“Who cares? I don’t. I like you. I think we could be friends.” His breath clung to “friends” for a moment longer than necessary. “Ginger, it’s a wedding. Come on, one dance.”
She gestured toward his tuxedo, then the couples coming down the hall. “The attire is formal. I’m wearing jeans.”
“You think anyone is going to care?”
“Yes, I do. Mrs. Maynard for one. There’s a governor, two senators, and a newspaper publisher in there. And a boat load of photographers.”
“So what?” He slipped his hand into hers again and the dying embers of his touch flared again.
“Tom, do you ever listen?” Her eyes welled up. He was going to make her confess it. “I’m not one of them. One of you.” She’d pulled her hand from his. “I need to get going.” Get back to her life and her world where everything was comfortable. Where her lines were clearly drawn.
“Why do you want to watch life from the shadows?”
“Did it ever occur to you I like the shadows?”
“Did it ever occur to you that you were made for so much more?”
She stared at him, her insides a hissing stick of dynamite. Once she thought she was made for more. She’d even tried for bigger things on the road with Tracie. But . . .
“Have a good evening, Tom. Good luck with your church.” Ginger headed down the corridor. She needed to escape the house, escape all the love and happiness in the ballroom, escape Tom.
But he followed her down the hall, past the bustling kitchen, warm with the smells of roasted meat and baking bread, through the grand room toward the arching foyer with the sweeping staircase.
“Ginger, please one dance.”
And risk her heart toppling over in love? She tugged open the foyer door, inhaling the sweet scent of her escape. “Good night, Tom.”
By Wednesday the warmth and sunshine had returned to southern Alabama and Ginger settled back into her weekly routine of blue hair wash-and-blowouts, and the chatter of Ruby-Jane, Michele, and Casey.
She could almost forget the weird snow day, the odd wedding weekend, and Tom Wells Jr. with his probing power-blue eyes and intoxicating, tender touch.
Just the memory of his fingers running along her arm made her shiver.
“You cold?” Ruby-Jane said, walking by with an armload of clean towels.
“What? No. Loving these warm temps.” Ginger put the finishing touches on Mrs. Darnell’s short, teased hair.
Drat that Tom Wells. She was going to have to dump her head in one of the sinks after closing and wash that man right out of her hair.
“Well . . .” Ruby-Jane stood in the middle of the shop. “Hump day. What are y’all doing this evening? Want to try that new burger place by the shopping plaza?”
“Not me,” Michele said, counting out her tips. “We’ve got basketball tonight.”
“Church for me,” Casey said.
“Ging? What about you?”
She gazed at Ruby-Jane through the mirror. “Got plans. If you’re looking for something to do, you could finish painting the shop.”
The place looked rather awkward with one long wall painted a smooth pinkish-beige while the other remained a putrid pea green.
“Ha, nothing doing. I’ll help you if you want but I’m not staying here by myself.”
“I would but I need to take care of something.” Ginger took command of the conversation, going over Thursday’s appointments and deciding with her stylists which supplies needed to be reordered.
Then she closed the shop and picked up Chinese takeout from Wong Chow and drove across town to Mountain Brook Apartments as the winter sun drifted beyond the edge of the earth’s curve.
Pulling into a parking spot under Mama’s second floor apartment, Ginger gathered the takeout bags and jogged up the steps.
“Hey, baby,” Mama said, smiling, taking a long inhale of the food as Ginger entered. “I was surprised you called.”
“Well, we haven’t seen each other in awhile.” Ginger slipped off her sweater, straightening the long bell sleeve of her top, glancing about the small, charming apartment, decorated with Mama’s artistic flair.
“I heard the wedding was lovely.” Mama set the fried rice on the dining table as Ginger searched the cupboards for the plates. “Just use paper. In the cabinet by the sink.”
Ginger set the plates on the table. “Bridgett was a beautiful bride. But no one expected less.”
“Did you have a nice time?”
She shrugged, taking the napkins and chopsticks from the bag. “It was a job.”
“Put any yearnings into your head?” Mama wiggled her eyebrows and did a jig across the linoleum. “Maybe a wedding of your own?”
“Hardly.”
“And why not? You’re smart, successful . . . p-pretty.”
That’s how Mama always said it. P-pretty. Stumbling. Hesitating. As if she was trying to believe her own confession.
“Actually, I didn’t come to talk about me.” Ginger sat at the table, reaching for the beef and broccoli. “Did you know Tom Wells was in town? Starting a church?”
“What?” Mama’s complexion paled, but she disguised it by jumping up. “I forgot the iced tea. I made some this afternoon.”