Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(69)
A few weeks ago, after the first of her four bridal showers, during which she’d received a cache of sexy lingerie from her mother’s friends, she had visited Gran after two or three cups of spiked punch. Unfortunately, she’d been a touch too honest about things in the bedroom, and essentially Gran had gotten a drunken earful about Ginger’s mediocre sex life.
“Gran, please leave it alone and forget I said anything. It’s fine,” she said in a hushed voice, feeling her cheeks flush with heat.
“N-no . . . it . . . isn’t.”
Ginger pulled her hand away, feeling defensive, even protective, of her relationship with Woodman and wishing to God she’d never gotten drunk and mentioned anything to Gran. She cleared her throat, sitting primly in her sundress as she sorted and resorted the stacked paint chips in her hands, refusing to speak.
She’d known, of course, since the first time she slept with Woodman, that either the romance books she’d read were lying, or she and Woodman didn’t have the sort of special chemistry that made sparks fly. While he grunted his pleasure above her, his face a mask of rapture, she had, more or less, endured the act of lovemaking.
The mechanics hadn’t shocked her, nor had her lack of orgasm. She’d grown up on a horse farm, and she’d never yet seen a mare throw back her head in ecstasy as she was bred. What did surprise her was that it hadn’t hurt very much, but that was probably because riding horses had torn any thin wall of resistance long ago.
Woodman had been gentle with her, reverent and careful, and frankly there wasn’t much to like or dislike. In the end, the entire thing had lasted about five minutes.
Some women—maybe even most women—might have felt intense disappointment from such an inauspicious entrée into the world of sex. But brokenhearted from Cain’s rejection and confused out of her mind, what Ginger remembered now more than anything else was the comfort of Woodman’s arms around her after it was over. She liked the warmth of his bare skin pressed against hers, the sound of his strong heartbeat under her ear, the way he petted her hair and whispered tender things about the happy life ahead. She’d fallen asleep in her bed, in his arms, waking up hours later able to bear the pain of Cain’s rejection. Woodman’s love—his faith and tenderness and unfailing devotion—had made it possible for her to bear it.
She often reminded herself that she hadn’t been trapped into anything. She wasn’t a victim. She’d chosen Woodman, and in return for his kindness to her she would—no matter what—honor her choice.
Finally the strained silence between her and Gran became too much to bear and Ginger broke.
“There are all different kinds of marriages, Gran. Yes, there’s the passionate kind, but there’s also the kind where two friends decide to make a life together. That’s a marriage built on kindness and respect. On history and . . . and, yes, love. Real love. Just not the sort of true love that they maybe write about in fairy tales or those books at the grocery st—”
“Gin-ger . . .,” whispered her grandmother.
Ginger looked up.
“I w-wanted . . . that k-kind of . . . l-love for . . . you. T-true . . . l-love.”
Sudden tears pricked the back of her eyes.
In the weeks following her disastrous conversation with Cain and her sudden decision to sleep with Woodman, she’d been in a sort of daze. A haze, really, that Woodman must have believed was a mirror image of his own joy manifested like awe in Ginger. But really she’d felt like a character in a movie. Or like she was watching a movie of her life, her own part almost unrecognizable. Her heart had been broken beyond repair, and no airlift to Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital could fix it this time. And Woodman’s love was the only oasis from her heartbreak.
They hadn’t actually slept together again for a while after that first night, choosing to backtrack in their relationship and start dating properly in the months leading up to Christmas. And during those long, lonesome nights after Woodman dropped her off at home, when the shards of her broken heart dug into the softest places inside her, she read poetry and songs and stories about lost love, and felt the almost unbearable cruelty of Cain’s rejection.
Unbearable because she knew—beyond any shadow of doubt—that the kind of true love Gran spoke of was the kind of love she could only find with Cain. On this earth, in this lifetime, Cain, and no one else, was the split-apart half of her soul. It was clear in the way her heart leaped in recognition of his whenever he had been near. In the way she longed for him like a ceaseless ache, dreamed of him nightly, desperately fought to forget him in her waking hours. Her body, her heart, her very soul would always yearn for Cain. But deprived of that soul-based, forever sort of love, she gratefully accepted what she had: Woodman.
Her tears receded, and she sniffled softly, mustering a smile for her grandmother.
“What I have is exactly what I need. I want Woodman, Gran. I choose him.”
“B-but you . . . l-love . . . Ca—”
“Woodman,” she said firmly, forbidding her grandmother to say his name. “I love Woodman.”
Her grandmother took a shaky breath and sighed, looking grieved but defeated. Unable to fight her fatigue any longer, her eyes drifted closed while Ginger stood up and kissed her grandmother on the forehead before leaving.
***
As she hurried down the sidewalk, with the early October sun beating down on her back, Ginger reviewed the rest of this week’s appointments in her head: today’s cake tasting at Southern Belle Confections, check. This evening’s dance lesson at the Winston Schultz School of Dance, check. Tomorrow she and her mother were meeting with the caterer again, and on Friday she was meeting Woodman and his groomsmen at Tanner’s Tuxedos to finalize their rentals before the monthly firehouse dinner, at which she and Woodman always lent a helping hand.