Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(109)

By Christmas Eve, she’d had enough cheerful Lifetime and Hallmark Christmas movies to last a, ahem, lifetime and decided it was high time to shower and go for a ride. Clearly Cain wasn’t coming to harass her, and while that frustrated her and hurt her feelings, she had also recognized that at some point she’d left behind the phase of grief when dirty hair and pajamas didn’t bother her.

And Cain or no Cain, she didn’t like being dirty and smelling bad.

When she found the tack room cold and dark on Christmas Eve, and didn’t see Cain in the last pew at church for services, her heart sank a little lower.

Christmas Day came and went quietly, with the Greenvales once again joining the McHuids for modest festivities, and Ginger’s mother forcing Miz Monica to talk ad nauseam about Colin, the Wunderdoktor. Ginger saw right through her momma’s wiles but didn’t have the energy to be sassy so she nodded and smiled and agreed to have dinner with her parents, the Greenvales, and Colin in January. Yes, ma’am, I’d love to come to dinner. The words barely registered in her head as she said them aloud.

Where were Cain and Klaus? she wondered. While Cain might have decided to spend Christmas with his mother, why wasn’t Klaus around? Perhaps they were at Cain’s place, assuming Cain had a place, and suddenly she found herself at Christmas dinner staring at her plate, wondering where Cain lived and what it looked like and why he hadn’t shared it with her. Is that where he was? At his new place? With his dad? Or maybe with some new girl he’d met? Or— “Ginger! Monica just said that Colin absolutely loves to ride. Did you hear that?”

“Oh?” asked Ginger, looking up, jolted from her internal dialogue.

“But I s’pose he’s not half as good as you are,” said Miz Monica with a wink.

Oh Lord, thought Ginger. The poor woman’s drinkin’ the Kool-Aid.

She sighed, excused herself from the table, and headed back to her cottage early.

By New Year’s Eve, Cain still hadn’t come around or been in touch, and the ache inside Ginger was getting sharp. Really sharp. She thought about his coming by to take her riding, about the wreath laying, and about the beers on Thanksgiving Day. She thought about going caroling with him and what he’d told her about her lion’s heart. And she thought about Wolfram’s Motorcycles, his beautiful new business. She stopped herself half a dozen times from driving down to Versailles to see if he was still there.

But some part of her knew she wouldn’t be welcome. Not yet. Not until she’d faced all the realities of her life head-on and started making peace with them. Not until she’d faced the truth of Woodman’s loss.

On New Year’s Eve, she stopped by Silver Springs to see her gran.

“D-doll baby,” greeted Gran as Ginger stepped into her room and kissed her cheek. “Where . . . you b-been?”

Ginger took a deep breath and sighed. “At home. Feelin’ sorry for myself.”

“You’ve had . . . a t-tough t-time . . . of it.” Ginger didn’t answer so her grandmother continued. “Are you . . . r-ready to . . . t-talk ’bout . . . W-Wood—”

“Oh, Gran,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a terrible, terrible person.”

Her grandmother winced, her eyes sad. “N-no. N-no, b-baby.”

She sniffled. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t love him the way I should have. He deserved—” She grimaced at the sharp and sudden pain near her heart, and pressed her hand against her breast. “I can’t. I can’t talk about him. Please don’t make me.”

Her grandmother’s eyes flicked to Ginger’s hands, folded in her lap. “S-still w-wearin’ . . . your ring?”

“Please,” she begged.

She refused to look down at the engagement ring Woodman had given her on New Year’s Eve last year. New Year’s Eve. Oh my God. A year ago today.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Her heart started pounding uncomfortably so she stood up, looking around the room to distract herself.

Don’t think about it.

The little boxwood had been carefully watered because it was still bright green, and the poinsettias looked healthy too. There was a “Merry Christmas & Happy New Year” banner in silver, red, and green foil letters hanging over Gran’s double windows, and a new bookcase under them.

“Did Daddy bring you that bookcase?” she asked, grateful that her heart was slowing down to a normal rhythm.

Gran smiled as best she could. “A f-friend . . . m-made it. F-for C-Christmas.”

“What friend, Gran? What friend is bringin’ you flowers and decorations and furniture and readin’ The Christmas Box to you?”

Her grandmother’s eyes held hers for a moment. “S-someone . . . n-new.”

“New? Someone new in town? New to Apple Valley?” She shook her head. “Who, Gran? A volunteer?”

“Old s-someones . . . c-can b-be . . . n-new, GGinger.”

She looked back at the bookcase. “Did that someone refinish this for you?” She placed her hand on it, running her fingers over the layers of glossy finish that made it as smooth as lacquer. “It’s lovely.”

“Y-yes. It was . . . f-fixed up w-with . . . l-love.”

Ginger’s eyes shot up, and she plunked down on Gran’s bed. “Kelleyanne McHuid, you tell me once and for all: do you have a beau?”