Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (35 page)

“Woodman,” she said.

“Huh?”

He’d been gesturing to one of three motorcycles raised up on small, foot-high, black-lacquered platforms. But now he turned to her, his smile fading.

“I chose Woodman,” she said, her voice faraway.

Cain nodded. “Yes, you did.”

She tugged her bottom lip into her mouth, her brain spinning, the past and the present colliding.
Woodman’s gone and Cain’s here. Cain’s settling down and Woodman’s wandering. Wait. No. That’s not right. That can’t be right.
Confusion and dizziness made her blink, and she reached her hand out to steady herself. She felt Cain’s arm snake around her waist, and he walked her into his office, helping her into a chair.

“I’ll get you some water.”

“Woodman,” said Ginger again, closing her eyes and trying to take a deep breath. “I want him to come back.”

She felt the cold glass press against her lips, and she opened them to let the cool water slip over her tongue and down her throat. When she was finished, Cain pulled the glass away, and she heard him set it on a nearby surface.

“Ginger,” he said gently but firmly, “open your eyes.”

She opened them on command, still feeling deeply unsettled as she looked up at Cain.  He reached out to cup her jaw, forcing her to hold his gaze. “He’s gone, darlin’.”

She flinched, trying to escape his grip, but he increased the pressure of his fingers and kept his eyes glued to hers.

“He’s gone, and no amount of pretendin’ he’s comin’ back will make it so. You need to face his loss, Ginger. You need to deal with it.”

She didn’t fight the way he held her chin—it wouldn’t have done any good since he was much stronger than she—but she felt a coldness sluice through her veins as his words sank in, and she welcomed it. It felt good. It felt like a shield, like protection. It helped her tears dry and kept her voice low and steady when she finally spoke.

“You can force me to go ridin’ or to a wreath layin’ or even carolin’, but you can’t force me to grieve on your timeline, Cain.”

He flinched, his blue eyes sad and concerned. His voice was deep and rough with emotion. “I know what you’re doin’, and it ain’t healthy, darlin’.”

“
I don’t care
,” she growled. She jerked her face away and left his hand hanging in midair for a moment before he lowered it.

“
I
do,” he said intently, squatting down in front of her, “and Woodman would’ve too.”

His name.
Hearing someone else say his name hurt. So much.

She took a shaky breath, sobbing softly when she let it go. “I’m really grateful to you, Cain. I’m goin’ back to work. I’m back on my feet. And this place is great. I wish you a lot of luck with it.” She paused for a moment, holding his eyes as she stood up, looking down at him. “But I want you to take me home now. And I need you to leave me alone.”

He stood up too, which changed their positions and forced her to look up at him.

“I’m only tryin’ to help, Ginger.”

“I know that,” she said, the coldness inside keeping her voice stoic and calm. She turned away from him and headed back to his motorcycle. “Now, please take me home.”

For the next two weeks, grubby pajamas and greasy hair reigned once again, but this time there was no Cain stopping by to threaten and force her out of her comfort zone, which, if she was honest, bothered Ginger to hell and back. And she finally discovered—or had to face the fact—that the reason she was keeping herself so low was almost as bait for Cain, or out of protest for the way he’d tried to force her process. Yes, she’d told him to leave her alone, but she hadn’t meant it. What she’d
really
meant was
“You can come and bother me, and we can spend time together, but only if we both pretend that Woodman went on a long trip and someday he’ll be home again.”

It was crazy. The logical part of her brain
knew
it was crazy, even knew that she couldn’t go on like this forever, but as long as she could keep her grief at bay, she would. She was terrified of what would happen once she was forced to face it.

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, G-Ginger.”

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?”

Gran’s eyes rested tenderly on Ginger’s face, scanning it as though for remembrance. “T-tell me . . . ’bout C-Cain.” She paused, watching Ginger’s expression carefully. “Y-your d-daddy . . . told me . . . he’s home n-now.”

Ginger took a deep breath and lay back on the bed beside her gran’s petite frame. “He is.”

“And?”

“I . . .” Ginger sighed. “I don’t know, Gran. Cain . . . Cain and me are so mired in old . . . grievances and hurts and anger. I hated him for years. I hated him when he came home in October. But then . . .”

“H-hate is . . . real c-close . . . to l-love, G-Gin.”

Tears sprang into Ginger’s eyes because she’d been learning this truth, day by day, since Cain had been leaving her alone, at her request. She missed him. She missed him something awful.

She turned onto her side, resting her head on Gran’s pillow and speaking into the papery skin of her grandmother’s neck.

“But th-then . . .?” prompted Gran.

Ginger swallowed. “He’s like a paper cut, comin’ into my life and openin’ up a painful wound that doesn’t bleed, but I’m aware of it all the damned time because it’s deep. And then it heals, and when it does, I miss it. I miss the stingin’ of the cut.” She inhaled sharply. “I miss Cain.”

“B-but he’s . . .” Her grandmother paused. “Isn’t he . . . r-right d-down there . . . in V-Versailles?”

Ginger nodded.

“Then you d-don’t . . . have to m-miss . . . him, d-doll baby.”

“But I don’t know how to be friends with him, Gran. We were friends when we were children, then I was in love with him, then I hated him. Now? Now I don’t know where he belongs. And honestly I’m thinkin’ he doesn’t belong at all. I don’t want to care for Cain, Gran. I don’t want to care for anyone. Just you and Momma and Daddy. And that’s it. Carin’ about someone . . .
hurts
,” she sobbed, burrowing her forehead into her gran’s neck.

“It sh-shouldn’t,” said Gran, reaching over to run a trembling hand through her granddaughter’s hair. “L-lovin’ someone . . . shouldn’t . . . h-hurt so b-bad.”

“But it does,” she whispered. “Every day.”

“Woodman,” murmured her Gran, still stroking her hair. “But that’s . . . l-losin’, not . . . l-lovin’.”

“What’s the difference?” Ginger sighed, closing her weary eyes. “If you love someone, you could lose them. It’s a risk. You’re openin’ yourself up to hurt.”

“Or . . . t-to joy.”

Joy.
Something Ginger didn’t feel like she’d known for a million years.

A while later, when her grandmother’s hand stopped moving, Ginger knew she had fallen asleep so she put on her coat and wound her scarf around her neck. Leaning close, she kissed Gran’s cheek, then slipped quietly from the room.

It wasn’t too cold outside so she left her car in the parking lot and walked into the little town center of Apple Valley, breathing in the fresh winter air and trying to make sense of everything.

Her heart, which was coming to life again—
felt
more,
wanted
more. Like the buds that break through the earth in early spring, there was energy spent and work involved in coming back to life, and Ginger felt it. It was tiring and frightening, but she couldn’t seem to stop it: the longer Cain stayed away, the more she couldn’t think about anything
but
Cain. Being around Cain comforted her and made her feel alive. But being around Cain came at the price of confronting the loss of Woodman. It wasn’t possible to have the former in her life without reconciling the absence of the latter.

If she wanted Cain, she needed to start the process of saying good-bye to Woodman.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that her feet stopped walking suddenly in front of Woodman’s house, but it did. Her breath caught as she turned and looked at the little house he’d purchased with so much hope and cared for with so much love. There was a little For Sale sign on a post just inside the white picket fence, and Ginger watched it swing back and forth in the light winter breeze.

Over a month ago, Mr. Woodman had stopped by the McHuids’ with two boxes for Ginger, and her father had brought them over that evening. She’d asked him to place them in her front hall closet and hadn’t opened the closet door since. She didn’t even know what they contained—some clothes, maybe, her running shoes, a nightgown, a few toiletries. Because her own house had been so close, she’d never left much at Woodman’s, opting to shower and dress at her own house most days. But there would be things, of course. Leftover things that would remind her of the life they’d shared.

Placing her gloved hand on the white gate, she unlatched it and pushed it open, stepping into the courtyard that Woodman had tended so lovingly. He’d planted flowers along the footpath she walked on now—they’d be bright and vibrant in a few months—and two cheerful flower beds in front of the porch. She stepped up the three stairs and onto the porch, where they’d rocked side by side many a Sunday evening. The paint was still as bright white as it had been when Woodman painted it, and the ceiling was still sky blue, just as she’d suggested. Putting her hand into her purse, she found the solitary key still at the bottom and pulled it out, placing it in the lock and twisting. The front door opened easily, and Ginger stepped inside, where thousands of memories bombarded her with enough regret to make her tears finally fall.

***

“Fuck!” Cain yelled as he threw the wrench across the bay and popped his thumb into his mouth. He’d pinched it badly because he wasn’t concentrating. But damn it, it was just about impossible to concentrate on
anything
lately.

He’d pushed her too hard.

Too fucking hard.

Before driving her home two weeks ago, she’d asked him to please leave her alone, and because his head was so fucked-up over the way he felt about her that night, he’d agreed. His reality? He couldn’t honestly say that he was pursuing her only for Woodman’s benefit anymore. It had started like that, yes. He’d shown up at her door out of obligation, to fulfill a promise to his dying cousin. But things had changed so quickly; he found himself living for the moments he spent with her, hoping she’d like his place, be proud of his business. He was coming up with ways to cross paths with her, to spend time with her. He was fucking falling for her, and the timing was shit. Total shit. She wasn’t even over Woodman yet. Not by a fucking mile.

And hell, he wasn’t a grief counselor, for fuck’s sake! He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. He was trying to help her get her old life back—church, job, riding—but the reality was that her old life was gone. G-O-N-E. And he had no right to tell her how to mourn her dead fiancé.

What the fuck did he know? Maybe it was okay that she didn’t seem to acknowledge that Woodman was actually gone. Maybe it was okay that she seemed normal except when Woodman’s name came up. Maybe it was better that she didn’t face it yet if it was too painful for her.