The Truth is in the Wine Page 7

  “But all makes sense now. That night, when I finally saw your father, he was sweating and exhausted and acting weird, like something was bothering him. For the longest time, he seemed different. You didn’t know Ambrose died because your father told me not to tell you. He said you were too young and you didn’t need to know about death at such a young age.

  “I went along with it because he was my husband and it wasn’t an outrageous request. Richard was very solemn at the funeral, but not sad, if you know what I mean. He seemed down, but not sad that Ambrose was dead. He was carrying a heavy burden. I always felt it but now I realize that he had beaten my brother to the brink of death.

  “And he was sitting there through his funeral listening to people get up there and talk about how much they loved him and how much of a good man he was. He was my brother and I did love him; we grew up in the same house. But Ambrose had some issues. He functioned OK and worked, but we used to say in the family that we wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up being anything from a bank robber to a serial killer.”

  “Oh, my God,” Ginger said. “You’re saying Daddy killed a man?”

  “Again, he died of a heart attack,” Madeline said. “But the guy who lived next door saw Richard go in the house after Ambrose, but he didn’t see either of them come out of the house. That’s because Richard took him out of the back. He was found less than a mile from our house—the back of our house.

  “And I was there when Richard came home—he came in through the back door. And, based on the police report, he came home long after the guy saw Richard go into the front door of the house.”

  “I can’t even believe this,” Ginger said. “I mean, I am glad my father protected me when I needed protecting. But…”

  “I’m blown away, too,” Madeline said. “Richard never said anything to me about him touching you or being in your room. But he didn’t because he knew I would have dug up Ambrose’s body and killed him again. Oh, my God.”

  “There goes my little high,” Brenda said. “This is deep.”

  “Ginger, you OK?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, I’m OK. But I don’t know. I know my father as one thing and now I learn he almost murdered my uncle.”

  “But—wait, excuse me,” Brenda said. “I don’t mean to be all in this but I’m right here and couldn’t help but hear everything. Is it OK if I ask something?”

  Madeline and Ginger both said it was OK.

  “How can you not know what you feel about this?” Brenda said. “Your father protected you. He swore that he would end the person’s life that laid a hand on you. This guy did and he probably led to his dying because—if what Madeline says is true—he would have been back, and maybe trying to hurt you.

  “I’m not very comfortable saying this, but he got what he deserved and your daddy should be a bigger hero in your eyes than he ever was. I’m not condoning killing, but you were a five-year-old girl. What if your father hadn’t come home? How many other girls had he touched and done God-knows-what to?

  “I’m sorry; that’s my two cents.”

  “It does mean a lot to me that he saved me from something that could have scarred me for life. But…”

  “Ginger,” Madeline said, “there are no buts. What’s the word? Romanticize? I’m not trying to romanticize what Richard did. But there are millions of fathers who say they would have done the same thing. Richard, I believe, did it.”

  “Gin,” Paul said, “if someone, anyone, put a hand on you or Helena in that way, I would kill him, too. Actually doing it is one thing. But that’s what I believe. Your dad protected you. I respect him even more now than I already did.”

  “I wish I could call and ask him what happened,” Ginger said. “I want to hear him say it to believe it.”

  “Well, unless you want to have a séance, that’s not going to happen,” Madeline said.

  “I think,” Paul said, “you should let it go. In the scheme of things, something that happened that long ago should not matter much now.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Ginger said. “I mean, it happened, so how can it not matter?”

  Brenda said, “Everything that happens doesn’t matter. And if you ignore it, it’s like it didn’t happen.”

  “You spit some knowledge, Ma,” Paul said.

  “ ‘Spit some knowledge?’ ” Ginger asked. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t be mad that I am in tune with the ways of the youth,” Paul said.

  “Please. You’re not in tune with the ways of the middle-aged,” Ginger said, laughing.

  Paul had successfully moved Ginger off her base of lamenting the possibility of her father’s actions. And he was intent on keeping her away from that subject.

  “OK, copilot, where do we exit?” he said, handing her back her cell phone.

  Ginger gave Paul the specifics and looked out of the window at the mountainside they passed. It was quiet in the car for several minutes, with all the ladies dozing off, one-by-one.

  That was a relief for Paul, who did not give the demands of traveling with three women much thought when he cooked up the idea. He was focused on reconnecting with his wife and wine. As he swerved into the valley, his mind wandered.

  It was gnawing at him that he had not told Ginger of their newfound wealth. He felt a lot better about where they were going in the marriage, and that she was receptive to making it work after so much bad stuff.

  Paul purchased a David Yurman diamond ring for Ginger, a gift he planned to give to her on the trip, after he was sure she was sincere about making the marriage work. He figured the last vineyard they would visit would be Sterling in Calistoga, where they would take a tram up to the top of the mountain to visit the winery.

  Its website indicated and the pictures confirmed it was one of the most romantic wineries in Napa Valley, with pristine views of beauty stretching miles and miles in every direction. Out on the deck was where he envisioned presenting it to Ginger, a gift to consummate a restart of their marriage. He would tell them later, at the hotel about the money. That was his plan.

  He drove past signs saying Vallejo and continued along dark stretches where he, at times, could see beautiful landscape. He let the window down for a minute to consume the breeze and the smell of fresh California air.

  Paul felt more carefree than he ever had. He was on his dream trip with his dream girl and, while the trip promised some bumpy times, he anticipated the sense of family to come out of it would be worth the occasional discord.

  He hoped.

  CHAPTER 8

  HOTEL, MOTEL, HOLIDAY INN

  As if they could sense they were getting close to the hotel, the ladies all woke up within minutes of each other. Paul was glad they were close because he had to go to the bathroom for the previous twenty-five miles, but did not want to stop or disturb the sleeping women.

  “How close are we now, Vino?” Brenda said. It was the first time she used her nickname for her son around Madeline.

  “Vino? Who’s Vino?” Madeline asked.

  “I am,” Paul answered. “It’s my mom’s pet name for me, so to speak.”

  “I know the next question,” Brenda said. “The answer is, I was with him the night he discovered that he liked wine. It was amazing. He was like a self-taught expert, right from the start. He could taste the elements of the wine and tell you what it was. Accurately. He was amazing.

  “And he was twenty-one. How many young men at that age are even trying wine? Well, Paul was. He was drinking it and loving it and analyzing it.

  “So, one day I called him ‘Wino,’ and he was offended. He said, ‘A wino doesn’t appreciate wine. He only appreciates the next drink he can get.’

  “Of course, I let that nickname go right away because he was right. So I decided on ‘Vino.’ Wine. If there were a word for wine lover, I would call him that. Since there isn’t, I just call him ‘Vino.’ It fits. He’s all about wine.”

  “All right now,” Made
line said. “Vino, get us to the Marriott, please.”

  “You know what’s crazy, Mrs. Wall?” Ginger said. “He loves wines so much and studied them. And yet, he won’t do anything with this knowledge.

  “I told him to go be a bartender at a wine bar. Become a sommelier.”

  “A what?” Ginger’s mom said.

  “A sommelier,” Ginger answered. “A sommelier is a wine expert, someone who can pair wines with meals based on understanding wine. They know everything about wines.

  “When he lost his job, there was the perfect opportunity to pursue his passion,” Ginger said. “But he did nothing.”

  “I didn’t not do anything,” Paul said. “I did a lot of stuff. I just didn’t do anything with wine.”

  “Except drink it,” his mom chipped in.

  It was an uncomfortable subject for Paul. Even though his life had changed with winning the lottery, losing his job scarred him. His manhood was stripped, and it affected his marriage.

  “You know, life is full of surprises,” he said. “Maybe I will take on something working with wines. It’s never too late.”

  He said it so convincingly that he believed it. And then his mind started roaming. He now had the resources to do whatever he liked. He did not want to be a bartender because he did not want to serve others in that way. But he did like the idea of talking to people about wine. In just a few minutes of contemplation, he conceived of opening a wine store where he picked the wines and could host wine-tastings each month and share his knowledge.

  He hadn’t thought much about what to do with all that money, except save it, travel and buy wine. He told himself he would share his thoughts with the ladies before they departed.

  They were all up and alert by the time he pulled up at the Napa Marriott. There were some lavish hotels in Napa that Paul wanted to experience, but they were so pricey that Ginger would have questioned why he would spend so much money.

  Besides, the Marriott was nice and convenient and it served a Thanksgiving dinner, too.

  Paul emptied the trunk of their luggage-on-wheels and everyone pulled their bags into the lobby, which was buzzing with people at the bar and dining in the restaurant.

  When he got the room keys, a sudden fear came over him: how are the in-laws going to get along sharing a room? He made sure his and Ginger’s parents were on the same floor, but down the hall from their room.

  “What time is dinner?” Brenda said. “Do I have time for a nap?”

  “It’s at eight-thirty, but we can push it back if we need to,” Paul said. “I talked to the host. The evening is open in the restaurant. And they are serving dinner until eleven.”

  He handed the ladies the keys and they made their way to their rooms. As Paul and Ginger headed to their room, Ginger surprised him. “What room am I in?” she asked.

  “Don’t even play with me, Gin,” Paul said.

  “I’m not playing. Who said we were going to stay in the same room?” she said.

  “I did,” Paul answered. He had arrived at the door to the room and slid in the card key.

  “You coming in?” he said, holding the door open.

  Ginger just looked at him.

  “Gin, we’re all the way here now and you don’t want to stay in the same room with your husband?” Paul said. “Come on. That’s not cool.”

  “It’s not about cool,” Ginger said. “We have problems.”

  “We can’t work them out here in the hallway, Ginger,” he said.

  That bit of reasoning worked, and she entered the room, which was nothing special. But it did have two double beds, which she acknowledged.

  “This is my bed,” she said.

  Paul ignored her, but placed his carry-on on the other bed. He zipped open his other bag and fumbled through it until he pulled out a bottle of Fairview Pinotage, a South African wine given to him as a gift by a former coworker who visited the vineyard in the summer.

  “I have been waiting to crack this,” Paul said. “This is the time.”

  Ginger’s sudden discomfort could not mask her desire to share the wine. She enjoyed it—probably not as much as Paul, but she could have at least a glass almost every day.

  This was a special bottle that Paul coveted, so she was moved that he brought it to share with her. But she was still damaged by his behavior over the previous several months.

  Ginger realized she was sending him mixed signals, but that’s what was coming out of heart and her head. They clashed.

  “Be right back,” Paul said. “Gonna get some wineglasses from the bar.”

  He made his way to the bar and was shocked by what he saw: his mother and mother-in-law sitting in the lounge together sipping wine. Paul quickly turned away and acted as if he did not see them. He did not want to interrupt their moment and he wanted to get back to Ginger.

  Inhaling the Napa Valley air did something to Paul. He could smell the grapes in the air, although it was not prime grape-growing season. Still, being there and passing the vineyards on the way in improved his already-uplifted spirits and made him frisky and romantic. He wanted his wife back.

  When he returned with the glasses, Ginger was in the bathroom, which gave Paul time to dig into his luggage and pull out a scented candle. He lit it and pulled open the drapes, which revealed a swimming pool.

  He wiped down the glasses, but did not open the wine until Ginger came out. He wanted her to share in that moment. That’s how seriously he took wine—opening a bottle was important.

  “What’s this?” Ginger said when she reentered the room. The candle made it cozy and romantic. She had not seen that kind of thing from Paul in at least a decade.

  “It’s a nice mood for us to enjoy this great wine,” he said.

  Ginger did not respond or resist. Her husband gave her a glass and he sat next to her on “her” bed. He cracked open the bottle. “I waited for you to be here to open it,” he said.

  She smiled. After pouring each a glass, Paul lifted his and proposed a toast: “To my wife. I am thankful that you are here with me in the one place I really wanted to visit. And to be here now, on Thanksgiving, really brings it all together because I am really thankful that you are my wife.”

  Ginger smiled. She was touched. She tapped her glass into his and they both smelled the wine, then swirled it around in their glasses, sniffed it again to see the difference from the oxidation and then took a sip.

  “Oh, man,” Paul said, a smile developing on his face. “What do you think?”

  Ginger smiled, too. “Excellent,” she said. “There is no aftertaste in this wine.”

  “And it is smoky with dark fruit flavors,” Earl said. “Wanna hear some history on Pinotage? Remember, I studied it.”

  “Sure, why not? What else do I have to do?” Ginger said.

  “Keep sippin’ while I kick the knowledge,” Paul said.

  “Kick the knowledge?” Ginger said, shaking her head. “Anyway, go ahead.”

  “Pinotage is a unique South African grape variety that only grows well in South Africa,” Paul explained. “Most wine drinkers have less experience with it than other red wines. And guess what: Some South Africans love it, but some don’t like it so much because it is not European enough. It does not possess any of the flavors of French wines.

  “The Pinotage grape is a combination of a Pinot Noir grape and Hermitage grape that was created in 1925 and is one of the younger red wines Thus, Pinotage. Last thing: They actually grow Pinotage in a few places in California and Virginia.”

  “Interesting,” Ginger said. “You really should do something with all this knowledge. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it. With all the layoffs in the last years, many people have decided to pursue their passion, to do what they really want to do. I realize you like heating and air conditioning repair. But you love wine, Paul.”

  That confirmed Paul’s earlier thoughts.

  “I do, and I’m really surprised you said that because I actually have been thinking the same thing,
” he said. “Maybe, in time, we could open up a wine store and host wine-tastings. Make it really nice. Educate people.”

  “That sounds nice, Paul, but that costs money,” Ginger said.

  Paul poured more wine in her glass. “Well, you never know. Things could turn around for us. They will turn around for us. And when they do, that’s something we can explore. I’d like you to be my partner.”

  “That’s a long way off,” Ginger said. “A long way.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Paul said, smiling. “You have to put it out in the universe for it to become reality… But I’d rather talk about us.”

  “What about us?” Ginger said.

  “Well, we’ve made some progress since we hit rock bottom—since I hit rock bottom,” he said. “I think we have. We are talking. We made love. We are here in California. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have expected any of this.”

  “Me, either, and that’s why I’m trying to figure out what changed,” Ginger said.

  “I changed,” Paul said. “I got off my ass and finally stopped feeling sorry for myself and realized nothing happens unless I make it happen.”

  “And that’s it?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. Paul sipped more wine and shook his head. “No. When I took inventory, I realized that I was ruining our marriage. You’re not perfect and neither am I. But you’re perfect for me. I believe that.”

  Ginger’s head was spinning. Literally. The wine took hold and Paul’s words did, too. And so, when Paul slid beside her on the bed, she did not resist. He went for it.

  “I love you, Gin,” he said. “I will apologize every day if I have to, to get you to understand how badly I feel about the things I said. And I will kiss you right here on your neck every day, too. You like me to kiss you right there, don’t you?”

  Ginger did not want to answer, but her body was all his now, as if all the months of trouble and pain and concerns did not happen. Anger, disappointment, sadness…none of that mattered in that moment. When her body spoke, she listened and acquiesced to its needs.