“Busted!” Betsy giggled. “But you are welcome to go with us anytime that you want. Your granny wouldn’t be happy that you don’t attend.”
“I know that, and I hate to disappoint her, but,” Sloan said in a slow drawl, “God and I have got some things to straighten out before I don’t feel like a hypocrite sittin’ in His house.”
Kate reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “When you get it right with Him, you’re welcome to sit with us on our pew.”
“Thank you.” Sloan didn’t expect that he’d be attending church anytime soon, but it was nice of Kate to offer her support. Before he enlisted, he’d gone every single Sunday morning and sometimes on Wednesday nights with his granny. He’d gone to chapel a few times, but only in basic training. After that, it was hit and miss, depending on whether he was in the field or not and whether he was hungover on Sunday morning. When his buddies were all killed in one fell swoop, he blamed himself—and then he questioned God. If the Almighty Maker was all that great, how could He let a bomb take out Sloan’s entire team?
“Where did you go to church, Ginger?” Connie asked.
“Depended on what foster family I was with,” she answered. “I seldom stayed more than a year with any one of them, sometimes even less. I remember one that was pretty religious, and we went every Sunday morning. On the way home, the lady would ask us questions about the sermon. If we couldn’t answer them, we were punished.”
Sloan’s hands knotted into fists under the table. No child should suffer because of something like that. It would make them hate God even worse than he did.
“I didn’t think foster parents were allowed to whip kids.” Connie’s chin quivered.
“There’s lots more ways to punish a child than to use a belt or a paddle,” Ginger told her. “The punishment if we couldn’t answer the questions was that we had to go to the bedroom, get down on our knees, and pray the whole time the rest of the family was eating dinner. Now”—Ginger’s smile didn’t reach her pretty eyes—“tell me how we go about decorating the eggs this afternoon. How do y’all color them?”
“We’ve got all kinds of things, from glue and glitter to dye kits and pretty little decals.” Betsy stopped what she was doing and gave Ginger a quick hug. “Decorating the eggs has always been such a big afternoon for us. We don’t get in a rush, and we bring out all our artistic abilities, and, honey, you’ll never miss a meal here at the Banty House.”
Sloan glanced over at Ginger. “I have trouble hiding the eggs because they sparkle in the sunlight as it is. It takes me the whole hour and a half that they’re gone to get the job done.”
He liked that he’d made her smile and her brown eyes had taken on a sparkle. He couldn’t imagine how hard her life must have been, or how he would have survived without his grandmother’s support after his mother and dad were both killed.
When the dishes were all done and put away, Kate gave Sloan orders for what she wanted done in the rest of the corn patch, and then she hurried downstairs to check on the mash she had setting up. Betsy started two pans of eggs to boiling, and Connie took Ginger upstairs to try on the pink dress.
Ginger would rather have stayed in the kitchen with Betsy or even gone to the moonshine room with Kate. Truth was she’d take going to the cornfield with Sloan over all that. Sloan had a mysterious air about him that made her want to get to know him better. His eyes said he’d known pain and his smile was guarded, but she loved it when he slid one eyelid shut in a wink. She felt as if they were sharing a secret that no one else had any idea about.
As she climbed the stairs behind Connie, she compared Sloan and Lucas. Both were good-looking guys. Lucas had black, curly hair that he wore a little too long and brown eyes that were constantly darting around. Now that he was gone, she could see that he was always looking for an easy way to make a dollar—legal or not, it didn’t seem to matter. He’d sweet-talked her into moving out of the shelter where they’d both been living and into an apartment with him about a year ago. He’d told her that in a few months he’d have enough money to buy them a house.
“This is my room.” Connie threw open a door. “Come right on in and we’ll see what the dress looks like on you.”
Ginger followed her inside, trying not to stare, but it was impossible. Wallpaper with trailing pink roses surrounded her. The full-size canopy bed had a pink-and-white checkered ruffle around the top and a matching bedspread. The stool in front of the vanity was covered with pink velvet, and pillows of every shade of pink were scattered on the bed.
“I like pink,” Connie said. “I’ve had that bed since I was a little girl. I only wish that I could talk Kate and Betsy into digging a hole big enough in the Cottonwood Cemetery to bury me in it.”
Ginger shivered at the idea of Connie dying, but when it happened, she’d probably never even know. Her time at the Banty House would be over on Monday morning.
Connie went to her closet and found the dress, pulled the plastic bag up over the hanger, and laid it on the bed. “Are you too modest to try it on in front of me?” she asked. “I can step out into the hallway if you are.”
Ginger bit her tongue to keep from giggling. Connie couldn’t know that she’d slept in shelters that had as many as sixteen women in one room. “I’m fine with you being in the room.” She jerked her shirt up over her head and kicked off her shoes. Then she stripped out of her jeans, removed the dress from the hanger, and slipped it over her head.
Connie took one look at her, fell back on the bed, and laughed so hard that she got the hiccups. When she could finally talk, she said, “Darlin’, you look like a bump in a tent.”
“I can wear what I have.” Ginger couldn’t see a long mirror anywhere, so she had no idea just how she looked. However, she felt exactly like what Connie had said. She started to take off the dress, but Connie slid off the bed and took her by the hand.
“Honey, it can be fixed. We’ll just go on over to the sewing room. I already have ideas about it.” Connie led her to the last room on the left and opened the door. “Mama insisted that we all learn to sew. I’m not as good as she was, but in thirty minutes I can easily turn that dress into something that will look good on you.”
“How?” Ginger asked.
Connie took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face a floor-length mirror. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and then she giggled. She truly did look like a bump in a tent. There was no way that Connie could ever make this dress usable—especially in thirty minutes.
“First, we’ll take the sleeves out. I only picked out this dress because all three of us have old-women arms. I call them bat wings because they flap in the air when we raise them. We needed something with sleeves,” Connie said. “And then we’re going to remove the collar. You’ve still got a nice firm neck, so you don’t need a stand-up collar. When I get those jobs done, I’ll put a little bit of elastic under your boobs. That way it will fit right above your tummy.” She talked as she helped Ginger remove the dress. “I’ve got a belt with pretty diamonds—well, not the real things, but sparkling stones—that will finish it off.”