The Truth is in the Wine (15 page)

“You see what I'm saying? This kind of thing triggers a whole lot of distrust and a whole lot of questions—and none of it is good.”

Ginger's points were so valid that Paul pondered them for a minute or so. He looked off in the direction of the bay, with Alcatraz in the far-off distance. He did not want to react to what
she said right away. To do that could mean he was more interested in reacting than actually listening, and he did not want her to think that. So he didn't say anything. And he didn't know what to say.

Finally, Ginger leaned on the car hood beside him.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I get it. The things I thought were harmless clearly they aren't harmless, even if I had no intention of doing anything with her. I'm really sorry, Gin.”

“I'm not going to play holier-than-thou with you,” she said. “You know, laughing in the car about your peeing on yourself was such a good thing for me. It helped me purge some of the really bad feelings I had about you. They didn't all go away. I'm not saying that.

“But what I'm saying is that even when I was laughing, I was thinking: ‘He's a good man and we've had a good life together.' The last year or so has been hell. But here we are, in California. It could be worse.”

Paul put his arm around his wife and looked at her. She did not look at him; she looked straight ahead.

“Gin,” he said softly, “I'm sorry. Nothing like that will ever happen again. I promise. I love you.”

She slowly nodded her head. With his arm still around her shoulder, he lowered it and rubbed her back. It was another of the delicate affections he used to show her early in their marriage.

And Ginger began to cry—at first tears sliding down her face and then downright weeping. Paul hugged her tightly, with both arms. He was alarmed. He knew his wife, and the way she cried was a sorrowful cry, not tears she might shed in a time of personal turmoil.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“You're crying; something must be wrong,” Paul said.

“We've been through a lot,” Ginger said. “As soon as we take one step forward, there's one step back. I'm worn out.”

“Stay here,” Paul said. “We need to finish this bottle—and open the other one, too.”

He went into the car and poured the last of the wine in their glasses. Ginger wiped her eyes and took a deep breath as Paul stood in front of her with the wine.

“I will do anything to get us past this,” Paul said. “Let's take in the moment. Look at where we are. It's a beautiful day. Look at that bridge above us and the mountains and the city over there and the boats…and you cannot get much more picturesque than this. We have to enjoy it. We have great wine and a perfect day. No more crying, no more negative anything. Let's live.”

“You said you'd do anything for us to get past this,” Ginger reminded him.

“I don't like the way you said that,” Paul noted. “But I
did
say it. Why?”

“I want to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge,” she said.

“Gin,” Paul said, “not that. We're sitting here enjoying the amazing view, sipping on wine. It's lovely.”

“How we gonna let our mothers do it, but not us?” Ginger said. “That's crazy. Imagine what the view is from up there. And we can put our wine in a cup and—”

“A cup?” Paul said. “Wine is not to be consumed in a foam cup,” Paul said.

“You know what you sound like? An English snob without the accent,” Ginger cracked. “You can do it. You flew all the way across the country to get here… You said you'd do anything.”

“Wine relaxes me,” he said. “Let's finish this up and then I'll do it—only because I want to make things right with us.”

P
aul finished his wine, and another glass, before they embarked on the journey across the Golden Gate Bridge. Oh, and he carried some in a foam coffee cup, too.

He decided he'd talk as much as possible to keep his mind off of what he was doing.

“Do you know the bridge is seventy-five years old?” he said as they made their first steps across it. “I read up on it. It was built in 1937. It took almost four years to build.”

Ginger sensed what Paul was doing, so she engaged him. “Tell me more,” she said as she looked out at the stunning view. Paul kept talking, but she was mesmerized by the beauty and hardly heard him.

“Ok,” Paul said, “the bridge is one-point seven miles long. So, it should take us about an hour and a half to walk it. We'll probably catch up with our mothers at some point.

“During construction, eleven men died falling off this bridge. They had this safety net hanging below the bridge and when men fell, it would catch them. Those who fell in it were entered into the ‘Halfway-To-Hell Club.' It caught nineteen men.

“But eleven men died when a part of the scaffolding collapsed and ripped through the net. That's crazy, right?”

Ginger didn't answer.

“Here's what's even more crazy,” Paul added. “More people have committed suicide jumping off this bridge than anyplace else in the country. There was a documentary I saw called ‘The Bridge' that actually showed some of the twenty-four suicides off this bridge in 2004 alone. Now that's crazy.”

“Yeah, it is,” Ginger said. “I hope no one does that today, while we're up here… Paul, look. Look out there.”

There were a plethora of sailboats elegantly drifting in the water, decorating the bay with brilliant colors. A few clouds seemingly strategically placed gave the image the feel of a painting.

Paul looked, and the view was so breathtaking that he stopped talking.

“My God,” he said. He sipped his wine. “Unbelievable. I imagined it would be beautiful, from what I saw while driving across the bridge. But this? This is crazy beautiful.”

Ginger looked up at him. “I know,” she said. “You cannot tell me there is not a God. Man built this bridge. But all that out there…the water, the island, the mountains, the sky…that's God's work.”

They walked the next five minutes without saying a word. Ginger could hardly take her eyes off the view. Paul watched the people. He could tell the locals; they walked briskly and hardly glanced to admire the stunning scenery. The first-timers or visitors took it in slowly, walking at a deliberate pace while stopping often to take and pose for photos.

“Since I'm up here,” Paul said, “we might as well get a picture.”

“You're gonna need to get up against the rail,” Ginger said.

“OK,” Paul said with confidence that he did not have. But he decided to do it instead of thinking about it.

So, he stopped at an angle where Ginger could capture the magnificent San Francisco skyline behind him. But people walked
by, between them, so she had to wait a few minutes before it was clear to take the photo.

In the interim, Paul sipped his wine and then made the mistake of looking straight down at the water. The combination of the waves, the height at which he stood and his fear of heights, set off a minor scare. It was like the blood in his body was draining.

But he was determined to not let it mess up his experience. So he closed his eyes for a few seconds and told himself, “Hold it together.” When he opened them, he was a different person. He felt relaxed, like wine can induce, but also alert and excited.

He posed showing the “peace” sign and smiled the biggest smile he had in some time. He felt on top of the world, literally and emotionally.

Paul again looked down over the railing at the waves, to test himself. Bad move. He got dizzy and disoriented. Ginger could see it coming on and immediately came to his aid.

“Here,” she said, putting his cup of wine to his mouth. “Concentrate on this.”

It worked. Paul pulled himself together rather quickly and they continued their walk—hand-in-hand.

Ginger looked down when Paul clutched her hand to make sure what she felt was real.

“You have not held my hand in at least ten years, Paul,” she said. “These changes in the last month or so have been dramatic. Maybe I should get you drunk so you'll finally tell me what's really going on because it has to be something.”

Paul smiled. He looked up at the expansion of the bridge and the view beyond it to take in the beauty of it all. And it almost came out right then. He wanted badly to tell Ginger that they were millionaires and their lives, as they knew it, had changed.

Telling her right there, on the Golden Gate Bridge, would be
symbolic of how he felt about their future—they were above the world. But his mom was not around, and in his mind, he wanted to tell all three of the women at the same time at the top of the mountain at the Sterling Vineyard. That was the new plan he came up with. So, he held back, hard as it was.

About a half-mile in front of them were Brenda and Madeline, who were becoming faster friends. They walked at a much less brisk pace than their children. And they talked the entire time, learning that they had been compatible all along.

“Finally,” Madeline said, looking down at her cell phone.

“What?” Brenda wanted to know.

“Mitch finally texted me back,” she said.

“OK, what did he say?”

“He said he has a friend for you and that they will be here either tonight or tomorrow night. We can decide.”

“I'd like them to come now, but it's probably better that they come tomorrow,” Brenda said. “This is our first night. We probably shouldn't separate from the kids tonight.”

“That's true, but if I know my daughter, she will try to escort us tomorrow,” Madeline said. “It amazes me that she tries to be the mother sometimes. I agree tomorrow is the better day to do it, but…”

“But Paul will be all in it, too,” Brenda said. “I guess it's better than them just saying, ‘Do whatever.' We should talk to them about it tonight so they'll be clear about it tomorrow.”

“Should I ask about his friend?” Madeline said. “We should know something about him before he gets here.”

“Yes, you should call him,” Brenda said.

And Madeline did. “I'm glad you called because it took me ten minutes to type that text message,” Mitch said. “Texting for me is only in case of emergency, if I'm tied up in a truck and being kidnapped or something.”

Madeline laughed. “You're funny.”

They chatted and laughed and Brenda got a little jealous. She could see how much Madeline enjoyed Mitch and looked forward to seeing him, and Brenda did not have that in her life. She was not “hating” on her new friend, but she
was
envious.

“So what's up with his friend?” she asked.

Madeline said, “His name is Lionel and he's retired military, too. He says Lionel is a fun man, a good man.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean his interesting,” Brenda said. “But, at this point, how can I complain? Let's see what happens.”

Madeline set it up for the men to drive to Napa from Sacramento and meet them for dinner the next night. “My son-in-law did a lot of research,” she told Mitch.” So I'm sure he will have some place to recommend for us.”

“You know what?” Brenda asked. “This walk has been great for my energy and my stomach. I feel a lot better.”

“Me, too,” Madeline said. “Almost like new. By the time we get back to Napa Valley, I'll be ready to really eat.”

Brenda's phone rang before she could respond. It was Paul.

“We're almost on the other side,” Brenda said. “How's the park?”

“I don't know because we left the park,” Paul said.

“What? Well, where are you?” she asked.

“Right behind you,” he answered.

Brenda turned around to see her son and daughter-in-law about twenty yards behind them.

“Look,” she said to Madeline.

“Oh, my goodness,” Madeline said. “I thought you were going to stay at the park and pick us up on this side of the bridge.”

“We couldn't let you all outdo us,” Paul said.

Madeline looked down at their clutched hands and smiled. She had viewed Paul as a slouch—or at least someone who was a good man but not a great achiever, which is what she wanted for her
daughter. So, while she never protested Ginger's choice for a husband, she never gave him a ringing endorsement or fully embraced him.

Watching Paul with Ginger on the trip gave her an appreciation for her son-in-law that she did not have. She listened to him speak,
really
listened, and determined that he was much smarter than she realized and much more cultured and definitely far more humorous. She, indeed, took him to be a humorless person, someone who could not enjoy a good joke and could not tell one.

His self-deprecating story on their way to the Golden Gate Bridge shed a new light on Paul, the man. Seeing him hold her daughter's hand gave Madeline a much more favorable feeling about him.

At the same time, Brenda assessed Ginger—and told her so.

“Can I steal your wife from you for a few minutes?” Brenda said, grabbing Ginger's free hand.

Paul didn't answer. He released her hand and they walked in front of Paul and Madeline.

“I want to tell you,” Brenda began, “that already I have seen more of who you are since yesterday than I have in almost twenty years. And you know why that is? Because I probably wasn't looking before now. Why that was the case, I cannot really explain except to say that as a parent, you can sometimes see your child as so special that no one is really good enough for him.

“I have seen the kind of mother you are and I have seen how nice a house you keep and how hard you work. But I couldn't pull myself to believe you were right for Paul. And I'm sorry for that.”

“But what has happened for you to feel differently, Ms. Wall?”

“My son is perfect to me but he's not perfect,” Brenda said. “He has his little—what do they call them?—idiosyncrasies. And I see where you manage them very well. You got him to get on
an airplane. Let's start with that. And even though you didn't sit with him—and even though I was drinking with your mother—I saw how you checked on him and reassured him, helped him get through it. I saw that you really cared—even though things haven't been that great with the marriage. I know what's going on—some of what's been going on. I commend you for that.”