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

At the age of twelve, everything changed for Ginger Winters. But out of the pain, one good thing emerged: her superpower to see and display the beauty in her friends. Despite her own ugly marring, she was the go-to girl in high school for hair and makeup.

It was how she survived. How she found purpose. Her ability took her to amazing places. But now she was back in Rosebud after twelve years, starting a new season with her own shop.

She’d left home to become a known stylist, fleeing her “burn victim” image.

And she’d succeeded, or so she thought, landing top salon jobs in New York, Atlanta, and finally Nashville, traveling the world as personal stylist to country music sensation Tracie Blue.

But the truth remained, even among her success. Ginger was that girl, ugly and scarred, forever on the outside looking in.

Face it, some things would never change. If she hoped different, all she had to do was look at her role in her old “friend’s” wedding. The hired help.

Ginger tugged the paint cans from the storage closet. Six months ago, when she returned to Rosebud and signed the papers for the shop, she ran out to Lowe’s and purchased a pinkish-beige paint to roll on the walls, giving the old shop a fresh look and a new smell, adding her touch to the historic downtown storefront.

But Maggie kept a full appointment book and Ginger hit the ground running, with only enough time to paint and decorate her above-shop apartment.

Then the two long-time stylists who had worked for Maggie retired. And ten-hour days turned to fifteen until Ginger hired Michele and Casey, part-time stylists and full-time moms.

Painting had to wait.

“Can we at least order lunch?” Ruby-Jane tugged open the doors of the supply closet, the long-handle roller brushes toppling down on her. With a sigh, she collected them, settling them against the wall.

“Yes, pizza. On me.”

“Ah, I love you, Ginger Winters. You’re speaking my language.”

Kneeling beside the paint can, Ginger pried off the lid and filled the paint trays, then moved to the shop and dragged the styling stations toward the center, covering the old hardwood floor around the perimeter with paper and visqueen.

“Have to admit, I love this old shop,” RJ said, pausing between the shop and the back room.

“Me too.” Ginger raised her gaze, glancing about the timeworn, much-loved room. “Don’t you wish these walls could talk?”

Ruby-Jane laughed. “Yes, because I’d like to hear some of the old stories. No, because talking walls would really freak me out.” She eyed Ginger, pointing. “But one day these walls will tell our stories.”

“Can we go back to talking walls freaking you out?” Ginger laughed with a huff as she pulled the last station away from the wall. “I don’t want any stories going around about me.”

She’d heard them already. Freak. Ugly. She gives me the creeps.

“I think the walls will tell lovely stories: Ginger Winters made women feel good about themselves.”

She smiled at Ruby-Jane, the eternal optimist. “Okay, then I can go with the talking walls. Okay . . . painting. Shoo wee, this is a big wall. Let’s do the right side first. Then, as time allows, we’ll finish the rest. With the right side done, we’ll be more motivated to get the rest done.”

“You’re the boss.”

Adjusting the scarf around her neck, Ginger smoothed her hair over her right shoulder, further covering herself. While she had the courage to shove up her sleeve and expose her scarred arm, she wasn’t brazen enough to expose her neck and the horrible skin graft debacle.

Two infections and three surgeries later, Mama had given up on doctors and decided to “leave well enough alone.”

Ginger had cried herself to sleep at night, her hand pressed over the most hideous wrinkled, puckered skin patch at the base of her neck.

She knew then she’d never be beautiful.

“You can have a social life if you want,” RJ said, helping her with the last station.

“Who said I wanted one?” Ginger headed for the storeroom. “Let’s get painting.”

Five minutes later, their rollers thick with paint, Ginger and Ruby-Jane covered the wall with fresh color, their beloved country tunes filling the air pockets with twang.

“You ready?” RJ said. “For this weekend? One bride, seven bridesmaids, two mothers, three grandmothers—”

“Yep. Just a walk in the park, Kazansky.”

“I still can’t believe she didn’t invite me. We were good friends until high school.”

“Maybe because you dated Eric for awhile after they broke up.”

“Well, there’s that.” Sigh. After graduation, when Bridgett and Eric went their separate ways, Ruby-Jane was more than eager to be the new future Mrs. Eric James.

“As for dropping you in high school, I don’t know, but her loss was my gain.” There were no truer words in this moment. With an exhale, Ginger relaxed into the repeating motion of rolling on paint.

The shop was warm and merry with the occasional ting of crystalline flakes pinging against the glass.

“Well, that’s true, but I like to think we’d have become friends anyway.”

Ginger glanced over at her tall, lithe friend. “You can come to the wedding as my assistant.”

“And flaunt my shame in front of everyone as the help of the help? No thanks.”