Free A Brush With Love by Rachel Hauck Page B

falling in love with my dad? What a trip!’ ”
    “Is that what happened?” Now that would be typical Mama. Always loving what she couldn’t have, from cars to men to other people’s daughters—the pretty, smoothed-skinned ones.
    “Yes.” He peered down at her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I left town without talking to you. And for never writing or calling. I was so mad for so long, then I didn’t know what to say once I got over myself.”
    “T-thank you. Sorry for hating you ever since.”
    “Hating me?” He slapped his hand to his chest. “Really?”
    “Okay, maybe not hate but really, really dislike. Strongly.” She spied her poor, sinking Bug in the distance. Reaching for his arm, she raised the flashlight’s beam. “There she blows.”
    “She looks so sad. I think she missed us.”
    “Do you hate her? My mom?” Ginger jumped a puddle, heading for her car. “For whatever she did?”
    “There’s no benefit in hating anyone. Takes too much energy and returns so little. In truth, though, my parents both say the whole situation worked for good.”
    “Worked for good? I find that hard to believe.” Ginger glanced over at Tom, the pale light of dawn rising behind him, accenting his broad shoulders.
    “It’s a gift of God. Working all things for good.” He muttered a low “whoa” as they approached the VW. “Easy, Clyde.”
    “So this is Clyde?” Ginger hesitated, reaching up to stroke his nose. Clyde shoved his head against her palm. She jumped back with a short laugh.
    “He likes beautiful women,” Tom said, walking the workhorse around to the front of the car.
    He’d said it again. Called her beautiful. Twice in less than twelve hours. The notion warmed her down to her cold toes. But surely he didn’t mean it. Not really. Perhaps in some metaphorical, symbolic way. But oh, she wanted to believe.
    Kneeling by the car, Tom hooked a set of chains to the chassis, talking to Clyde in low, tender words. “Good boy . . . you can do this . . . hang with me gentle giant . . . then we’ll get you home, cleaned up, with a bucket of oats for breakfast.”
    Emotion swelled in Ginger’s chest. No one had ever spoken to her in such sweet tones except Grandpa.
    Not even when she was pulled from the fire, when she lay in a hospital bed weeping from the pain, did anyone offer her kind encouragement.
    “Ginger,” Mama used to say. “Stop all these tears. There’s just no other way to heal but go through the treatments. Now, come on, do you want to watch Gilmore Girls reruns with me?”
    Tears pushed to the surface as Tom hopped up, claiming, “Ready.” Ginger ducked behind the back of the car to hide her swimming eyes.
    “Born ready.”
    “You all right?” His soft tone drifted over her shoulder and into her soul.
    “Yeah, whatever, let’s just do this.” Ginger wiped her eyes clear and ducked behind the car, hands on the engine’s hood, bracing to push, her feet sinking into the wet, cold ground.
    “Ginger, you don’t have to—”
    “Tom, can we just get this done? I need to get cleaned up before Mrs. James comes down for her appointment.”
    “Okay. But you drive, I’ll push.” He bent over her, his nose inches from hers. She could see straight through his sea-blue eyes and into his guileless soul.
    “D-drive?” She swallowed.
    “Steer? Find the high ground . . .” Tom threaded Clyde’s reins between the open door and the windshield.
    “Yeah, right.” She tugged her keys from her pocket, her heart firing . No, you can’t do this. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath, shutting down her heart’s puttering. “I drive, you push.”
    He grinned. “Sounds like a plan. Ready?” Tom stepped back, but held a narrow gaze on Ginger. “You sure you’re all right?” He angled forward. “I mean with the news and all. It’s okay if you’re not. We dumped a shocking truth on you last night. Did you call your mom?”
    “No. And Tom, stop trying to be Mr. Fix It.