Knowing (43 page)

By the end of September, Ginger was suffering, suffocating without Jackson’s attention and love. She’d read her Bible faithfully, but felt her faith waning. She couldn’t understand or comprehend that, through her faith, there was a message in the suffering. Her temporary suffering would soon lead to a full recovery. To live is to suffer. To survive is to find the message in the suffering — the lesson. It would take time, but just possibly something positive would emerge from all the pain.

September had come to a close. She and Jackson had avoided each other’s company for weeks. Ginger over the weeks began putting in more hours at the real estate office, managing to tuck a few more listings under her belt. She closed on a home on the last day in September, but kept the sale to herself. Not sharing her good fortune with Jackson, she opened a private bank account — but kept the book at Kim’s apartment.

Pride and Joy

By early October, the preseason basketball games had begun. Ginger and Jackson had always enjoyed watching the Pistons games before the start of the season. The excitement over the home team was at an all-time high since the Pistons had won two consecutive championships a few years earlier.

The street leading to the Palace of Auburn Hills was renamed Two Championship Drive. And though the Pistons’ hopes to become one of the few teams in NBA history to “three-peat” had not been realized, the city was nevertheless eagerly awaiting a return to the successes of previous seasons.

Jogging around the subdivision, her sweat-soaked T-shirt clinging to her body, Ginger stopped at the corner to catch her breath. She admired the splendor of Michigan’s fall leaves. They had turned from deep emerald green to ruby red, a subtle gold, then hardened to a tawny brown and drifted, one leaf at a time, onto the foliage-dusted landscape. It was a beautiful, hushed October morning.

“Hey there,” said a familiar voice behind her.

Trying not to look surprised, Ginger stifled the impulse to close her hands over her opened mouth. “Hi,” she said weakly. Smoothing her wig, wondering how she looked, Ginger tried to relax. At least she’d put on lipstick and a little blush before she came out to run.

“I noticed you jogging this morning. You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?” The Pistons’ backup center, Gene Russell, stood seven feet one inch. His trim waistline was inches away from Ginger’s eyes.

Ginger was unable to speak. She just shook her head no. For some ungodly reason, she suddenly felt uncomfortable. Nervous. Picking the pace back up, she continued jogging. He followed her. She could feel the heat of his body behind her.

“That’s it. I remember where I’ve seen you,” he said, stopping close to their respective turnoffs. He tapped the top of her hat with his long fingers. “A Piston fan.” His smile was wide and genuine, and his beautiful white teeth gleamed at her.

“Did my hat give me away?” said Ginger, smiling, feeling slightly more at ease. “My husband and I have season tickets. We sit about —”

“Fifteen rows behind our bench.”

Ginger was impressed. She thought he’d smiled to her a few times. But when Ginger had mentioned it to Jackson, he’d told her it was her imagination. There were too many people around them for her to think he was singling her out. But he had, and Ginger always knew it.

“Jackson! Jackson!” she hollered excitedly. “Guess what?”

He and Autumn were outside shooting hoops. Ever since Jason left, Jackson had taken it upon himself to teach Autumn to play basketball. At six, she was the tallest one in her class. Every one of Jackson’s six sisters played basketball in school. Two were exceptionally good. Ginger didn’t want to spoil his fun by telling him that Autumn had asked her on several occasions to tell her daddy that she didn’t want to play basketball. She wanted to play soccer.

Jackson dismissed the relieved look on Autumn’s face as he told her that was enough for today. “I just saw Gene Russell while I was out jogging.”

“So?”

“So, we talked for a while, he invited us to a preseason after-five party he’s throwing at his house next week.”

Seeming to ignore what she’d said, he shot a few hoops as she stood there waiting for his reply. “Why would he do that?”

“He remembered seeing us at the games. I casually mentioned that I sold real estate, and we chatted a few minutes about redecorating. He suggested I could pass around a few business cards. Wouldn’t you like to meet the team?” She tried to hide the excitement in her voice.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” He left without another word.

Hurt, Ginger picked up the basketball and, though ordinarily not a good shot, sank the basket on her first attempt. He could go to hell if he thought she was going to pass this up.

They arrived at the party at a few minutes past six. The evening air was clean and crisp. Expensive cars lined both sides of the street and the circular driveway. Clusters of beautiful people, impeccably dressed, walked toward the entrance of the grand home.

Inside, a white-jacketed butler showed them in. Portraits of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcom X, Nelson Mandela, and Rosa Parks graced the walls of the main hallway. A consummate connoisseur of African art, Mr. Russell also displayed his enviable collection of masks, drums, and artifacts.

Reggae music could be heard from somewhere down a long hall as two young attendants led them toward the focal point of the party. Like most of the women, Ginger couldn’t keep her eyes off the decor.

Holding her hand, Jackson gently pulled Ginger closer to his side. Ginger skipped a step to keep up with Jackson’s long strides. She strained her neck to catch a glimpse inside each room as they passed by.

“Jackson,” whispered Ginger, “do you think Gene Russell would consider giving us a tour of the house?”

“No. And don’t ask.”

“Why not?”

The small crowd stopped in front of an elevator. Jackson didn’t bother to answer as they slowly descended to the lower level. An orchard of spicy scents misted the air inside the small cubicle.

Ginger hadn’t realized that she was hungry until she inhaled the aroma of freshly baked bread. Stepping off the elevator, Ginger felt a rush of nerves. She blinked her eyes several times in succession, worrying if the glue would hold. The music blared. Seconds away, a few feet away, famous people would be talking and dancing.

Jackson sensed her hesitation. “You look gorgeous, sweetheart.” He kissed her tenderly on the tip of her nose. Surprised, Ginger relaxed when he added, “Even those bedroom eyes.”

He’d noticed. Earlier that day, Kim and Ginger had spent hours at Helga’s Spa getting pampered. They had lunch, a couple of glasses of chilled wine, and Ginger felt better than she had in months. Kim had convinced Ginger that she needed to have eyelashes professionally applied. They felt natural. The technician assured Ginger that they would not come off or lift at the corners. Ginger smiled, gazing into the mirror. The softness that Ginger felt was missing in her face was back.

Joe Dumars arrived, giving Ginger and Jackson a polite smile and a hello and continuing toward the back of the room. A few feet away stood Gene Russell inside the doorway, smiling that brilliant smile, shaking hands with his guests. And Jackson spotted Isiah Thomas, Bill Laimbeer, and Mark McGuire by the pool table in the background.

Spit-shined cranberry alligator shoes hurt Jackson’s feet. Yet, feeling a little cocky in a new doublebreasted navy blue pinstriped suit, he boldly walked over to Gene, Ginger traipsing along with him. A stunned Ginger smiled shyly as Jackson introduced himself and his wife.

Gene Russell greeted them effusively, excusing himself temporarily from his guests. A waiter appeared offering assorted wines in exquisite glassware. Ginger took one, as Jackson and Gene made quick exchanges about basketball. Gene led them toward the pool table, assuming that Jackson would want to meet the rest of the Pistons.

Even though Gene was a head taller than Jackson, Ginger couldn’t have been more proud of her man. He fit in beautifully. Looked positively scrumptious. Mingled expertly with the guys. Jackson’s easy smile rested on her for a moment. She could tell he was enjoying himself. Excusing herself, Ginger deposited her empty wineglass on a tray and headed for the buffet tables.

Three exotic floral arrangements tiered a lighted, eight-foot Lucite display. White linen tablecloths dropped to the floor with lace overlays. Hundreds of votive candles huddled atop each table, casting an elegant glow. Prisms of light reflections shone on the mirror displays and sterling silver chafing dishes.

Stunning floral creations were arranged near each entrée. Spicy shrimp sizzled in a bed of fresh scallions. Fresh jumbo shrimp, marinated and dipped in coconut, were served with pineapple or plum sauce. Béarnaise sauce drizzled over strips of sesame chicken.

A station of Norwegian smoked salmon was enticing. Equally tempting was a circular design of Brie amandine.

Standing beside an ice sculpture of Gene Russell’s basketball shoes, a chef hand-carved paper-thin slices of roast tenderloin for the guests who stood in line. Others were helping themselves to the seasoned roasted chicken to his right.

A cappuccino and espresso bar held court near the dessert table of pies, cakes, and tortes. Kahlúa, Baileys, and various other liqueurs were a matter of choice, along with chocolate shavings to add to a savory cup of hot cappuccino.

Ginger relaxed near the bar with a tumbler of Martell and ginger ale. Jackson and Joe Dumars were deeply involved in an animated conversation about the Pistons’ chances of victory this year over the competitive Chicago Bulls. Ginger hated to interrupt her husband as he artfully executed his version of Michael Jordan’s jump shot. Tapping her feet to the beat of the music, Ginger watched the couples dancing, wishing she and Jackson would at least get in one slow dance before the evening ended. She spotted a woman on the dance floor in a deadly pair of Donna Karan black peau de soie pumps with a rhinestone buckle across the instep.

“Enjoying yourself?” asked a seductive voice.

Ginger’s eyes rested on his elegantly clad size-fifteen-and-a-half shoes first. She hadn’t seen any shoes that big before. At least not in person. Her head fell back as she looked up into Gene Russell’s face. Damn, he was cute, with those thick, sexy lips. “Yes. I’m having a wonderful time,” she stammered.

He extended his hand. Taking it, Ginger felt like a queen as he executed a half-bow. “Your husband mentioned that you’d like a tour of the house.” He smiled again, and Ginger felt her heart turn flips.

“He did?” Ginger was shocked. “I’d love one.” Smoothing out her dress as she stood, she clutched her purse. “Lead the way.”

As they entered each room Gene explained the renovations he planned. He was especially proud of the complete remodernization of the Euro-design kitchen. Ginger could see the pride in his eyes.

The estate maintained a houseman, caretaker, security officer, chef, and Gene’s personal maid. As they made their way back to the party, Gene asked Ginger if she had circulated any of her business cards yet. “A few,” she said, glancing at her watch. It was later than she thought — Jackson would be worried. A slight breeze of his opulent cologne invited her to slow down.

When they reentered the party scene “Time, Love, and Tenderness,” by Michael Bolton was causing a rush of sentimental lovers onto the dance floor. Ginger felt the warmth of Jackson’s eyes on her from across the room.

Ginger moved stealthily toward her lover. As she batted her lashes provocatively, playing the ingenue, Jackson swept her expertly into his arms. A perfect fit. Their bodies moved languidly to a slow dance.

A half-hour later, while driving home, Jackson hinted that he was apprehensive about letting Gene Russell take her all over that large mansion alone. “Was he a gentleman?” asked Jackson.

The night had long since dropped its inky curtain. A million diamonds sprinkled across the heavens above them.

“Perfect.” Ginger closed her eyes, savoring the night. Reaching out, she touched him, feeling his warmth. The warmth she felt for him, even when they were apart. Jackson illuminated her world. Was the center of her universe. “Let’s make love, Jackson.”

“Now?”

She stretched. Her voice purred. “Outside. On our patio.”

“You’re kidding?”

She touched him. Stroked him softly. Tonight, she thought, would be the perfect ending to an enchanting evening.

That night, their lovemaking had resumed with the fierce passion that had been missing for the past few weeks. Jackson made love to her so completely and fully; she felt as if no man could ever touch her heart and love her the way he did.

Ginger received several letters from Jason. There were even a few pictures of him with a new girlfriend. He sounded happy but made it clear that he missed home. Missed his mother. Ginger cried, knowing how much she’d missed him too.

By the middle of November, Mae Thelma felt as though she was running low on time. She persuaded her sons to call Jackson, telling him they missed seeing him and asking him when was he coming back over to visit.