The Truth is in the Wine (4 page)

“Take my mother with us,” she said.

It was such an out-of-left-field request that Paul spat the wine in his mouth out onto the coffee table and a little on Ginger.

“Damn, Paul. That's disgusting,” she said, using a napkin to wipe off her arm.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You surprised me with that.”

Madeline Price, Ginger's mother, lost her husband of 34 years about ten months prior, to a heart attack. He was working in the yard of their small ranch home near downtown Decatur, near Atlanta, with his wife, who went inside to fetch them some lemonade. When Madeline got back, her husband was facedown in the rose bushes, dead.

Her grieving was enormous and understandable. Theirs was a marriage the antithesis of most.

“I actually didn't heard my parents argue or speak of arguing in their last twenty years together,” Ginger said. “If they were hiding it, they hid it well. You have seen them together—they were happy, like a fairy tale.

“So, taking her with us to the Wine Country would be really great for her. It hasn't been that long since my dad passed and she's done nothing but stay in the house. She needs to get away.”

“We need to get away, too, Ginger,” Paul said. “We really need this time. You think we can have the same experience with your mother there?”

“My mother being there won't interfere with anything between us,” she said.

Ginger never took her eyes off of her husband and he never blinked. They were locked in, which was an advantage to Ginger,
and she knew it. Paul melted at his wife's eyes and her desires. At least he used to.

“OK,” he said. “OK. We'll work it out. It'll be good.”

Ginger got up from the couch and hugged Paul, a show of affection so rare that he closed his eyes as they embraced, so as to savor the moment.

Then he opened them suddenly and pulled away from Ginger.

“What if I invite my mom, too?” he said. “She and your mom can keep each other company, finally get to know each other and maybe even end up liking each other. And that would give us some space to do something by ourselves.”

Ginger was surprised; their parents were not close. They were not friends. There was no obvious dislike, but there was obvious unspoken discord.

“You didn't get that much money and now you're looking to spend it all on one trip?” she said.

“You weren't concerned about money when you asked about bringing your mom,” Paul said.

“That's not the point,” Ginger shot back.

“No, actually, it's exactly the point,” Paul said. “I want my mom to come and suddenly you're worried about the money I spend? Well, if your mom is going, my mom should, too. She needs to get away as much as any of us.”

Paul's point made Ginger think—and soften her stance. She was at Brenda Wall's the day after she told her husband when he came home from a round of golf: “I'm sorry. I'm moving out. I don't want to be married anymore.”

And by the next morning, most of her belongings were in her new apartment in downtown Atlanta. She was that decisive. It was such a shocking move that she did not even get emotional about it.

“You're right,” Ginger said. “Your mom and my mom both need to go someplace like Napa and clear their heads. It will be good for them. When?”

“I was thinking in a few weeks or so,” Paul said. “I want to research where we should stay, what vineyards to see and so on and so forth.”

“Paul, I don't think we should tell them about the trip yet,” Ginger said. “Right now, I am agreeing to it, but I'm still not one hundred percent. I don't know. A lot of stuff has happened and I can't say I'm really over it.”

“I'm sure you're not over it,” he responded. “But life is too short to not get over it. This is a start, Gin. You know you want to go. You talk about how much I love wine, but you love it, too. To go there would be awesome. Listen, I'm willing to get on an airplane to do it. That's telling you how much I think we should do this.”

Ginger simply stared at him, so he went on.

“Think about it: We need this. Think of how picturesque it is, how peaceful. Think of the great wines we will have. Think of how close we all will become because of this.”

She took a deep breath. Almost an hour before she was in her garage, thinking she was about to die. Now, she had an invitation to live out a dream. How could she pass it up? How could she accept it, coming from a man who made her feel so bad about herself?

“Let me think about it, Paul,” she said. “But I don't know if I should go with you. There's a lot of water under the bridge.”

“I understand,” Paul said. “I understand. But we're going. This is too good an idea to pass up. And think about your mother and how much she needs this trip. In the meantime, I'm going to do some research.”

H
is mother named him Paul. She liked the name because it went nicely, she thought, with their last name, which was Wall. She especially liked that in The Bible, Paul was a man who faithfully spread the word of God throughout the nations.

Not that she was a religious zealot or anything. Simply, she believed in the power of God and she wanted her son to have a name that was at least associated with the Almighty.

And so, that made the nickname she gave her only child all the more perplexing.

“Vino,” she called him.

Unlike most who picked up nicknames as kids that followed them through adulthood, Paul was labeled “Vino” when he was twenty-one—the legal age to drink alcohol. It was then that he became a wine lover of extraordinary measure.

After dropping out of college one year before graduation, he celebrated by going out alone for a drink. As he had not consumed an alcoholic beverage to that point, the bartender at the Capital Grille in Atlanta recommended he try a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Start slowly,” the man said.

He poured Paul some in a wide-rimmed, elegant glass that felt
like a delicate instrument. The bartender, Jimmy, explained that the circumference of the glass allowed the wine to breath.

Paul started to ask, “Why does wine need to breathe?” but thought better of it. Instead, he admired it for a while, analyzed it. It was deep and rich in color, like blood, only darker. He had seen someone in a movie smell wine and swish it around in a glass before tasting it, and so he did that. The bartender stood there watching, curious about his reaction.

“This is a small part of history—your first drink,” he said.

He swished the wine around his mouth as one would Listerine, but not as violently. He closed his eyes and finally swallowed. When he opened his eyes, the bartender was staring and smiling.

“Well…,” he said.

Paul's response shocked the man. He talked of the wine's texture and its “oaky taste” and “smoky smell.”

“It has a floral sense to it, too. I taste something like berries or dark cherries. And it was clean. I thought it would be chilled. But if it were chilled I think the taste of it would be different, not as powerful.”

Jimmy, the bartender, stared at him. “So you were lying to me, huh?” he finally asked.

“Lying? No,” Paul answered. “About what?”

“Then how could you come up with that kind of analysis? Someone who never had wine couldn't possibly figure all that out,” Jimmy said. “Even if you were wrong, it would be outrageous to think someone with no experience drinking would be able to come up with anything close to those thoughts.
And
it's the right analysis.”

“I don't know,” Paul said.

“Well, that makes you some kind of wine genius because I
don't hear people who claim they appreciate and love wine give that kind of insight.”

Paul did not know what to think. But he finished off the glass and then another, savoring each sip as a death row inmate would a last meal.

That night, he took his mother out to dinner. He broke the news that he quit school. “I tried it and realized, finally, it wasn't for me, Ma,” he said. “No need to waste another year doing something I don't want to do.”

His mom was stunned…in a bad way. “I had more dreams for you than becoming a dropout,” she said.

Unfazed, Paul told her: “That's not how I look at it. I understand how you see it, though. But I see it as me waking up so I can finally start doing what I want to do,” he said.

She was afraid to even ask what that might be, so she didn't. Instead, she sought the waiter.

“I will have a big, tall glass of bourbon,” she said. “I don't care what brand. Straight.”

“No,” Paul told the waiter. “We'll have two glasses of wine. Pinot Noir.”

She looked at her son as he gave detailed instructions.

“Since when do you drink?” she said. “And how do you know about wine?”

“Since this afternoon,” he said. “I don't know a lot, but I know I like wine…a lot.”

The Pinot arrived and he raised his glass. “This, Ma, is to following your dreams,” he said, and they tapped glasses.

His mom sucked hers down as if it was Gatorade and she was stranded in the Arizona desert.

Paul was appalled. “That's not how you drink wine,” he said. He then explained that wine was to be “pampered and savored,
nurtured and seduced. Hold the glass by the stem; if you hold it by the glass your body temperature will warm it up.”

“What's going on with you?” she said. “I don't understand any of this.”

“It's easy to understand,” Paul started. “I have taken back over my life. I'm twenty-one and I'm going to figure out exactly what I want to do. But it's going to be something I really want to do. Not some job to make money. I want to be happy to go to work.”

His mother did not bother to challenge that logic, although she argued that having a college degree was a pedigree that could only help in whatever he wanted to do. After all, she knew her son. Paul had a passion for golf and playing Scrabble and watching
Jeopardy
on television. He enjoyed card games, especially “I Declare War,” and “Tonk.” Brenda Wall did not see a career in any of that.

Paul convinced her to let him dream outside of
her
dreams and work toward whatever career he developed an interest. His mom relented, but she was surprised that her son went through years of searching—painting, cooking, furniture-making—before he settled in on something that really resonated with him: working on heaters and air conditioners.

“I love it because I get to work with my hands and I get to figure out a problem and solve it,” Paul explained. “It's not glamorous, but it's needed and I actually enjoy it.”

He went to technical school for two years to get certified and he was on his way.

So he was at a good place. He identified his life's work and his love for wine increased.

For nearly two decades he dreamed of a vacation in the United States' finest region for wine: Napa Valley in northern California.
One thing or another—getting married, an Achilles injury, lack of money—prevented him from fulfilling that ambition.

And after losing his job, it seemed he might not fulfill his dream any time soon but the lottery changed all that.

They decided to do something totally different: to visit Napa Valley for Thanksgiving. It was Ginger's idea. She woke up one morning with the feeling that if she was going on the trip, she'd rather it be in the Ffall and for the holiday. She had always wanted a destination Thanksgiving where she did not have to cook and clean, where she could enjoy the food and sit back like everyone else.

Even when she went to her mom's for Thanksgiving or to her mother-in-law's, she always was obligated to help with the food and clean up. She did not want to do that again, especially with so much drama swirling around her marriage.

Helena, their daughter, went to Columbia, Maryland for the holiday with her college roommate and her family. Paul and Ginger were not happy about it, but they liked her roommate and family and were really glad their daughter had gained a true friend. So, the adults took to the journey across country.

Traveling there was relatively uneventful, if you discount Paul's panic attack, Ginger's frustration with her mother, Brenda Wall's unhappiness with the passenger sitting next to her and Madeline Price's displeasure about her daughter questioning her drinking on the plane. Other than that, it was all smooth.

And it all started so well. All parties gathered at Paul and Ginger's at seven o'clock Thanksgiving morning; flights were cheaper leaving on the holiday. Although Paul clearly could afford it, he went with the program so as to not arouse suspicion.

Ginger prepared a light breakfast of muffins, turkey bacon and fruit. Paul surprised everyone by arranging for a limousine to
take them to the airport. They enjoyed the early meal and the luxurious ride to the airport without incident. Paul chalked it up to the early-morning hour.
They must be sleepy
, he thought to himself about the ladies.

Ginger had rebuffed all but one of Paul's sexual advances after he won the money. They had consumed two bottles of Fairfield Viognier from South Africa while watching the Presidential returns on November 6th. And when Barack Obama was reelected, all inhibitions came tumbling down in the celebration and relief.

It was an intense session, one that reminded Ginger of their early days together and made her forget their recent troubled times. Paul believed that night signaled they were on their way back to something significant.

But the next morning, Ginger was lukewarm, almost distant. It was almost as if the night before had not happened. When Paul tried to kiss her before leaving to go to “work,” she moved away.

“What's wrong?” he said.

“You think everything is all right because we slept together, Paul?” she answered. “That changes nothing. We have problems and they are serious.”