A Brush With Love (13 page)

Tom’s low, silky bass swirled through her, leaving her with the same sensation as his touch. Squirming, squeezing his vocal notes out of her soul, Ginger glanced up at him as he cut-in under the ceiling. A singing, kind, handsome pastor? Look out. He’d have women all over him.

Desperate ones like Mama who’d surrender their hearts if he’d ease a bit of their pain.

“So, Sunday,” she said, shaking off a strange jealous wave. “You ready?”

“I think so. I’ve got my sermon in my head. Just need to write out my notes.” The beam of his smile went to the bottom of her being and she trapped it there, not willing to let it go. She could create a trio of Tom Wells Jr. treasures—his touch, his voice, his smile.

She would never be with him, but she could remember the one man in her life who made her
feel
what it was like to be a woman.

“And just what do you hope people will encounter at Encounter Church?” She filled her roller brush in the paint tray, then pressed it against the wall, working around the blue tape protecting the trim and window frame.

“God, His emotions toward us. I hope they find love and friendship with each other.” He laughed low. “Maybe a good potluck dinner now and then.”

“God has emotions?”

“Absolutely. Love, peace, joy. God
is
love, First John tells us.” He gazed down at her. “Love’s an emotion, right? God created us with emotions. Why wouldn’t He have them Himself?”

“Because emotions can be manipulated. Go bad . . .”

“Ah yes, if you’re a human. But God has perfect emotions. Don’t you think it’s kind of cool God feels love or delight in you?”

“Me?” Ha, ha, now he talked crazy.

“Yes, you.” Tom came down the ladder and toward her. “He loves you. He also likes you.”

“You don’t know any such thing.” His gaze, the intensity of his words, set her heart on fire. “I prayed once. It didn’t go well.”

“Wimp.”

“Excuse me?”

“You prayed once and gave up? Is that how you became the stylist to the stars? By giving up the first time ‘it didn’t go well’?” He took the roller from her hand and rested it
against the paint tray. Then he moved over to his iPhone and started the song again. “Follow me.” He led her to the center of the shop and took her in his arms, resting his hand against the small of her back.

As the music played, he turned her in a slow, swaying circle, singing softly in her ear.

. . . you’re beautiful.

For a moment, she was enraptured, completely caught up in the swirl of being in his arms and the velvet texture of his voice slipping through her. But only for a moment.

“Tom, stop fooling around.” She pushed away from his warmth and into the cold space of the shop. “Don’t be singing about how I’m beautiful.”

“But you are.”

“Don’t you understand?” She gritted her teeth and tightened her hands into fists about her ears. She jerked off her scarf and gathered her hair on top of her head, exposing the botched skin graft. “Beautiful, huh?”

“Yes.” He stepped toward her, hand outstretched.

But she backed away. “And this?” She turned her back to him, raised the lower hem of her top, and exposed the crimped, rough skin of her back and right side. “It’s disgusting. And not desirable. So don’t come up in here singing, ‘you’re beautiful’ when it’s not true.”

“Who told you it’s not true?”

“Me. My bathroom mirror. The men Mama dated when I was a teenager. ‘Too bad about all those scars, Shana, she might have been a real looker.’ ”

“Most people don’t see your scars. You cover them up. Just because a few foolish, lustful men projected their idea
of beauty on you, you accept it? Ever think those scars protected you? Kept you from predators?”

“Also from nice men like you who might have been my high school boyfriend or taken me to the prom.”

“I like your scars.”

She reached down for her roller. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“I like that they’ve made you a fighter. I like your face, your eyes, your smile, your heart. I love your ability to see beauty in others and bring it out for the rest of us to see. Those are the things that make you beautiful and extraordinary.”

Eyes flooding, she rolled paint onto the wall, her back to Tom. “You’d better get back to work or we’ll be here all night.”

“But first . . .” He rested his hand against her shoulder and turned her to him. “Tell me you’re beautiful.”

She refused, eyes averted, unable to contain her tears. In her ears, her pulse roared.

“Ginger.” He touched her chin, turned her attention to him. “Say it. It’s the first road to healing. You are beautiful.”

“I’m not your project, Tom.”

“Agreed. But you are my friend. And I hate to see my friends believe lies about themselves.”

“I believe what’s true.”

“Then say it. ‘I’m beautiful.’ ”

She dropped her roller brush and crossed the room. “You’re infuriating. Why do you care? I’m the daughter of the woman who helped ruin your father’s ministry. I asked her about it, by the way, and she confessed. She loved your father but nothing happened between them.”

“That doesn’t disqualify you from God’s love, from my friendship, or from admitting you’re beautiful.”

“Tell that to Edward. What would he say if he saw you in here, with me?”

“Edward isn’t my God or my conscience. My father and family have moved on, Ginger. Seems your mama has moved on, too. But you’re stuck as the trailer fire girl. So let’s put a big bucket of water on that fire by confessing your beauty.”

Stuck. Isn’t that what she confessed Saturday morning, standing in the muddy meadow? But she’d never give Tom the satisfaction. Ginger gestured toward the door, willing him to go and leave her be. “You can go, Tom.”

“Not unless you say it.” He didn’t respect her space at all. He came up to her and swept his fingers over the scar on her neck. Ginger nearly buckled at his touch.

“Why do you want me to say it?” Her voice wilted as she spoke.

“Because I want you to combat the lie in your heart with truth.”

“If you get the burned girl to say she’s pretty, do you earn a gold star from God?”

“Man, are you really so cynical? Ginger, I like you. I always have and I’ve always seen a beautiful woman—”

“Who allowed himself to be intimidated by his friends?” She used the courage he admired to push back.

“I was seventeen. Give me credit for maturing a little.” He walked to the front door, flung it open. “You want me to defend you to Edward Frizz? To Rosebud?” He ran into the middle of Main Street. “Hey Rosebud, Alabama—”

Ginger dashed to the door. “Tom, no, what are you doing?”

Arms wide, head back, Tom shouted, “Ginger Winters is a beautiful woman. And I don’t care about her scars! I don’t care what her mama—”

“Oh my word, stop. Get in here.” Ginger steamed into the middle of the street, hooked him by the arm, and dragged him to the shop. “You’re making a fool of me.”

“You? I was the one doing the shouting.”

“You are so infuriating. I don’t get this. Why does any of this matter to you?”

“Remember the end of the movie
The Proposal
? Drew says to Margaret, ‘Marry me because I’d like to date you.’ ”

“Y-yes . . .”

“I’d like you to believe the truth about yourself, so then maybe, if you decide you can give Jesus a try, you’ll let Him in, and see yourself as you really are from His perspective, incredibly beautiful.”

“What does that have to do with the movie?”

“Because, then, if you’d have me, I’d like to date you.”

Her tears spilled. “I can’t risk my heart with you. With God.” What was she doing before he started all this beautiful nonsense? Oh yes, painting. Ginger picked up the paint tray. “I think you should go.”

“Say it. ‘I’m beautiful.’ ”

“I’m not playing, Tom. Go.” She walked to the back room, trembling, with barely enough strength to hold herself upright.

“Will you come to church on Sunday? Please.”

“I said, go, Tom, just go.”

She hid in the dark corner until she heard his footsteps echoing across the shop, then fading away out the front door.

Slowly she sank to the floor, cradling her face against the top of her knees, running her hand over her scars.

Horrid. Ugly. The opposite of beautiful. She’d cried oceans of tears mourning that reality, and no one—not God or Tom Wells Jr.—could ever convince her otherwise.

On Sunday morning, Tom sat in the old parsonage parlor,
sunlight streaming through the window, praying through the swirl of excitement and peace in his soul.

First Sunday morning in his own church. He never, ever thought this would be his reality, his passion, but at the moment he knew he was in the right place at the right time.

For such a time as this.

His sermon was ready. His notes typed into his iPad. Alisha had the worship band prepped, arriving at nine for their pre-service rehearsal. Above all, his heart was ready.

If it was only Tom, the band, and the Holy Spirit who showed, Tom would consider the day a huge success.

If Ginger showed, he’d mark his first Sunday with a miracle.

He’d thought about her all weekend, prayed for her, for himself. Had he crossed lines, demanding she declare she
was beautiful? Was it too intimate? Too romantic when he had no freedom to pursue her?

It was one thing for a believing man to have affection for a non-believing woman. It was another thing entirely to woo her heart, defraud her, then brush her aside.

He didn’t want to be that man.

If he was going to pastor this church, he had to find a wife who believed. Who could run this race with him.

He didn’t care if she played the piano, led a Bible study, or managed the women’s ministry. But he cared for her to be surrendered in wholehearted love to Jesus. To kick Tom’s butt when he needed it.

Lord, here’s my heart. My thoughts of Ginger. Have it all.

The mantel clock that came with the house ticked eight-thirty. Tom rocked out of the chair, taking his iPad from the side table. Might as well walk over to the church, get things powered up and going.

He was about to exit out the kitchen door when a loud knock sounded from the front. When he opened it, Edward stood on the other side.

“Did you see this?” He held up the Sunday
Gazette
and barged into the parsonage.

“No, not yet. I was going to read it after church.”

“What in the world did you tell her?” Edward crossed into the parlor, popping open the paper and holding up the front page for Tom to see.

T
HE
T
ALE OF
T
WO
P
ASTORS

H
OW
W
ILL
R
OSEBUD
F
ARE
W
ITH
A T
HIRD
G
ENERATION
W
ELLS
P
REACHER
?

B
Y
R
ILEY
C
ONRAD

Tom snapped the paper from Edward. “How will Rosebud fare? What is she talking about? We discussed the church, how and why I came back to Rosebud, what I hoped to accomplish.”

“Clearly she doesn’t want another church in this town. Especially one headed by a Wells man. I ask again, what did you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t read like nothing. She exposes the whole scandal.” Edward walked toward the kitchen. “Got any coffee?”

“Yeah, sure, use the Keurig.” Tom dropped to the rocker, iPad tucked under his arm, anxiety mounting.

Tom Wells Jr. is in Rosebud, seeking a flock of his own. With the American church becoming more of a consumer than a provider of spiritual insight, one has to wonder if he isn’t one of the many up-and-coming young pastors with charm and good looks aiming to do nothing but build his own kingdom on the backs and with the pockets of the Rosebud faithful.

“This is an opinion piece.”

Edward returned, mug in hand, blowing on his coffee. “Yep.”

A bit of backstory. Wells is the grandson of well-known, popular evangelist Porter Wells, who traveled the country holding tent revivals for twenty years before taking his message international. He eventually returned to the States to continue his ministry in large churches and on television.

The elder Wells retired back to Rosebud in the middle 2000s. His son, Tom Wells Sr., followed in his footsteps, planting a church in Rosebud and building the congregation to more than two thousand people before scandal routed him out twelve years ago.

What scandal? An affair. Not of the obvious kind but the emotional kind, which some declare more devastating than a physical affair. Pastor Wells spent too much time with a woman in need. Feeling defrauded, she confessed her feelings to a trusted friend who reported the misbehavior to the church elders and leaders.

The Wellses left town in a shroud of mystery, leaving nothing behind but questions and wounded hearts. My grandmother was one of the disappointed and questioning faithful. What happened to our beloved pastor?

Tom lowered the paper and sighed. “She’s taken up her grandmother’s offense.”