How could that fact make her heart smile after twelve years? Years in which he’d not once contacted her.
Nevertheless, his presence changed everything about this weekend. She’d signed on as the stylist, to be a person behind the scenes, detached from the wedding, the guests, and the celebration. That was fine with her. She’d perfected that persona while working for Tracie.
But now, a small part of her wanted to be a woman, not just a servant, and to be seen by him. She had visions of participating in the wedding festivities, and they disturbed her. Rattled her well-built, well-structured emotional barriers.
She’d only felt this way one other time in her life. In high school. When Tom Wells Jr. was her calculus study partner. Grrr, this whole thing irritated her, making her feel like an emotionally trapped seventeen-year-old.
Around the next bend, between the skinny pines and live oaks, Ginger spotted the golden lights of the plantation house, glowing like a low moon rising on the thin, wet, dark horizon.
She pulled around the curved driveway, parked, and dashed to the veranda, the rain easing off as the storm clouds inhaled for a second breath.
She was a professional. Just the stylist. Detached and aloof, a hired hand.
Shivering in the dewy, cold air, Ginger rang the doorbell, fixing on a smile when an older woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door.
“Hey, I’m Ginger Winters. The stylist.”
The maid stood aside. “They’re in the drawing room.”
“Thank you.” Ginger stepped inside, offering her hand. “And you are?”
“Eleanor.”
“Eleanor. Nice to meet you.”
The woman’s stern expression softened. “Yes, you too. This way.” She led Ginger through a small, formal living room and a massive library, then down a short corridor where laughing male and female voices collided.
Eleanor paused at a set of double doors. “Tonight’s dinner is buffet, on the sideboard. Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Ginger hesitated as she stepped from the marble hallway onto the plush emerald-and-gold carpet, scanning the room. No one noticed her. But that wasn’t unusual.
A pale glow from the teardrop chandelier hovered above the room as if too good for the thick, heavier gold light emanating from the wall sconces and table lamps. On the farthest wall, deep-red curtains framed a working white stone fireplace. Despite its size, the drawing room was warm and cozy, inviting.
Come on in. Even you, Ginger Winters.
Several women sat reclined on a matching set of white sofas by the fireplace, wine glasses in hand. The fire crackled and popped, the flames stretching into the flue.
But the sofas by the fire were not for her. The beauty of the fireplace aside, Ginger avoided flames of any kind. From bonfires to matches, lighters, and sparklers, to men who made her heart feel like kindling.
Speaking of men, she’d not spotted Tom yet. To her right, she saw the groom, Eric, with several others watching ESPN on a large flat screen.
To her left was Bridgett and a mix of folks talking at the wet bar. There was Edward Frizz and Brandi Heinly, one of Bridgett’s friends from high school. They were all part of the beautiful and bold to which Ginger had no admittance.
Since no one saw her, should she just walk in? Hey y’all? The aroma of roast beef and something cheesy whetted her appetite. She’d snatched a slice of cold pizza for breakfast but had eaten nothing since.
But first, she needed to connect with Bridgett, let her know she’d arrived. Then beginning tomorrow morning, she’d start washing and setting hair for the mothers at nine o’clock.
Ginger inched across the room, arms stiff at her sides. “Bridgett, hey, I’m here.”
“Ginger!” A beaming and bright Bridgett wrapped her in a happy hug and walked her to the center of the room. “Girls, this is Ginger Winters, the one I was telling you about, Miss Marvelous. Her straight iron is a magic wand.”
Ginger smiled and waved toward the women on the sofa. “Nice to see y’all.”
One of the women rose up on her knees, leaning on the back of the sofa. “Did you really tour with Tracie Blue?”
“I did, yes. Three years.” One lingering benefit of working for a superstar? A great conversation piece.
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it. She is my favorite singer.” This from Sarah Alvarez, another bridesmaid and Rosebud High alum. “How exciting. What dirt can you give us on her?” Sarah wiggled her eyebrows as she joined the other women on the sofa.
“None I’m afraid. I signed a confidentiality agreement. She could sue me for more money than I’ll make in three lifetimes.”
Sarah made a face, shrugged and turned away, rejoining the conversation around the fire.
“Never mind her,” Bridgett said, slipping her arm through Ginger’s. Her burned one, but she didn’t pull free. Her sweater was thick enough to hide the scars. And Bridgett wasn’t holding on too tight. “Come over here. You remember my handsome groom, Eric.”