Sunday supper at the McHuids’ was not a new occurrence in Woodman’s life—he and his parents had been invited about once a month since he was a child, and he’d always put up with his mother’s and Miz Magnolia’s good-natured teasing, and shared uncomfortable looks with Ginger as their parents pretended to plan their wedding and name their imaginary grandchildren. But this time, he had to admit, their mothers were taking it a little far.
“Woodman,” said Miz Magnolia, waving away the server who paused beside her with a platter filled with sliced ham, “what are your plans now that you’re home? Steady employment? Lovely home? Blushin’ bride?”
“Momma, please,” said Ginger softly, her voice small and tired.
“Well, I’m just thinkin’ how stunnin’ it is here at McHuid Farm in June. Perfect place for a weddin’.”
She giggled, and Woodman’s mother swatted at her playfully. “Magnolia Lee, you are so baaaaad!”
But Miz Magnolia preened, winking at Sophie before fixing her eyes on Ginger. “You’ve been waitin’ for Woodman to come on home now, haven’t you, Virginia? Well, here he is. What’re you goin’ to do about it?”
Ginger’s cheeks flushed as she stared down at her full plate. She’d barely eaten a bite, and she seemed especially fragile tonight. It made him feel worried, and he was anxious for dinner to be over so he could speak to her alone.
“You are lookin’ just fine, Woodman, bum foot notwithstandin’,” boomed Ranger McHuid from the opposite side of the table.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Damn proud of you for servin’ like you did,” Ranger continued, helping himself to a third and fourth scoop of mashed potatoes.
“It was my honor to serve, sir.”
“Chip off the old block, eh, Howard?”
Woodman’s father nodded, taking a serving of ham and reaching for the saucer of honey on the table. “That’s right. Woodmans are naval men. Josiah carried on a fine tradition.”
Sophie smiled at her son indulgently, then flicked her eyes to a despondent Ginger. “Magnolia, your Ginger here arrived at my house last Monday in the sweetest little violet outfit.”
Ginger’s mother cut her eyes to her daughter with disapproval. “You did not wear your scruffs to Miz Sophie’s house!”
“Scrubs, Momma,” said Ginger quietly, by rote.
“Tsk! My God, I don’t understand this fascination with bedpans and old people. It’s just so unpleasant, daughter.”
“It’s your life, not theirs,” Ginger said in a broken, faraway voice.
Woodman kicked her lightly under the table with his good foot, warning her not to engage. It would only make it worse.
“You say somethin’, miss?” asked Miz Magnolia, finishing her third glass of Chablis and nailing her daughter with narrowed eyes. “You say somethin’ to the momma who pays for your SUV, let you lives in her cottage rent free, pays for your schoolin’, and doles out your generous allowance?”
“No, ma’am.”
She turned to her friend. “Sophie, you think our grandbabies will look more Woodman or McHuid?”
Woodman gave his mother a pleading look, which she ignored.
“A fair mix of both, I hope.”
“Don’t you hog my grandbabies, Sophie, you hear?”
“Why, Magnolia, I believe you’re worried I’ll be more popular.”
When neither Woodman nor Ginger engaged in their deeply embarrassing silliness, it lost its fun, and Miz Magnolia asked his mother if she’d heard about the latest scandal involving the Methodist pastor and Mrs. McGaskell from the choir.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Woodman softly, and Ginger, whose face had been set in misery since the meal started, looked up at him with tears in her eyes and nodded gratefully.
“Gin and I are goin’ for a walk,” he said, clutching the table to stand up on his good leg as Ginger retrieved his crutches from the corner of the room and brought them to him.
“What a fine idea,” said Miz Magnolia. “But just neckin’, you hear?”
“Jesus, Momma!” yelled Ginger in the first show of spirit Woodman had seen all night.
“Don’t you dare cuss at me, daughter!”
Ginger huffed loudly, biting back whatever smart-ass comment was on the tip of her tongue, then turned and beelined out of the room, leaving Woodman to hobble behind. He found her sitting outside on the porch swing, arms crossed over her chest, eyes brimming with tears, looking a combination of dismal and furious.
“You’d think it wouldn’t be so much fun for them after ten years,” she said.
Woodman chuckled at her pique. “They were worse’n usual today.”
“They treat us like Daddy’s horses. Go breed us some grandbabies, daughter! It’s disgustin’.”
“Aw, come on, now. They’ve always been a little silly about us.”
“It’s just a big game for them—who we love, who we want.”
Who do you love, Gin? Who do you want?