“Were you hoping she would?”
“Yes, Edward, I was because she needs Jesus. Frankly, I’m thinking you need a good dose of the Spirit yourself.” Tom started for the door. “By the way, Ed, yeah, really, her. She’s gorgeous, smart, caring and yeah, a bit physically flawed, but I’d take her over some . . . beauty queen any day.” Tom slammed the door behind him.
“Tom!” Edward called after him. “Think of your career . . .”
But he kept on walking toward the church, the nine o’clock bells ringing for the first time in over two decades, waking up the community, waking up Tom’s heart.
Come, take up your cross, and follow Me.
Ginger woke to the sound of church bells. But they didn’t sound like they emanated from Bridge Street Baptist. These chimes were older, distant, coming from the west.
Climbing out of bed, she opened her front window, letting in the crisp, pristine breeze as she peered down onto Main.
You’re beautiful.
Tom’s voice had moved into her head and no amount of shop hustle and bustle, Tracie Blue music, or back-to-back movies on the Hallmark Channel could get him out.
You’re beautiful.
Then Friday afternoon Mrs. Davenport caught her attention in the mirror as she styled her hair. “What’s going on with you, Ginger? You look different. You’re positively glowing.”
You’re beautiful. Then the melody of the song from Bridgett’s wedding crashed over her. “You make me brave!”
Now she leaned against the screen, remembering, and inhaled the fragrance of the January morn as the bells chimed, seven, eight, nine.
Could she be brave? Go to church? She always said she’d go if someone invited her. Technically, Tom had invited her.
Ginger hesitated. She liked her Sunday morning routine—a latte and muffin while reading the Sunday Gazette. But if she hurried, she could have her breakfast, skim the paper, and still make it to the morning service.
She closed her eyes. Do it. Don’t think. Dashing for the shower, she actually let herself meditate on the pleasure of seeing Tom Wells again.
You’re beautiful.
Peeling off her nightshirt, Ginger examined her familiar wounds, trying to see them with new eyes. She stared at her reflection.
“Y-you’re beau—” She choked. It wasn’t true. “Ginger, say it.” She heard Tom’s truth in her own voice. “Y-you are . . . you are . . .” She leaned toward the mirror. “B-beautiful.”
A quick wind swept through her apartment. Through her soul.
“Ginger, you are”—she raised her voice—“beautiful.”
The wind swirled around her again.
“Ginger!” She yelled, arms raised. “You are beautiful!”
Joy in the form of tears ran down her cheeks, somehow watering all the dry, barren places where truth had not flowered in a long time. If ever.
“Ginger Winters, you are beautiful!”
Tom did his best to focus on the music, the songs, and worshipping his Lord, but felt the pressure of his inaugural Sunday morning. Along with the humiliation of bad press.
Alisha, God love her, curled her lip at the article. “Who cares? Is it true? No. Let God defend you, Tom.”
Her confidence stirred his.
Now, as Alisha brought worship to an end, Tom prepared to take the pulpit. He’d not looked over his shoulder for the entire worship set so he had no idea if one or a hundred people filled the old, wooden pews.
In truth, he wanted to see one face. Well, two. Pop’s and Ginger’s. Mostly Ginger’s. He needed to know she was okay. That the article hadn’t stirred up bad memories.
The last note rang out from the keyboard and Alisha nodded to Tom. Go time. Up the platform steps, he faced the sanctuary and his heart soared.
The place was full. To the brim. Standing room only.
“Good morning. Welcome to Encounter—”
“Is it true?” A woman in the second row rose to her feet. “Your father nearly had an affair?”
Tom recognized her from the old days. Shutting off his iPad, he came around the pulpit, his eyes drifting over the people. “Is that why you all are here?”
Heads bobbed. Voices assented.
The heat of confrontation beaded along his brow. “Then let’s just get it all out on the table. Some of the article is true. Dad had an inappropriate amount of affection for Shana Winters.” In the back, the sanctuary doors opened and Tom halted, a cold dread slipping down his back as Ginger eased inside.
No, no, not today. But it was too late to reverse rudder and preach his prepared message. To pretend the article never appeared.
He caught her gaze and she smiled, offering a small wave before accepting a seat in the last row from an older gentleman.