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?”