Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(100)

“Yes, but they’re not from him,” said Gran, her alert eyes searching Ginger’s face carefully.

“You got a new beau? A new admirer?”

Gran chuckled softly, which led to a fit of coughing.

Ginger poured her grandmother a cup of water and held the straw to her lips. Gran had long since become dependent on others to feed her and help her drink. Her hands shook so violently now, the water would slosh all over the place if she tried to hold the cup herself.

“Th-thank you, d-doll b-baby.”

Ginger placed the cup back on the bedside table and sat down on the bed. “I don’t want to tire you out, Gran. But I promise you I’ll be back more often now. I’m so sorry I checked out for a while.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you,” she said, leaning down to kiss her grandmother’s parchment-paper cheek.

“G-Gin?” whispered Gran near her ear.

“Yes, ma’am?” she asked, staying close to her lips.

“P-people . . . c-can . . . ch-change.”

Ginger leaned back and looked down at her grandmother’s face. “Well, sure they can.”

“C-completely. F-from who . . . th-they were . . . t-to who . . . th-they are.”

“I know that,” said Ginger, cocking her head to the side, trying to understand where Gran was going. “What are you tryin’ to say? Are you talkin’ about someone in particular?”

Gran’s lips were open, and her eyes seemed to be begging Ginger to understand, but they grew heavy and finally flitted closed, like the conversation they were having was too much effort to continue.

“Gran?” she whispered, but her grandmother’s breathing was slow and deep. She was asleep.

Ginger took the roses into the bathroom, found a vase under Gran’s sink, and placed the stems in the water. Then she brought the vase back out and put it them on top of the bureau across from Gran’s bed, beside the vase of wildflowers. She grinned at the contrast: polite hothouse roses next to primitive, wildly colorful weeds.

“He . . . loves . . . you,” Gran whispered in her sleep, her words just short of a sigh.

Ginger nodded, tears stinging her eyes because everyone else used the past tense, but in her dreams, Gran still talked about Woodman as if he were alive.

Yes, he does, she thought sadly, turning to leave. He loves me very much.

***

Thanksgiving Day was inauspicious at the manor house this year, with just the three McHuids and Pastor and Mrs. Greenvale in attendance. Ginger’s mother had included the Woodmans in her annual invitation, but Howard had called to say that he and Sophie were spending this year with Miz Sophie’s sister, Sarah, and her husband over in Frankfort. It had left Miz Magnolia feeling forlorn and missing her friend, but Ginger had suggested inviting the new pastor, which had cheered her mother right up.

For most of Ginger’s life, Miz Sophie and her mother had been thick as thieves, giggling with each other behind their wineglasses, attending every social function in Apple Valley together, and coordinating beautiful parties and events. But since Woodman’s passing, they’d seen very little of his parents—almost as though seeing Ginger’s family was too painful to bear. They were a reminder of Woodman’s lost future, of the good times they’d all spent together. Plus, Ginger perceived that Miz Sophie, who’d always been a little jealous of her, had turned that jealousy to ripe anger. She seemed angry that Ginger had ever claimed any part of Woodman’s heart, as though his love for her had somehow lessened his love for his mother.

The well of friendship had been poisoned by Woodman’s absence, and though her mother still talked about Sophie like they’d resume their friendship one day (“When Sophie’s up for it, we’ll have to plan another casino night at the club”), Ginger felt sure that the longtime friendship between the Woodmans and the McHuids was over.

Though she didn’t really want to see the Woodmans, their absence after twenty years of Thanksgivings spent together was hard to ignore, and it made Ginger feel lonesome in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Her mother, however, was in full-blown hostess mode.

“Ginger, I have to say, you’re lookin’ so much better,” she said, reaching over to pat her daughter’s hand as a hired server stopped by each place setting with a platter piled high with turkey. Miz Magnolia turned to Monica Greenvale and loudly whispered, “The fireman who died in early October was Ginger’s fiancé.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Greenvale, looking sympathetically across the table. “I’m so sorry, Ginger.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Ginger, pulling her hand away from her mother’s.

“Now, Pastor Greenvale, did you tell me that y’all have a son down at Em’ry?”

“Yes, Miz Magnolia,” said Stuart Greenvale. “Our youngest, Colin.”

“Colin Greenvale,” said Ginger’s mother, giving her daughter an encouraging smile. “Isn’t that a fine name?”

Ginger grimaced at her mother, wondering where this conversation was going and dreading her suspicions. “Yes.”

“Tell us more about Colin, won’t you?” her mother asked Mrs. Greenvale.

Monica Greenvale nodded. “He’s a senior, just twenty-one last month—”