Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(25)

“Gran,” she said evenly, “I can’t make myself feel somethin’ that just isn’t there.”

Her grandmother nodded, forcing a smile that looked lopsided. “Fair ’nough.”

Again the flicker of worry in her grandmother’s eyes.

Again Ginger ignored it, hopping up to plug in her rollers on the kitchen counter.

“Can you believe he’s takin’ me to the dance tonight?” called Ginger from the kitchen. “It’s like a dream come true!”

She heard her grandmother grumble something unintelligible, but she didn’t ask Gran to repeat herself, feeling defensive on Cain’s behalf. It made her crazy that no one seemed to see the good in Cain—the sense of adventure, the humor, the sparkle, the swagger. Ginger loved these things about him, but everyone else—her parents, her gran, Woodman, his parents, even Cain’s own father—everyone seemed to disapprove of Cain. And she hated it because she found so much to love.

“Always hoped . . .”

“Hoped . . . what?” asked Gran as Ginger reappeared in the porch doorway.

She shrugged. “That he’d see me. You know, not a little sister or a childhood friend or his boss’s daughter. But me.”

“And you . . . think he’s . . . seein’ you now?”

Ginger nodded. “Of course. We kissed.”

Her grandmother’s lips twitched, and Ginger couldn’t tell if it was the Parkinson’s or her grandmother’s censure of Cain. Deciding it was the latter, she crossed her arms over her chest in resentment.

“Why can’t you like him?” she burst out. “Why can’t anyone like him?”

“Not ’bout . . . likin’ him . . . doll baby. It’s ’bout whe-ther . . . or not . . . he’s good for you.”

“He is! I want him. I’ve always wanted him. How could it be bad to finally have what I’ve always wanted? Why can’t you be happy for me?”

Her grandmother nailed Ginger with her eyes, which were suddenly as sharp and focused as they’d been two years ago. Gran’s body quieted as though on command, and her voice was clear and firm when she said, “I don’t trust him.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Why not? What’s he ever done?”

“Aside from . . . the arrests and . . . suspensions? Nothin’,” her grandmother answered evenly, the hand resting on the rocker arm, twitching. “Nothin’. That’s the . . . problem.”

“How? He’s done nothin’ wrong, but still you—”

“Doll baby . . . he ain’t done . . . nothin’ right . . . either.” Her grandmother sighed, the worry she’d managed to control flooding her eyes. “You know as . . . well as anyone . . . he’s a rascal . . . and he’s angry. I don’t know . . . that he’s got . . . a loyal bone . . . in his body. And his . . . reputation is . . .” She raised an eyebrow. “. . . reckless . . . at best.”

Ginger stared at her grandmother, the chill of her reproof seeping into Ginger’s skin like ice and making her cold and lonesome. She searched for memories of Cain, for thoughts of him, for the heat of his lips recently slanted across hers, but the warmth she found was fleeting, unsubstantial.

“But Gran . . .”

“I ain’t sayin’ . . . he’s bad. But . . . I am sayin’ . . . if there’s a . . . good man . . . hidin’ in there, I’ve yet to . . . see him. And I’d surely . . . like to see him . . . before I tell my . . . only granddaughter that . . . she’s bettin’ on . . . the right horse.”

“I love him,” Ginger murmured, feeling forlorn, turning back into the kitchen to see if the rollers were hot.

“I know you . . . think so. But do you . . . really know him? Are you . . . really seein’ him . . . clearly, doll baby?” he grandmother called, her voice weaker, which made Ginger feel bad. She was tiring out Gran.

Taking out her cream velvet scrunchie, Ginger used her fingers to part her hair in the middle, then took a handful of the light strands at her crown and rolled them around the hot roller before securing it with a U pin. She rolled up two more, thinking about Gran’s question.

Do you really know him?

Certainly, when she was a child, she knew Cain well.

Since she had been homeschooled until high school, with year-round tutoring every morning, Ginger had had every afternoon of her childhood free to spend with Cain, and she was an encyclopedia of knowledge about him. She knew his favorite baseball team (the Cincinnati Reds), his favorite food (ribs, lots of sauce), the girl he’d wanted to take to his freshman homecoming (Kim something-or-other, a rich and pretty girl who ended up going with Woodman), the motorcycle make and model he dreamed of rebuilding one day (a BMW R 60/2), and the fact that, although he often played dumb with his father, he was completely fluent in German and knew just as much about horses as Klaus.

But beyond mere facts, she also knew the nuances of his voice, the way emotions played across the sharp angles of his face, the innocent touch of his rough fingers against her skin, the vulnerable way his eyes softened and dimples deepened when he smiled at her. She knew it all. She felt it all. And even if she never saw Cain Holden Wolfram’s face after today, on the day she died, Ginger felt certain she would still recognize Cain’s soul in its purest form.