The Truth is in the Wine (24 page)

“This has been a crazy trip,” Ginger said when Paul exited the shower. “You feel better?”

“I feel like I washed the Napa Valley Correction Center/County Jail off me,” he said. “I don't get why a jail has to be so disgusting.”

“I'm just glad you're out,” Ginger said. “But it's not made to be a resort, you know?”

Paul, with his silk robe wrapped around him, nodded his head knowingly, and rested on the bed. He let out a sigh of relief. Not too long before then he was on a super-thin “mattress,” staring at the ceiling and wondering how his life degenerated to that situation. Being in the confines of his hotel room was so welcomed.

Ginger had the television on ESPN, but the sound was down, and Paul rested on his back as if he were in a coffin: hands clasped together across his chest.

She went to the bathroom and returned after several minutes. “Paul, we really need to talk. There's something important I need to tell you,” she said. Ginger had gathered the courage and the words to give Paul the news that would turn his mindset.

Paul's response? He snored.

“That was fast,” Ginger said. She sat on the adjacent bed and stared at Paul as he slept. She looked down at her stomach and put her hand over it. And she started to cry—tears of joy and regret. Then she figured out why she cried so much. Her hormones were screwy.

Life is growing inside of me
, she thought to herself. And when she thought of the abortion, she cried more.
God, please forgive me.

To have a second chance when much of her life she was told she had no chance to get pregnant, well, it made the miracle of child bearing that much more miraculous. She was anxious for Paul to wake up. She wanted to apologize to him again and to share news with him that she was sure he would embrace.

But he slept and slept—and Ginger alternated between staring at him and reading the literature on how to eat for two. She knew right away she would be obsessed with making sure she gave her child the best chance to be born healthy.

She also thought about how to tell Paul; what to say, where to say it, how to say it. Her mom and Brenda were not going to join them for dinner later that night, so Ginger thought it would be better to tell Paul first, over dinner, before sharing it with anyone.

Make it a special announcement in a special place,
she thought. Paul had identified French Blue in St. Helena as their dinner destination. There was something special about that place because it was in a town named after their daughter.

Yes, that's the place to tell him
, Ginger thought.

F
or the first time in their lives together, Paul's snoring did not bother Ginger. There were times when she slept in the guest bedroom or demanded he sleep else-where because the noise was so distracting. But on this day, with the news she had to share and all that they had been through, she wanted to be close to her husband.

She was in a remarkable place in her life. All the pain and hurt and disappointment of a few months before were gone. Ginger lay cuddled up with her snoring husband feeling as alive and womanly as ever.

As much as she felt like a mother in raising Helena, she was shocked that knowing she would birth a child changed how she felt about herself. She was so broken and disenchanted when she was pregnant several months before that she never gave herself the opportunity to embrace the magnitude of the responsibility.

This time, she did, and even though she was in the very early stages of the pregnancy, she intuitively placed a hand on her belly often, as if she was protecting the fetus from impending danger.

Mostly, she felt extra womanly. She knew it was a silly notion; she was a full-fledged woman all along, a mother, a wife. But having life growing inside her injected Ginger with a sense of pride and self-esteem that she had not felt. Ever.

I have a life growing inside of me
, she said to herself while resting in the bed.
Oh, my God.

Before she fell asleep, she thought about names for the baby and how the child would look and how her mom would spoil it and how she wished her dad were alive to see the baby, to see her pregnant. She also thought about Helena. She was such a delightful young lady, a teenager without the teenage attitude or sense of entitlement. She prayed her child would have the same temperament.

But mostly she prayed that Helena would forgive her and Paul for not telling her that she was adopted. Theirs was parents-raising-a-child, genuine love that was strong and everlasting. But Ginger could not help but wonder how Helena would feel about not being told the truth about her parents all these years.

For a second, she thought that maybe Paul was right.
What good would it do to tell her? We're her parents
. But that thought passed swiftly.
As her parents we are obligated to tell her
, Ginger told herself.

Still, the effects it would have on her concerned Ginger. Would Helena accept hearing the truth and not judge her parents? Would she want to meet her birth parents? And with Ginger pregnant, how would Helena receive that news? Would she resent the forthcoming child?

All those scenarios scared Ginger. Helena was her world, and she could not fathom their relationship not being the same as it always had been. Telling an eighteen-year-old she was adopted at virtually the same time as revealing her mother was pregnant would be a lot to take in at once.

It was a lot for Ginger to take in, and so she finally closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. She rested peacefully, with dreams of Helena posing for photos with the new baby, proud that she was a big sister.

Paul, meanwhile, dreamed of being in jail and having to fight his way out of closed-in places to prevent being raped. There were two guys, one bigger than him, one smaller. They approached with caution and bad intentions. “Been waiting for this since you got here,” the little one said. “You gonna be mines.”

“And mines,” the bigger guy added.

Paul grabbed a bottle of wine, a 2011 Alouette Pinot Noir and blasted the smaller man across the head with it, knocking him out and breaking the bottle at the same time. In his hand was the neck of the broken bottle with its sharp edges. Confidently, he approached the big guy and stabbed him in the gut with it, and he fell to the floor.

Paul let out a primal scream, and raised his hands in victory. He had conquered them. But in his salutations, he realized he had become one of them, and it scared him so much that he shook himself out of his dream and woke up.

His movements in his sleep startled Ginger, who moved away so she wouldn't get struck by a flailing arm.

“Paul, you OK?” she said. “You must have had a bad dream.”

“Oh, man. I did,” Paul said. “I dreamed I killed two men—or at least hurt them badly while I was in jail. Hit and stabbed them with a wine bottle.”

Ginger laughed. “A wine bottle? You had a wine bottle in jail?”

“I did,” Paul said, wiping his face. “And a good bottle of wine, too.”

They laughed. Paul turned his body and embraced Ginger. It was just before 1 p.m. “I tell you, Gin,” he said, “I hate we have gone through some of this drama. But I really believe it can—it will—make us stronger and closer.

“Jail was not a good experience, but I'm almost glad I went through it. I ain't that religious, but I can say with confidence
that I believe God puts us in positions that are uncomfortable so we can learn from them. I felt like I was sub-human part of my time last night. It's humiliating to be in handcuffs and to be locked into a space. But I met people with
real
problems. It makes you understand that as bad as something may seem to you, it's not even as bad as it could be.

“You would think we would know that. But we take it all for granted. I mean, I met this man who looked so haggard—he was in the holding cell with me when I first got there. But I could see that he really wasn't as old as he looked. He was just unkempt. Anyway, the man could look at you and tell you about certain things about you because of your body language.

“He worked for probably the CIA or FBI—he wouldn't say. But he lost everything when his newborn baby died as his wife was delivering. And then his wife eventually died because she never got over losing the child. And those two deaths broke him down. He lost his job and is basically a bum. Said his name was Otis, like Otis from
The Andy Griffith Show
, the town drunk, frequently locked up. It was really sad.

“But it was also an eye-opener for me. I thank God that I didn't totally lose my mind with losing my job. But I did let it change me.”

He rubbed Ginger's arm. “And I am so sorry for that,” he said. “When you look back on things, you see things better. At the time, I felt less than a man; I couldn't provide for my family. But I should have been thinking how great it was that I had a family. That's the positive over negative thing. If I had done that, I probably would have handled that situation a lot differently and you'd be pregnant with our baby…I'm sorry, Gin.”

It was then that she was going to tell Paul. Over dinner would have been more romantic or dramatic, but him saying that at that time let her know how much he wanted a child with her.

Before she could utter a word, however, Paul kissed her deeply; so deeply that she got dizzy. She was not sure if it was the kiss or more effects of being pregnant, but she lost her equilibrium for a moment.

She looked at her husband and she saw the kind of love in his eyes that she saw at the height of their marriage. She kissed him, and they caressed each other like lovers do.

As Paul lay on his back, Ginger tugged the belt on his robe and pulled it open, and his rocket-hard penis sprung up like a telescope. She immediately stroked it gently, causing him to moan.

At the same time, Paul meticulously handled her ample breasts, squeezing them at first before centering his attention on her thimble-sized nipples. They were Ginger's sensitive spots, her hot spots, and in response she stroked his manhood with more fervor. He leaned over and began licking and then sucking her nipples, and the pleasure rifled through her body.

She held his head as he sucked her titties, and she breathed heavily and spread her legs. He knew his wife, even if their love life had become far less frequent. And so he placed his hand between her legs, and he could feel the heat rising from her like steam.

She shifted her weight to her upper back and raised her hips off the bed, and Paul pulled down the drawstring pajama pants she wore. One side first, then the other…until they were at her ankles.

Ginger kicked them off using her feet, and bent her legs again so Paul could insert his middle finger into her. And he did, with great care and attention to her desires. The moisture from her insides doused his finger and she slid her body up and down on it to manage how deep she wanted it to go.

Her eyes were closed but her heart was open. She needed passion in her life, and the closeness that came with it. She missed the
physical pleasure it brought her. After several minutes, Paul slowly dislodged his finger, and Ginger rolled on her side, her back to her husband.

Paul did not hesitate to angle himself so he could enter her from behind, and the initial insertion made Ginger flinch. Inside her, he adjusted his body so he could grab and smack her ass as he stroked her slowly and deeply. She moaned and he kissed her on her back, and the feeling that only intense passion can bring covered them.

“I love you, Gin,” he said, still inside her, still pushing himself deeper.

She tried to answer, but the force of his movements stifled her breath. She could hardly get a word out that made any sense. She grunted and moaned as Paul pounded harder and faster and penetrated her until he could go no deeper.

Ginger needed a good fucking like that. They both did. So many pent up emotions, so many frustrations, so many desires. It all came out in this lovemaking session that traveled from one bed to the next, from one position to another.

“Damn, baby. You're getting it,” Ginger said to Paul, her legs on his shoulders.

He extended her legs out and held her by her ankles as he pounded in rapid-fire succession, like a jackhammer. “Yes, baby,” he managed to get out. The rest of what he said was profanity: “Shit.” “Damn.” “Goddamn.” “Fuck.” No sentences. Just single words that, in this context, meant pleasure.

“Get it, Paul. Get it,” Ginger implored, and those words charged Paul to stroke harder and deeper and come in from different angles to touch all her walls. She was in pain and pleasure at the same time. Only during sex could this happen.

Someone's cell phone rang, but neither of them entertained
answering it. They were in the throes not only of making love, but truly reconnecting after a period of discomfort, distrust and uncertainty.

Paul finally felt the sensation of an orgasm rise at once from his feet and descend from his brain to converge and explode at his penis, swelling it up even bigger as it unleashed a load of semen into Ginger, who felt the tingly feeling of being suspended that climaxing brought.

“Oh, God,” she yelled. “Oh, God.”

She held him tightly as they reached an orgasm in unison, an event that was rare but significant because it epitomized their connection. Paul thrust on until his almost limp body collapsed on top of hers. They breathed heavily into each other's ear.

“Damn, Paul,” Ginger said. “Damn. That was so good that I think I'm pregnant.”

Paul laughed and Ginger kissed him on his chest. They lay together in silence, exhausted and fulfilled, and before long he dozed back off to sleep.

Ginger cried.

M
adeline was giddy. She received a phone call from Mitch, who seduced her with his words. There were not Don Juan type of sentiments, but they seemed sincere and honest, and that's what she needed.