“There.” Ruby-Jane jumped down, sweeping the chair aside. “Oh, Ginger . . .” Her eyes watered as she pressed her fingers over her lips.
“Be honest, please.” Ginger swept her gaze from RJ to Michele. “Am I crazy? Do I look ghastly?” She offered up her bare, scarred arm, the gold glitter in the body makeup catching the late afternoon light floating through the window. “Is it too much? The glitter?”
“It’s perfect. You are going to blow Tom away.”
She touched the skin patch at the base of her neck. The sleeveless gown was a surprise for him. Her gift. “I can live with my arm and back being exposed, but what about this?” She motioned to her neck.
“You’re fine, Ginger,” Ruby-Jane said. “Don’t second-guess yourself now.”
She was right. If she was going to be brave, then be brave. Next month, Ginger had an appointment with a renowned plastic surgeon, a friend of her future father-in-law’s, who had volunteered his time and skill to repair the botched graft.
But truth was, she’d already met a renowned surgeon. Jesus. Who’d healed the inner wounds no one could see. And all it took was love. His and Tom’s.
A sweet laugh escaped her lips.
“What?” RJ said, smiling, leaning in, wanting to join Ginger’s joy.
“Nothing.” She shook her head, treasuring the moment. “I’m just happy.” Ruby-Jane still insisted God watched from a distance, so any talk of Him would spark debate.
“Ready to see what you look like?” Michele turned Ginger toward the full-length mirror.
“Ready.” Ginger closed her eyes and followed Michele’s leading—one, two, three steps to the right. She’d insisted they get her ready without a mirror. In case she panicked. Believing she was beautiful was still a battle some days.
“Open your eyes.”
Ginger inhaled, then opened her eyes on the exhale. The glass was filled with her image, clothed in white, her ombre hair sculpted on top of her head in a retro ’60s updo, and gold glitter filling the creases of her scars.
Tears bubbled up.
“Wait, here, for the final look.” Ruby-Jane dashed for Ginger’s small, wired bouquet of roses and gypsophila. “Perfect, so per—” RJ’s voice broke so she finished her thought with a sweet, weepy smile and a nod.
A tender knock echoed from the door. “Ready?” Maggie Boyd peeked inside. She’d returned home from Ireland two months ago, demanding to be Ginger’s wedding director.
So much favor came when she accepted love. When she accepted God. And her destiny.
“Ginger, oh, Ginger,” Maggie drew a deep breath, wiping her eyes. “We’re going to have to pick Tom up off the floor.”
“Let’s hope so.” Ginger grinned, winking. She had a bit of confidence because he’d seen her scars. He’d asked two days ago to see her side and back, so tonight, when they became one, she’d not fear him seeing that part of her for the first time.
He traced his fingers along every jagged, rugged crevasse of her disfigurement, whispering prayers of healing, peace, and joy.
Not only for her body but for her heart.
His tenderness and care, as he ran his hand over the damaged flesh that would become his on their wedding night, along with his weepy, whispered prayers created an emotional exchange between them that nearly overwhelmed Ginger.
She could never doubt God’s love for her. She saw it manifested every day in Tom.
Tucked deep in her heart, that odd January day it snowed in Rosebud and Tom had reappeared in her life would always be one of her sweetest treasures.
“Baby, it’s four-thirty.” Mama popped into the room. “The sanctuary is filled to the brim.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I think my heart is about to burst. Ginger, sugar, you are so beautiful.” She said it plainly, without stuttering.
Mama was changing too.
Ginger took one last glance in the mirror. She’d chosen a sleeveless gown because she loved it. Because it fit like a glove. Because if she didn’t have wounds on her arm and back, this would be her dream dress.
Go for it . . . Tom. Always Tom. The voice of truth and courage.
“Ah, I hear the orchestra, the music is starting.” Mama had worked double shifts at a diner after her city day job to earn money for a fifteen-piece orchestra. It was her way of, as she put it, “doing my part.”
“RJ, maid of honor, get going.” Maggie shoved Ruby-Jane toward the door. “Don’t forget this.” She snatched a bouquet from the nearby table.
Ruby-Jane’s heels thunked against the wide hardwood. “Shifting gears from helping the bride to being maid of honor.” She grinned at Ginger. “See you down there.”
Michele also slipped out the door, blowing Ginger a kiss. “Going to find Alex and the kids. Go get ’em, Ginger.”