Gran. I told you he made lieutenant last month, right? Amazin’ because he doesn’t actually go to the calls, but he’s become indispensable down there at the firehouse. He’s basically in charge of all internal operations and—”
“Y-you . . . and J-Josiah,” her Gran clarified with slightly narrowed eyes.
Ginger raised her chin. “We’re real good.”
Without saying a word, Gran let her disapproval seep into the room, and Ginger blinked before looking away from her again.
“I never should have told you that, Gran. Never should have talked about it. Never.”
Her grandmother’s hand, which had been limp and trembling over Ginger’s, squeezed lightly, and Ginger looked up.
“T-tell . . . m-me how . . . you’re d-doin’. F-for real.”
Ginger had never made very close friends during her three years of high school—most of the girls had been friends since preschool, and besides, Ginger was sort of an oddity. Everyone knew who she was—the girl who’d had the heart trouble, the little princess from McHuid Farm—but no one seemed to want to get to know her for real, on a personal level. There’d been no slumber party invitations or midnight phone calls from girlfriends wanting to talk about boys. Just Ginger, quiet and shy, friendly to everyone but friends with no one.
She had made a couple of friends while in nursing school, but since she’d taken her leave of absence from SSCC, she felt an ever-widening social divide between them. And while she was making some friends in the ladies auxiliary group at the firehouse, she wasn’t on intimate terms with any of those women yet, which meant that Ginger didn’t really have anyone besides Woodman to talk to. Anyone, that is, except Gran.
A few weeks ago, after the first of her four bridal showers, during which she’d received a cache of sexy lingerie from her mother’s friends, she had visited Gran after two or three cups of spiked punch. Unfortunately, she’d been a touch too honest about things in the bedroom, and essentially Gran had gotten a drunken earful about Ginger’s mediocre sex life.
“Gran, please leave it alone and forget I said anything. It’s fine,” she said in a hushed voice, feeling her cheeks flush with heat.
“N-no . . . it . . . isn’t.”
Ginger pulled her hand away, feeling defensive, even protective, of her relationship with Woodman and wishing to God she’d never gotten drunk and mentioned anything to Gran. She cleared her throat, sitting primly in her sundress as she sorted and resorted the stacked paint chips in her hands, refusing to speak.
She’d known, of course, since the first time she slept with Woodman, that either the romance books she’d read were lying, or she and Woodman didn’t have the sort of special chemistry that made sparks fly. While he grunted his pleasure above her, his face a mask of rapture, she had, more or less, endured the act of lovemaking.
The mechanics hadn’t shocked her, nor had her lack of orgasm. She’d grown up on a horse farm, and she’d never yet seen a mare throw back her head in ecstasy as she was bred. What did surprise her was that it hadn’t hurt very much, but that was probably because riding horses had torn any thin wall of resistance long ago.
Woodman had been gentle with her, reverent and careful, and frankly there wasn’t much to like or dislike. In the end, the entire thing had lasted about five minutes.
Some women—maybe even most women—might have felt intense disappointment from such an inauspicious entrée into the world of sex. But brokenhearted from Cain’s rejection and confused out of her mind, what Ginger remembered now more than anything else was the comfort of Woodman’s arms around her after it was over. She liked the warmth of his bare skin pressed against hers, the sound of his strong heartbeat under her ear, the way he petted her hair and whispered tender things about the happy life ahead. She’d fallen asleep in her bed, in his arms, waking up hours later able to bear the pain of Cain’s rejection. Woodman’s love—his faith and tenderness and unfailing devotion—had made it possible for her to bear it.
She often reminded herself that she hadn’t been trapped into anything. She wasn’t a victim. She’d chosen Woodman, and in return for his kindness to her she would—no matter what—honor her choice.
Finally the strained silence between her and Gran became too much to bear and Ginger broke.
“There are all different kinds of marriages, Gran. Yes, there’s the passionate kind, but