command of the conversation, going over Thursday’s appointments and deciding with her stylists which supplies needed to be reordered.
Then she closed the shop and picked up Chinese takeout from Wong Chow and drove across town to Mountain Brook Apartments as the winter sun drifted beyond the edge of the earth’s curve.
Pulling into a parking spot under Mama’s second floor apartment, Ginger gathered the takeout bags and jogged up the steps.
“Hey, baby,” Mama said, smiling, taking a long inhale of the food as Ginger entered. “I was surprised you called.”
“Well, we haven’t seen each other in awhile.” Ginger slipped off her sweater, straightening the long bell sleeveof her top, glancing about the small, charming apartment, decorated with Mama’s artistic flair.
“I heard the wedding was lovely.” Mama set the fried rice on the dining table as Ginger searched the cupboards for the plates. “Just use paper. In the cabinet by the sink.”
Ginger set the plates on the table. “Bridgett was a beautiful bride. But no one expected less.”
“Did you have a nice time?”
She shrugged, taking the napkins and chopsticks from the bag. “It was a job.”
“Put any yearnings into your head?” Mama wiggled her eyebrows and did a jig across the linoleum. “Maybe a wedding of your own?”
“Hardly.”
“And why not? You’re smart, successful . . . p-pretty .”
That’s how Mama always said it. P-pretty . Stumbling. Hesitating. As if she was trying to believe her own confession.
“Actually, I didn’t come to talk about me.” Ginger sat at the table, reaching for the beef and broccoli. “Did you know Tom Wells was in town? Starting a church?”
“What?” Mama’s complexion paled, but she disguised it by jumping up. “I forgot the iced tea. I made some this afternoon.”
“Tom junior, Mama. Not senior.”
Her back stiffened and the pitcher of tea shimmied. “T-that boy who stood you up all those years ago?”
“Mama, I know.”
“Know what?” She came to the table, chin up, gaze down. “Oh, shoot, I forgot ice. Give me your cup.”
Ginger pressed her hand on Mama’s. “About you and Mr. Wells. Tom Senior.”
Mama snatched the cup, and her hand, from Ginger’s grasp. “What in the world are you talking about?” She jammed the plastic cups under the ice dispenser. “This town is a gossip petri dish.”
“Apparently not, Mama. I never heard word one about you and Pastor Wells before. Is it true? Are you the reason he left town?”
Mama pressed her forehead against the fridge, filling the cups to the brim with ice. “Certainly not. Who told you such a wild tale?” She came to the table and sat with a harrumph , tucking her bobbed copper hair behind her ears.
“Edward Frizz. Tom confirmed it.”
“Just like that?” Mama scooped more rice than she’d ever eat onto her plate. “They walked up to you at Bridgett Maynard’s wedding, of all places, and said, ‘Hey, your mama ran Pastor Wells out of town?’ Land sakes, that was twelve years ago. Some folks have to learn to let things go.” Her hands trembled as she dumped almost all of the Moo Goo Gai Pan over her rice.
“You’re seriously going to eat all the Moo Goo?”
“Oh, see what you made me do?” Mama shoveled some of it back into the container. “Ginger, I don’t know what possessed—”
“Is it true? You and Pastor Wells?”
Mama set the container down, her eyes glistening, and stared toward the bright kitchen, sniffling, running her hands through her hair. “You were to never know.”
“Why not?”
“How in the world did Edward Frizz find out?”
“I don’t know about Edward. But Tom, of course, knows. His dad told him the whole story when he decided to return to Rosebud. Tom’s starting this new church.”
“I suppose . . . So, Tom’s dad told him? Warned him?” Mama’s eye sparked with a wild, rebellious glint. “Stay away from the Winters women?”
“Who knows? Probably.”
Then she closed the shop and picked up Chinese takeout from Wong Chow and drove across town to Mountain Brook Apartments as the winter sun drifted beyond the edge of the earth’s curve.
Pulling into a parking spot under Mama’s second floor apartment, Ginger gathered the takeout bags and jogged up the steps.
“Hey, baby,” Mama said, smiling, taking a long inhale of the food as Ginger entered. “I was surprised you called.”
“Well, we haven’t seen each other in awhile.” Ginger slipped off her sweater, straightening the long bell sleeveof her top, glancing about the small, charming apartment, decorated with Mama’s artistic flair.
“I heard the wedding was lovely.” Mama set the fried rice on the dining table as Ginger searched the cupboards for the plates. “Just use paper. In the cabinet by the sink.”
Ginger set the plates on the table. “Bridgett was a beautiful bride. But no one expected less.”
“Did you have a nice time?”
She shrugged, taking the napkins and chopsticks from the bag. “It was a job.”
“Put any yearnings into your head?” Mama wiggled her eyebrows and did a jig across the linoleum. “Maybe a wedding of your own?”
“Hardly.”
“And why not? You’re smart, successful . . . p-pretty .”
That’s how Mama always said it. P-pretty . Stumbling. Hesitating. As if she was trying to believe her own confession.
“Actually, I didn’t come to talk about me.” Ginger sat at the table, reaching for the beef and broccoli. “Did you know Tom Wells was in town? Starting a church?”
“What?” Mama’s complexion paled, but she disguised it by jumping up. “I forgot the iced tea. I made some this afternoon.”
“Tom junior, Mama. Not senior.”
Her back stiffened and the pitcher of tea shimmied. “T-that boy who stood you up all those years ago?”
“Mama, I know.”
“Know what?” She came to the table, chin up, gaze down. “Oh, shoot, I forgot ice. Give me your cup.”
Ginger pressed her hand on Mama’s. “About you and Mr. Wells. Tom Senior.”
Mama snatched the cup, and her hand, from Ginger’s grasp. “What in the world are you talking about?” She jammed the plastic cups under the ice dispenser. “This town is a gossip petri dish.”
“Apparently not, Mama. I never heard word one about you and Pastor Wells before. Is it true? Are you the reason he left town?”
Mama pressed her forehead against the fridge, filling the cups to the brim with ice. “Certainly not. Who told you such a wild tale?” She came to the table and sat with a harrumph , tucking her bobbed copper hair behind her ears.
“Edward Frizz. Tom confirmed it.”
“Just like that?” Mama scooped more rice than she’d ever eat onto her plate. “They walked up to you at Bridgett Maynard’s wedding, of all places, and said, ‘Hey, your mama ran Pastor Wells out of town?’ Land sakes, that was twelve years ago. Some folks have to learn to let things go.” Her hands trembled as she dumped almost all of the Moo Goo Gai Pan over her rice.
“You’re seriously going to eat all the Moo Goo?”
“Oh, see what you made me do?” Mama shoveled some of it back into the container. “Ginger, I don’t know what possessed—”
“Is it true? You and Pastor Wells?”
Mama set the container down, her eyes glistening, and stared toward the bright kitchen, sniffling, running her hands through her hair. “You were to never know.”
“Why not?”
“How in the world did Edward Frizz find out?”
“I don’t know about Edward. But Tom, of course, knows. His dad told him the whole story when he decided to return to Rosebud. Tom’s starting this new church.”
“I suppose . . . So, Tom’s dad told him? Warned him?” Mama’s eye sparked with a wild, rebellious glint. “Stay away from the Winters women?”
“Who knows? Probably.”
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