Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (8 page)

“She’s not fuckin’
expectin’
me, you monumental asshole. You fuckin’ kissed her, Cain, Might have meant diddly-squat to you, but it fuckin’
meant
somethin’ to her.” Woodman put his hands on his hips, shaking his head in despair. “Jesus, brother. You can’t keep treatin’ people like this. Like shit on the bottom of your shoes.”

“It was a mistake,” said Cain softly, after sucking a breath through his teeth, the blood from his nose starting to dry a dull maroon on his upper lip. “She was sad about us leavin’, sad that her date to the dance got sick and canceled. I was only aimin’ to comfort her a little, and then . . . and then . . .”

“Your fuckin’ tongue found its way down her throat.”

Cain’s head snapped up, and he searched Woodman’s eyes. His voice was low and taunting when he murmured, “You know what, Josiah, you self-righteous fuckin’ prick? She wasn’t exactly complainin’.”

Woodman’s arms shot back, and his hands flattened on Cain’s chest, pushing with all his might. Cain stumbled backward, ending up on his ass. He didn’t get up, sitting in the grass and looking up at his cousin in defeat.

“Shut up already and take her to the goddamn dance, Josiah. Just fuckin’ take her,” said Cain, his voice resigned, the frustration and anger seeping from his eyes until only sorrow remained. “You know you want to.”

Woodman nodded, staring down at his cousin in disgust. He spat on the ground right near Cain’s hip, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Fine. I will. I will clean up your mess once again.” He started to turn away, then paused and looked down at Cain, hands on his hips. The setting sun shone brightly in Woodman’s eyes, which meant he was barely able to make out Cain’s face. “But this is the last time. You hear me, Cain? The
last
time. You’re on your own from now on.”

Cain, who’d rested his elbows on his bent knees, looked up at Woodman, blocking the sun, and his icy blue eyes flashed white-hot in the dying light. “We’re headed to boot camp tomorrow. Together. In the Buddy Program.”

Woodman raised his chin, looking down his nose with wide, furious eyes. “Well, that is just a sorry fuckin’ coincidence now because I am finished cleanin’ up after you,
buddy
. Sink or swim startin’ tomorrow, but you’ll do it on your own. I ain’t steppin’ in for you ever again. You ain’t my problem no more, Cain.”

“Josiah—”

“No more,” Woodman repeated firmly, then he turned and walked away.

***

As he pulled into the circular driveway in front of his parents’ white plantation-style mansion, Belle Royale, Woodman looked at the clock on the dashboard. Six fifteen. He had but forty minutes to shower, shave, dress, and find some flowers in his momma’s garden before driving back to McHuid’s. And though, yes, he knew that some part of Ginger might be disappointed that he was taking her instead of Cain, Woodman’s excitement grew with every passing minute because tonight was their first date. And though he wished it had happened a different way, he couldn’t deny that there was no one on earth with whom he’d rather spend his final night at home.

But first, he had to break the news to his parents that he wouldn’t be joining them for dinner. Walking into the house, he beelined through the breezeway to the back patio, where he found his parents sipping a chilled chardonnay and watching the sunset over the rolling pastures behind their estate.

“Josiah!” greeted his mother. “We expected you an hour ago! Go change, dear. Our reservation at the country club is for six thirty. You’ll have just enough time for a cocktail with us before we go.”

She tried to smile at him but sniffled a little, her eyes sad.

“Aw, Momma,” said Woodman, walking through the open French doors and sitting gingerly on the arm of her wicker chair. “Don’t, now.”

Drawing a handkerchief out of her sleeve, she dabbed at her eyes. “I just don’t understand why you’d go and enlist.”

“We’ve been over this,” he said, seeking his father’s eyes for solidarity, but his father took a sip of his wine and looked away, ashing his cigar on the patio bricks. “I wanted to serve. I missed my shot at Annapolis, and I—”

“You could’ve gone to college and done ROTC,” his mother half wailed. “You could’ve gone to Officer Candidate School after you got your bachelor’s degree. But enlist? Like a common—”

“Now, Sophie,” said his father, letting his rocking chair rock forward so he could pat his wife’s knee gently. He looked up at his son. “What your mother’s tryin’ to say is that enlistin’ is fine for someone like Cain, what with his low character and all those danged stunts he pulled in high school, gettin’ suspended every other month and such, but you? You could’ve done your service another way.”

“A
safer
way,” put in Sophie.

Woodman scowled. “And here I thought you’d be proud of me for servin’ my country.”

“Dang it, Josiah, we are proud of you, boy! Just wanted better for you, that’s all. We’re worried about you.”

Woodman nodded at his father, then put his arm around his mother’s trembling shoulders. “I’ll be home for a few days after boot camp, Momma. And it’s not like I enlisted in the Army or the Marines—they’re on the ground in Iraq. At the very worst, I’ll be on a boat in the Gulf.”

“Pastor Mitchell said a s-suicide bomber could c-crash a plane into a-a boat,” answered his mother, sobbing into her handkerchief.

“Then Pastor Mitchell’s a jackass,” grumbled his father, huffing in annoyance. “What’s he about, puttin’ such ideas in your head? Ain’t he supposed to comfort his danged flock?”

“I
know
you’re not insultin’ Pastor Mitchell!” said Sophie, clasping her hands together with indignation.

“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled, Sophie,” said his father. “Just sayin’ it ain’t no good puttin’ maudlin thoughts in the boy’s head with him leavin’ tomorrow. Gotta think positive, now.” He stood up and grabbed the bottle of wine out of the bucket where it chilled and refilled her drink before looking at his son. “Go on and change now, son. We’ll head over to the club in a—”

“I’m sorry,” said Woodman, dropping his arm from his mother’s thin shoulders and standing up between them. “I’m not goin’ to be able to join you for dinner.”

“Why, Josiah!”

“But, son, we were expectin’—”

“It’s homecomin’ tonight, and Ginger’s date canceled on her, so—”

His mother’s face darkened. “So you’re takin’ Ginger to the dance. Instead of spendin’ your final night home with your momma, who loves you.”

“Momma, try to understand—she got stood up and has no one to take her. I’m sorry to miss dinner, but I can’t let the young lady sit at home alone if I’m able to be her escort.” His mother’s brows furrowed deeply, but Woodman had made the perfect argument, and he knew it. She gave him a thin smile, and he turned to his father. “Can I borrow your tux, sir?”

“Course, son.”

His mother sniffled delicately, reaching up to wipe away the last of the wetness on her cheeks. “I just hope that gal knows what a treasure you are, Josiah.”

“Least I could do. Her date got strep throat.”
And her other date is a bona fide asshole.

“That’s just fine.” His father cleared his throat meaningfully. “A real reminder of what you got waitin’ at home, son.”

Woodman felt his cheeks flare with heat as he nodded at his father. Though he appreciated the fact that his parents and the McHuids expected him and Ginger to end up together, sometimes it felt like there were a few too many cooks in that particular kitchen.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll drive you to the station tomorrow mornin’,” said his mother. “
Just us three.
We can say our good-byes then.”

“Yes, Momma. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Giving her son a somewhat happier smile, Sophie Woodman nodded, whisking her perfectly manicured fingers at him. “Well, scoot then! Go get ready for your dance, handsome.”

He kissed his mother on the cheek and nodded to his father, leaving them alone in quiet elegance as the sun slipped below the horizon.

~ Ginger ~

“Gran!” she exclaimed, bursting into her grandmother’s kitchen, holding her homecoming dress in one hand and a large canvas bag in the other. “I’m here!”

She hung the dress on the coat hook by the door and placed the bag, which held hot rollers, makeup, three jewelry options, two shoe options, and four bottles of perfume, on one of two kitchen chairs. Scattered all around the small kitchen were taped-up moving boxes, which only multiplied as Ginger headed through the small dining room and into the screened porch.

“Doll baby,” her grandmother greeted her, reaching for the cane that had become omnipresent. “Your parents . . . leave yet?”

Ginger’s parents, who were on the board of the Apple Valley Country Club, had dinner plans tonight, which left Ginger to get ready at her grandmother’s cottage. All things considered, it was for the best. They wouldn’t have been pleased to hear that Ginger was being escorted to the dance by Cain and may have even forbidden her to go. Better to apologize later than ask permission now.

“No, Gran, don’t get up,” said Ginger, bending down to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “Daddy’s still in the pasture with Bit-O-Honey—she had a girl!—but Momma left a while ago. She needed to check on the centerpieces.”

“Magnolia does like . . . things . . . perfect.”

Though her grandmother’s mind was as sharp as ever, her body had become a minefield of tics and trembles over the past few months. The tremors had gotten worse, her physical movements had slowed to a tortoise pace, and she had trouble walking and balancing, resulting in several serious falls and finally necessitating a move to Silver Springs, the local retirement center/nursing home. Ginger’s father had secured his mother their best-possible accommodations: a private suite with two bedrooms, a living room, a galley kitchen, and a bathroom. It was a lovely apartment, and Gran would be well cared for, with dining and activities available for all residents, plus twenty-four-hour nursing assistance and the adjacent nursing home for when that day came.

But, for the first time in Ginger’s fifteen years, her gran wouldn’t be living in the cottage one hundred feet from the manor house. She’d be living all the way across town, and the timing—Gran’s move was scheduled for the same weekend that Cain and Woodman were leaving for boot camp—made it all the harder for Ginger, whose loneliness encroached at an almost unbearable speed.

Gran spoke slowly, struggling to keep her words clear. “You look . . . brighter’n . . . a new cop-per penny. Good to . . . see a smile . . . back on your . . . pretty face.”

“Can you keep a secret?” asked Ginger, sitting down in the chair beside her grandmother and grinning.

“You know . . . I can.”

She tugged her grandmother’s hand from her lap and embraced it between hers to keep it from shaking. “We kissed, Gran! Cain kissed me.”

“Oh, my!” she gasped.

“My first kiss,” sighed Ginger, beaming.

“And? How . . . was it?”

“Heaven,” said Ginger, releasing her grandmother’s hand gently and sitting back dramatically in her rocker. “Pure heaven.”

“So it’s Cain . . . is it?”

“Always, Gran. It was always Cain,” said Ginger softly.

“Why?” asked her grandmother, a flicker of worry flaring in her eyes, “when Josiah . . . is so . . . good to . . . you?”

A pang of guilt made Ginger frown for a moment. “It’s not that I don’t love Woodman.”

“So you . . . love them . . . both?”

“Of course,” said Ginger. “Just in different ways.”

“Cain sets . . . your blood . . . on fire.”

Ginger blushed, looking up to meet her grandmother’s eyes. “He does.”

“And Woodman?”

Ginger covered her heart with one palm. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”

“Your heart?” asked Gran hopefully, flicking her blue eyes to Ginger’s hand.

“My
friend
.”

During the lonely years when Ginger was homeschooled, her grandmother had become her most trusted confidante, her most intimate friend. She didn’t shy away from any conversation topic with Gran, but she also knew of Gran’s strong preference for Woodman over Cain.

“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.

Are you really seein’ him clearly?

The problem was that Cain’s soul dwelled in the most profound depths of Cain’s heart, where it was carefully obscured. And since their shared and happy childhood, he’d matured on the uneven ground of his family’s modest means and his parents’ deeply unhappy marriage. And little by little, the vulnerability in his light blue eyes had chilled to glacial ice, and the rough touch of his fingers had become decidedly less innocent.

And no discussion of Cain, internal or otherwise, would be complete without acknowledging that her grandmother was right: his name was mud. Well known as the county punk, he was known for sneaking around, raising hell at the old distillery, and he’d been arrested not once, but twice, for disturbing the peace. Luckily no charges had been pressed so his record had remained clean, but he’d also pulled the fire alarm at the Apple Valley High School several times (and been suspended for it), and everyone knew he tore around the county on his motorcycle at all hours of the day and night.

From eavesdropping on her father and Klaus, Ginger knew his grades were just above passing and his teachers wouldn’t write him recommendations for college. Didn’t matter. He didn’t end up applying anyway.

More than once, some floozy or other had shown up at McHuid Farm looking for Cain, a fact that would have definitely gotten him fired had Ranger not relied heavily on Klaus’s expertise and advice. And though Cain showed up surprisingly faithfully for work, he was surly and distant, even, on occasion, to Ginger.

A hellion and a troublemaker, Cain was not considered a nice or appropriate young man, which just made him ten times more fascinating and somehow Ginger’s besotted heart clung to the notion that the Cain she’d known as a child was still alive, shrouded under the debris of disappointment and pain. He was just a troubled teenager who’d eventually straighten out. In her heart of hearts, she still believed that the Reds-hat-wearing, rib-loving, German-speaking kid who opened his arms and caught her every birthday could be recovered if she could just love him enough.

She took a mirror out of her canvas bag and checked out her reflection, staring at the porcupine quills of cooling rollers sticking out of her skull. They’d give her big, bouncy waves, and because Cain had called her princess for as long as she could remember, she’d borrowed her mother’s Sun Queen 1985 tiara, and tonight she planned to be every bit of the princess he imagined. With her hair started, it was time to put on her face. But first she wanted to answer Gran’s questions.

But do you really
know
him? Are you really seein’ him clearly?

Placing the mirror back in her bag, she stepped back onto the porch.

“Gran? The answer is . . .”

Her grandmother’s head rested on the back of the wicker sofa, soft snoring sounds filling the small porch. Pulling a blanket from an untaped box, Ginger draped it over Gran gently, careful not to wake her.

“. . . I know his heart,” she said softly.

And if he’d let me love him, I could help
him
know it again, too.

“And I
do
see him clearly,” she whispered, her voice breaking with uncertainty as her own heart asked,
Do you? Or do you just see what you
want
to see?

Biting her bottom lip in troubled thought, she headed back into her grandmother’s kitchen to finish getting ready for the dance alone.

***

An hour later, Ginger sat on the front porch swing at the main house, having helped her grandmother to bed, with promises that she’d stop by in the morning and tell her all about the dance.