A Brush with Love: A January Wedding Story (A Year of Weddings 2 #2)(9)

He never got to ask Ginger how she felt about him. School had just started. They had a couple of study sessions together but not much more. But when he was around her, his heart felt things new and wonderful. He wanted to be a better person.

She, on the other hand, was hard to read. She kept her feelings close.

“Did you break her heart?”

“I don’t know. We were supposed to go to the movies the night Dad had me packing my stuff.” Tom shook his head, staring past Pop at the choir door. “I never called her. I felt too embarrassed. I didn’t know what to tell her. ‘We’re sneaking out of town. My dad’s a jerk.’ So I just left it. Never wrote to her. Never called.”

“Twelve years is a long time, Tom. I hardly think she’s holding a grudge because a high school boy didn’t pick her up for pizza and a movie. She might know the whole story since her mama was involved.” Pop rubbed his chin. “Though Tom Senior did manage to keep it all so very quiet.”

“I don’t know what she knows except I stood her up.” The Thursday afternoon he had asked her out, after school, he’d almost kissed her as they stood by his car. But Eric and Edward dashed onto the scene, out of nowhere, rabble rousing, full of pre-football practice mischief, and spoiled the whole mood.

Then, seeing her today? He felt like some dangling part of his heart had been put back into place. Ginger was all right. Doing well. And still beautiful. “Well, anyway,” Tom said, glancing down, sweeping the floor. “She went on to do some pretty great things. She was a stylist to Tracie Blue. She’s a major country music—”

“I know Tracie Blue,” Pop said, smiling. “Very impressive for Ginger.”

Tom laughed. “And how does an old evangelist like you know about Tracie Blue?”

“Facebook.”

“Facebook?”

Pop nodded. “Your Aunt Marlee hooked me up.”

“I’m not even on Facebook, Pop.” Tom laughed and stamped the broom against the floor.

“Well, get Marlee to set up your profile thingy.” But Pop sobered. “Tom, best advice? Don’t stew on this Ginger business. Make it right if you think something is amiss, but don’t stew. Don’t assign thoughts and emotions to her based on what you think and feel. That’s how the world gets messed up.”

Pop, such a well of wisdom and truth. “She’ll be at the wedding. Guess I could find a moment to speak to her.”

“Just don’t try to make her some sort of project.” Pop leaned forward, tapping Tom on the arm. “Let God see to her eternal soul. You point her to Him, not to yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Dad’s given me the same speech.”

“He should. Because that’s what messed him up. Taking on people projects. Feeling responsible. Letting others see him instead of Jesus. He always struggled with his pride. I busted him many a time on it. But God redeems. God heals,” Pop said. “However, you, dear boy, must remember why you returned to Rosebud. It wasn’t just because Edward Frizz called asking you to start a new church.”

“And not just because I want to see Dad’s name and reputation restored.”

“No.” Pop’s laugh barreled from his chest. “You best let that part go. You start worrying about reputations and you’ll be sunk before you even start.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Gaze at Him, not yourself, your family, the name Wells, or the past. You know King Saul’s downfall? He cared more about what men thought than what God thought.”

Tom listened, mulling, thinking, trying to connect the gnawing in his gut over Ginger Winters with his thoughts, with what Pop was saying, with the truth.

“You know,” Pop said, pushing to his feet. “If you want to really help this girl, win her to Jesus.”

“Isn’t that making her a project?”

Pop grunted. “No, it’s showing her love. Everything else is lust or pride. Leading her to Truth, at the risk of your own heart and reputation, is love. How about we finish this over lunch? I’m starved.”

Tom anchored the broom against the side of the pew and went to his office for his jacket. Win her to Jesus? Was she in need of winning? How do I relate to her? What do I say? He muttered in prayer as he returned to the sanctuary, meeting Pop in the middle of the aisle.

A simple but sweet answer to his questions rose up and lingered in his heart.

Tell her she’s beautiful.





The rain started the moment Ginger left Rosebud city limits on Friday evening. Blasting the radio, she was exhausted.

She’d painted late into the evening Wednesday—the one wall took forever and still needed another coat—then filled Thursday and Friday with her regular and snow-day appointments.

In between clients, she answered frantic, last-minute texts from Bridgett suggesting “one more thing” or wondering if “there’s time to perm Aunt Carol’s hair”?

So now as she drove south toward the Maynards’ Magnolia plantation on the southwest corner of the county, the winter light masked by rain-weighted clouds, she wanted nothing more than a long, hot bath and her bed.

Bridgett informed her she was sharing a room with one of the bridesmaids, Miranda Shoemaker. Ginger didn’t mind as long as she had her own bed.

To be her charming, make-them-beautiful self, all she required was a good night’s sleep. The bridal party wouldn’t need her tonight, so she hoped to excuse herself after introductions and slip off to her room.