. Even when people thought she was breakable, she proved to all of them—to this whole goddamned town—that she wasn’t.”

Her nostrils flared, which was the only indication she’d heard him since she still stared out the windshield, expressionless. Finally he huffed out a long breath. “And you know what else? If
that
Ginger shows up—the one who my cousin loved so fuckin’ hard, the lionhearted l’il gal who didn’t let a broken heart keep her down—maybe let me know, huh? Because I’d surely like to see
her
again.”

He put the car in drive, burning rubber as he pulled away from the shoulder, and neither of them said a word until they reached her cottage. As soon as the truck came to a stop, she reached for the door, but Cain grabbed the hand closest to him and held it and squeezed it gently, trying to soften the blow of his words, trying to let her know that they came from a place of caring.

But she nailed him with furious eyes and jerked her hand away. “Don’t you touch me.”

Aw, Christ,
he thought, shaking his head in frustration.
Fine. Have it your way.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Go see your grandmother, for fuck’s sake. She don’t have forever.”

“Screw you,” spat Ginger, hopping down from the truck and slamming the door behind her.

The next day, instead of sleeping until noon, Ginger woke up early, took a shower, blow-dried her hair, and changed into clean clothes. Then she climbed into the SUV she hadn’t used in over five weeks and drove to the Silver Springs Care Center to see her grandmother.

As she drove there, she promised herself that this decision had nothing to do with Cain’s pep talk yesterday, though her heart knew a lie when it heard one. His words had hurt her, made her feel self-pitying and weak, and he was right: Gran
didn’t
have forever, and Ginger
had
neglected her.

She stopped by a florist on her way over, picking up a peace offering of pink roses, but found when she entered Gran’s room that she’d been beaten to the punch. On her grandmother’s dresser and bedside table were vases of fresh wildflowers, cheering her room with their vibrant fall colors.

She shrugged.
Daddy must have come by recently.

She set the roses on the blanket at the foot of Gran’s bed and pressed her lips to her grandmother’s forehead. It was smooth and warm, and Ginger inhaled deeply, the scent of marshmallows and coconut filling her with comfort.

“G-Gin?” Gran whispered, waking up slowly. “That . . . you, d-darlin’?”

“It’s me, Gran,” she said, sniffling as she wiped a tear away.

Her grandmother looked more frail since the last time she’d seen her, after Woodman’s funeral, and Ginger had a sudden burst of gratitude toward Cain, for his harsh words, which had challenged her to get up, get dressed, and go see her gran.

“D-doll baby,” said her grandmother, “it’s b-been . . . an . . . age.”

“I know, Gran. I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping away a tear. “I think I lost my way for a while there.”

“Are you . . . f-findin’ it . . . again?”

She managed a small smile as she sniffled again. “I think so. I hope so.”

“Isn’t easy . . . losing s-someone . . . you l-loved.”

He’s just away. He’s just away. He’s just away.

She clenched her jaw. “I’m not ready to . . . to talk about him, Gran. Not yet.”

“If you . . . d-don’t, you’re g-gonna . . . c-c-collapse under . . . the w-w-weight . . . of your s-sorrow.”

Ginger stood up and plucked the bouquet of flowers from Gran’s blanket, fixing a bright smile on her face. “I brought you flowers, but it looks like someone else had the same idea. Daddy stop by recently?”

“Yes, but they’re not from him,” said Gran, her alert eyes searching Ginger’s face carefully.

“You got a new beau? A new admirer?”

Gran chuckled softly, which led to a fit of coughing.

Ginger poured her grandmother a cup of water and held the straw to her lips. Gran had long since become dependent on others to feed her and help her drink. Her hands shook so violently now, the water would slosh all over the place if she tried to hold the cup herself.

“Th-thank you, d-doll b-baby.”

Ginger placed the cup back on the bedside table and sat down on the bed. “I don’t want to tire you out, Gran. But I promise you I’ll be back more often now. I’m so sorry I checked out for a while.”

“I un-derstand.”

“Thank you,” she said, leaning down to kiss her grandmother’s parchment-paper cheek.

“G-Gin?” whispered Gran near her ear.

“Yes, ma’am?” she asked, staying close to her lips.

“P-people . . . c-can . . . ch-change.”

Ginger leaned back and looked down at her grandmother’s face. “Well, sure they can.”

“C-completely. F-from who . . . th-they were . . . t-to who . . . th-they are.”

“I know that,” said Ginger, cocking her head to the side, trying to understand where Gran was going. “What are you tryin’ to say? Are you talkin’ about someone in particular?”

Gran’s lips were open, and her eyes seemed to be begging Ginger to understand, but they grew heavy and finally flitted closed, like the conversation they were having was too much effort to continue.

“Gran?” she whispered, but her grandmother’s breathing was slow and deep. She was asleep.

Ginger took the roses into the bathroom, found a vase under Gran’s sink, and placed the stems in the water. Then she brought the vase back out and put it them on top of the bureau across from Gran’s bed, beside the vase of wildflowers. She grinned at the contrast: polite hothouse roses next to primitive, wildly colorful weeds.

“He . . . loves . . . you,” Gran whispered in her sleep, her words just short of a sigh.

Ginger nodded, tears stinging her eyes because everyone else used the past tense, but in her dreams, Gran still talked about Woodman as if he were alive.

Yes, he does,
she thought sadly, turning to leave.
He loves me very much.

***

Thanksgiving Day was inauspicious at the manor house this year, with just the three McHuids and Pastor and Mrs. Greenvale in attendance. Ginger’s mother had included the Woodmans in her annual invitation, but Howard had called to say that he and Sophie were spending this year with Miz Sophie’s sister, Sarah, and her husband over in Frankfort. It had left Miz Magnolia feeling forlorn and missing her friend, but Ginger had suggested inviting the new pastor, which had cheered her mother right up.

For most of Ginger’s life, Miz Sophie and her mother had been thick as thieves, giggling with each other behind their wineglasses, attending every social function in Apple Valley together, and coordinating beautiful parties and events. But since Woodman’s passing, they’d seen very little of his parents—almost as though seeing Ginger’s family was too painful to bear. They were a reminder of Woodman’s lost future, of the good times they’d all spent together. Plus, Ginger perceived that Miz Sophie, who’d always been a little jealous of her, had turned that jealousy to ripe anger. She seemed angry that Ginger had ever claimed any part of Woodman’s heart, as though his love for her had somehow lessened his love for his mother.

The well of friendship had been poisoned by Woodman’s absence, and though her mother still talked about Sophie like they’d resume their friendship one day (“When Sophie’s up for it, we’ll have to plan another casino night at the club”), Ginger felt sure that the longtime friendship between the Woodmans and the McHuids was over.

Though she didn’t really want to see the Woodmans, their absence after twenty years of Thanksgivings spent together was hard to ignore, and it made Ginger feel lonesome in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Her mother, however, was in full-blown hostess mode.

“Ginger, I have to say, you’re lookin’ so much better,” she said, reaching over to pat her daughter’s hand as a hired server stopped by each place setting with a platter piled high with turkey. Miz Magnolia turned to Monica Greenvale and loudly whispered, “The fireman who died in early October was Ginger’s fiancé.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Greenvale, looking sympathetically across the table. “I’m so sorry, Ginger.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Ginger, pulling her hand away from her mother’s.

“Now, Pastor Greenvale, did you tell me that y’all have a son down at Em’ry?”

“Yes, Miz Magnolia,” said Stuart Greenvale. “Our youngest, Colin.”

“Colin Greenvale,” said Ginger’s mother, giving her daughter an encouraging smile. “Isn’t that a fine name?”

Ginger grimaced at her mother, wondering where this conversation was going and dreading her suspicions. “Yes.”

“Tell us more about Colin, won’t you?” her mother asked Mrs. Greenvale.

Monica Greenvale nodded. “He’s a senior, just twenty-one last month—”

“Well, my goodness! Just like our Ginger!”

“Are you twenty-one, dear?” asked the pastor’s wife.

“I am. Yes, ma’am. Just.”

“Our Colin is studyin’ to be a doctor, so he has many more years—”

“Well!” gasped Miz Magnolia, pressing a flattened palm to the front of her Tory Burch silk wrap dress. “Our Ginger’s a nurse!”

“What a coincidence!” exclaimed Pastor Greenvale, helping himself to another scoop of green beans. “Medical children, eh, Ranger?”

“I guess that’s so,” said Ranger, flicking a glance at Ginger, who felt her cheeks flushing with heat.

“Is your son spendin’ Thanksgivin’ with his girlfriend?” asked Ginger, feeling more and more uncomfortable and trying to waylay her mother’s interest in Colin Greenvale.

“No, no,” said Miz Monica, “he’s volunteerin’ at a hospital in Guatemala for six weeks. We’ll have him back in the States after the New Year.”

“January, Ginger,” said her mother, with a knowing smile. “And since he’ll be new to Apple Valley, I expect you could spare an evenin’ to show him around?”

Ginger’s breath caught, anxiety seeping into her veins.

“Virginia,” said Ranger, suddenly commanding his daughter’s attention. “I asked Nina to set aside a pumpkin pie for Klaus and Cain. If you’re finished eatin’, perhaps you wouldn’t mind takin’ it down to the barn for them?”

“Ranger!” exclaimed Miz Magnolia. “We’re still dinin’.”

Ginger’s father ignored her mother, keeping his eyes fixed, with compassion, on his daughter. “You wouldn’t mind, now, would you, dear?”

“No, sir,” she said softly, placing her napkin beside her plate and standing up from her seat. “With your permission?” she said, smiling serenely at the Greenvales and her mother before giving her father a genuine and grateful nod.

And Ranger McHuid, whom Ginger could never remember denying anything his Magnolia, winked at her conspiratorially before she slipped away.

***

“
Noch ein Bier
?”

“
Ja, Papa
,” said Cain, standing from the warm leather chair beside his father’s. He took the two empty bottles from the table between them. “I’ll get us two more.”

The tack room apartment smelled of roasted chicken and vegetables that would be ready in about an hour, and though it wasn’t the traditional American Thanksgiving menu that his mother would be serving today, Cain had decided he’d prefer to spend the holiday with his father. The idea of Aunt Sophie’s vitriol, however contained, would have made his mother’s table uncomfortable. Plus, his mother had her husband and sister. His father had no one, and Cain was perfectly happy watching football with cold beer and pretzels. It was relaxed and companionable.

As he threw the empties in the recycling bin and grabbed two more bottles of Grolsch from the refrigerator, he was surprised to hear knocking at the tack room door. His father turned from the TV, his eyebrows furrowed in question.

“You expect someone?”

“
Nein, Papa
,” said Cain, handing his father one of the two beers, then heading for the door. And damn if his heart didn’t roar to life to find Ginger on the other side.

“Hi,” she said, her voice considerably warmer and softer than it had been a week and a half ago, when he’d dropped her off after the wreath laying.

“Hi,” he said, taking in the pretty wave of her shiny blonde hair, the glossy bit of pink lipstick that drew his attention to her mouth.

“My, uh . . .” She cleared her throat, her big brown eyes holding his captive. “My father asked me to bring down a pie.”

“Wunderbar, Ginger! Danke!”
said Cain’s father, hopping up from his chair with his arms outstretched.
“Bitte schön!”

“He’s so excited for the pie, he’s forgettin’ his English,” said Cain, chuckling good-naturedly at his father’s wide grin. “Wonderful, thank you, and come in.”

Ginger handed the pie to Klaus with a small smile, then looked up at Cain, her lips flattening just a little, the warmth in her eyes cooling just a bit, like she didn’t trust him, like she wasn’t sure of him.

He raised his bottle. “Can I get you a beer?”

“Umm,” she hummed, and two spots of crimson suddenly popped out on the apples of her cheeks. He watched her for a moment, the way she lowered her eyes and looked at her shiny tan high-heeled shoes. And then he remembered—the last time she had beer, she’d vomited on the firehouse floor.

His father, however, only knew Austrian hospitality, nothing of Ginger’s erstwhile overindulgence. When he returned from placing the pie safely in the fridge, he was holding another bottle of open Grolsch and offered it to her.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” said Klaus, clinking her bottle with a cheerful grin.

She laughed softly and nodded, putting the bottle to her lips and tilting it up to take a sip as she grinned at Klaus.

And Cain, who watched her, felt his own rising arm still. For just a moment—a short, perfect moment—she looked happy. She looked young and lovely and open, without any sorrow weighing down her small shoulders. His breath caught, softly, without incident—his father and Ginger both oblivious—and his heart thundered inside its cage at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life.

Almost in slow motion, her stunning face turned, and as her eyes met his over her bottle, he raised his own quickly. The cold glass connected with the warm flesh of his lips, and the beer sluiced down his throat as he watched her lower hers and say, “Yes. Happy Thanksgivin’, Klaus.”