“Who probably would’ve never noticed green hair.”
“True, so very true.” Bridgett’s laugh sweetened the room, and the bridesmaids ahhhed.
Ginger combed through Bridgett’s slightly curled hair, then divided it into sections, planning to fashion a light updo with tendrils drifting down the curve of her neck. Because the bride’s hairstyle should tell her story, reflect her essence.
Bridgett’s updo was intricate with twists and curls, but entirely and altogether elegant and rich.
Ginger teased the top of the hair, slipping into her space of contentment and peace. Because no matter how scarred or hideous she was to others, no one could take this away from her.
If she had any true courage, she might bless the tragedy that introduced her to her destiny, to her superpower.
As she twisted and pinned Bridgett’s hair, the women continued talking, laughing, calming the distraught wedding planner who barged into the room announcing the flowers had not yet been delivered.
Ginger watched the drama through a covert gaze, all the while twisting, tucking, and smoothing. When Bridgett’s hair was pinned and frozen in place with hair freeze, her mother called for the dress. The designer entered along with her assistant as Bridgett stood.
“Here we go.” She glanced back at the mirror, then at Ginger, her eyes glistening. “Exactly how I imagined my hair. Thank you.”
Suddenly the burn of the previous night’s banishment dissipated and all was right with the world.
Slipping from her white robe, Bridgett stepped into the fur-trimmed gown, fitting it on her shoulders and setting it on her slim waist, the crystal beading catching the light.
Then, like bustling elves, they straightened and buttoned, helped Bridgett with her shoes, then last, handed her veil over to Ginger.
“Will you do the honors?” her mother said.
Standing on a stool, Ginger fitted the comb at the base of Bridgett’s silken poof and draped the blusher over her face.
“Oh darling . . .” Mrs. Maynard cupped her hands over her mouth, not worried about her tears streaking her makeup. “You look beautiful, simply, elegantly beautiful.”
“Eric’s eyes are going to pop out of his head.” Miranda said.
Bridgett glided across the room to the full-length mirror and sighed. “Just like I dreamed.” She turned to Ginger. “I knew you’d make me beautiful.”
“I think Mother Nature took care of that for you.”
Bridgett was the perfect bride, the prettiest Ginger had ever seen. And now that her job was done, she felt herself slipping from her empowered zone into the wishing well of wanting to a part of the bold and the beautiful.
But she’d never be a bride, let alone one like Bridgett. Ginger slipped out of the atrium onto the deck and leaned against the railing, breathing deep, swallowing the truth.
Ginger watched the reception from the doorway of the plantation’s grand ballroom, away from the guests and the photographers ducking in and out of the shadows of the ornate plantation ballroom with a fresco ceiling and an imported tile floor.
The guests dined under the light of a handcrafted Waterford chandelier that disseminated light like golden scepters.
Candlelight flickered on linen-draped tables adorned with polished silver and custom-designed China. In the far corner of the room, a fire roared in the river-rock fireplace.
The aroma of prime rib and roasted duck lingered in the air as the best man and maid of honor toasted the bride and groom. While the guests cheered and silver tinkled against cut crystal glasses, Eric kissed Bridgett and the band started a Glenn Miller tune.
In less than a music measure, the dance floor was thick with folks juking and jiving.
Ginger sighed. Every hairdo she had sculpted today remained in perfect place. Of course . . .
Proud of a job well done, she debated now if she should just go on home. It was getting late and she was tired. And, despite her success with the grandmothers, mothers, aunts, and bridesmaids, she felt a little out of place and alone.
“Hey.”
Ginger glanced around to find Tom approaching. “Hey.”
“Having fun?”
“Sure.”
Tom leaned against the other side of the doorway. “Word is Bridgett’s stylist is nothing short of a wonderkid. You brought out the best in her. In all of them.”
Ginger gestured to the beaming groom. “I think he’s the one that really brings out the best in her.”
Bridgett was a vision. She’d changed into a simple white satin gown for the reception, accented with a white, wintery shrug. Eric drank her in with such adoration and desire that Ginger could only watch for a moment, feeling as if she were a voyeur into his intimate, private feelings.
With a sigh, she slipped her hand into her hip pocket. Just once, she’d like a man to look at her with such admiration. Such love. To take her in his arms and move across the dance floor.
She loved dancing. Or at least she thought she did. She’d never been on a dance floor.