Elvis and Ginger: Elvis Presley's Fiancée and Last Love Finally Tells Her Story (5 page)

When Elvis returned from the bathroom, I politely said, “Elvis, I should find my sisters and probably leave. It’s really late.”

He sat back down on the bed. “They’ve already gone,” he said casually. “Your sisters went home earlier.”

I was stunned. They’d already
left
? I’d been at Graceland all this time without them? Puzzled, I wondered how he knew. Had Elvis arranged all this earlier with George?

“Someone will take you home when you’re ready,” Elvis added, watching the confused expressions flit across my face.

I decided that Elvis was probably tired, too. Thinking it was proper for me to go, I thanked him on behalf of my sisters and myself for the night. He moved to the edge of the bed and I inched my way beside him as he picked up a telephone receiver from his night table and asked someone to give me a ride home.

To my shock, he added, “Please be sure and get her number,” before hanging up. Then he turned to me and said, “You should always politely ask someone to do something for you. Never tell a person what to do.”

As I nodded, still dumbstruck, Elvis took a pen and a matchbook from the night table drawer, opened the matchbook, and asked, “What’s your phone number?”

This can’t be happening!
My thoughts suddenly flashed on Larry, who hadn’t wanted me to come to Graceland tonight. Despite feeling conflicted, I gave Elvis my number. He wrote it down.

As I looked at him, Elvis suddenly leaned in toward me, catching me totally off guard. He kept his hands on the bed and gave me a quick, light kiss on the lips. It was so quick I barely had time to register what had just happened, but I was stunned and excited.

Afterward, I walked out of Graceland in a trance. As I rode home with an employee named Steve Smith, I went over the kiss again in my mind. I certainly didn’t want Elvis to get the wrong impression of me. I wasn’t a seasoned pro when it came to sex or relationships. On the other hand, I hoped he had liked kissing me.

Even though it was nearly sunrise, the lights were on inside my house when we pulled up to the curb. Before getting out, Steve asked me for my phone number. Giving it a second time, I quickly ran inside.

My mother and sisters were sitting on the couch in our den. I figured my father must be in bed because he sometimes worked on weekends. Our parents had been excited when we were invited to Graceland, but my mother admitted now that they’d started worrying when so much time went by without any word from us.

“I felt bad about leaving you there,” Terry said, explaining that George had taken them outside to a racquetball court behind the house, where Charlie and Ricky joined them for a tour of the court.

George then told Terry and Rosemary that Elvis wanted to spend more time with me, and that they were welcome to wait if they wanted or, as it was so late, to leave. He had assured them that Elvis would see I got home safely.

Exhausted, but still running on nerves, I filled them in on what had happened, leaving out the kiss. We weren’t a kiss-and-tell sort of family. Some things were personal, and we were private with each other when it came to that sort of thing.

Now that I was home, the whole night seemed unreal. Elvis was different from anyone I’d ever met. Here was this rock-’n’-roll superstar singing to my sisters and me, showing us his closet, and then inviting me to join him on his bed, where he’d been a gentleman. He’d read religious books with me and shared his thoughts and feelings.

Elvis had been polite and funny, too, which I related to. He’d demonstrated a sincere desire for me to understand what he was about in a short amount of time, and in the hours we’d spent together, I’d felt an intense attraction between us.

I had enjoyed the night; it was magical and unique, and from what Elvis had said and how he had acted, I thought he had enjoyed spending time with me, too.

When I was finally alone in my bed that morning, none of that seemed real or even possible. I was in turmoil. Would Elvis call me? And, if he did, would I agree to see him again, knowing it would hurt Larry, the nice guy I’d been dating? I honestly didn’t know if I was more afraid of Elvis being attracted to me because of this or more afraid that I’d find myself feeling let down if he didn’t call me.

I rolled over in bed, searching for sleep. Before long, I had to admit to myself that if he didn’t call, I’d be disappointed, and so I decided if Elvis wanted to see me again, I would say yes.

I woke late that Saturday afternoon and began thinking about the evening again. I had, of course, been enthralled with meeting Elvis, that was to be expected: This was Elvis, after all. However, he had been trying to connect with me, and after I saw how open and approachable he was, he had succeeded. Our age difference didn’t even enter my mind, and I hoped I’d get the chance to try to get to know him better.

Gathering with my sisters in the den, we talked about the evening’s events. I ended our conversation, musing, “If I don’t hear from Elvis, I’ll write last night off as the most amazing night of my life so far.”

Around 8
P.M.
, the phone rang. My mother answered it in the kitchen, and I heard her say hi to George. I walked in and she handed me the phone.

“Elvis would like you to come over,” George said. “I’ll drive by and pick you up.”

“All right,” I said and rushed to get ready. I wondered why Elvis hadn’t called me himself, but it made me feel great that he’d actually been thinking about me and wanted to see me again so soon.

George and I made small talk on the ride over to Graceland, where he led me straight upstairs to the master bedroom and left. I was just as nervous as the night before and could feel my heart racing.

Elvis was sitting on his bed, watching television. He wore a loose-fitting navy jumpsuit and a black rhinestone belt with chains. As he greeted me with a smile, I relaxed a little and thought with relief,
So last night was real.

Elvis got up and walked past the foot of his bed to turn off the TV, looking over his shoulder at me. “You know, television destroys the art of conversation,” he said.

This was an interesting observation, coming from a man who had at least one television set in just about every room. Returning to his bed, he asked me to sit beside him. I did as he requested, trusting him to be as gentlemanly as he’d been the night before.

We talked a little about music. When I told Elvis that my mother often played hymns, and that “In the Garden” and “How Great Thou Art” had always been two of my favorites, he asked me to follow him into his office. I was touched when he started playing the organ and sang “In the Garden” just for me.

I had always admired Elvis’s voice, which was so uniquely his—it could be soulful, tender, or powerful as he chose. Now, as Elvis sang softly to me, I felt calmed by the same peaceful, comforting feeling I’d had back home when listening to his gospel albums. Elvis knew how to reach inside you and touch your soul with his voice.

Afterward, I followed Elvis back to his bedroom, where he began talking about a car he owned, a Ferrari that he’d nicknamed the Black Mamba. “I named it after the fastest snake in the world,” he said enthusiastically and then went into more detail about the car.

I had never even sat in a Ferrari, much less ridden in one. When he brought up his car, I thought he wanted me to see it. “Can we go for a ride in your Ferrari?” I asked.

“Not now,” Elvis said. “I’ll decide when we take a ride in it. That car is too fast for you.”

Ha!
I thought. Little did he know how much I loved to speed down the highway on a motorcycle. I felt a little awkward at that moment, wondering if this was Elvis’s way of letting me know he liked to be in control.

A few books still lay on the floor beside his bed. Elvis reached for Cheiro’s
Book of Numbers
and seemed eager to pick up where we had left off reading the previous night. Going through books again wasn’t what I had expected, but I thought it was interesting that he wanted to read together on a date.

I felt a little less tense this time as we read to one another, and I found the subject of numerology intriguing. It wasn’t something I thought anyone could understand right off the bat, but I was open to it. Elvis seemed to enjoy teaching, and I listened closely, trying to grasp the material.

After we’d discussed the book a little while, Elvis changed the subject, bringing up another of his cars, a Stutz Blackhawk. He mentioned taking me for a ride in it over to Memphis Aero to see an airplane he owned. (Memphis Aero was a part of Memphis International Airport for private planes.)

I grew excited as Elvis made a few phone calls, setting his plans in motion. He even invited some cousins along, which made me wonder whether Elvis, like me, sometimes needed a safety net, just like I relied on my sisters.

When Elvis went into his bathroom, leaving me seated on his bed, I glanced about the room and observed more details than I’d taken in during my first visit. Antihistamine bottles, a box of tissues, and two telephones crowded his night table. A closed-circuit television monitor, its power off, was close by. I wondered again if Elvis had been watching my sisters and me the night before. (I never would see it turned on though.)

A television set with a Betamax tape player on top of it stood against the wall opposite the foot of the bed. To the left of that, a bookcase held a record player, radio, and some Betamax tapes. On top of the bookcase were a couple of framed photos of a woman I had seen in some movie magazines. I remembered now that her name was Linda Thompson.

At that point in my life, I knew very little about Elvis’s personal relationships, other than these facts: that he’d been married to and divorced from a woman named Priscilla; had one daughter, Lisa, from that marriage; and had dated various girls, Linda among them. Now I wondered why Linda’s photos were still in Elvis’s room.

I didn’t have time to wonder long. Elvis stepped out of his bathroom, now dressed in a coat, and said, “You know, last night while I was practicing karate, George came up to me and said, ‘Terry is very nice and Rosemary is very nice, but Ginger . . .’” He paused, shaking his head. “Then Ricky came in later, saying, ‘Man, I think you’re gonna like Ginger.’”

Elvis’s voice was tinged with sarcasm as he went on. “I told Ricky that I’d had a lot of girls brought up to Graceland in the past few weeks, and yeah, I’m sure I’m gonna find someone I really like in Memphis on a Friday night.” He then added that his cousin Billy’s wife, Jo, had told him, “There’s someone down here you are going to like.”

I was flattered by the attention, but slightly uncomfortable. I realized that my initial instinct about my sisters and me being scrutinized the night before had been right on target.

It was after midnight by the time we went downstairs. A few people were waiting in the foyer, including two bodyguards and GeeGee and his wife, Patsy. We walked out onto the front porch, and I suppressed a gasp when I saw a car like none other I’d ever seen before.

It was Elvis’s Stutz Blackhawk, glistening in the soft glow from the overhead light. The car was black with chrome trim, exhaust side pipes, and wire wheels. It was so beautiful that I found myself wondering whether this was why Elvis hadn’t wanted me to ride in his Ferrari first.

Elvis opened the passenger door for me, pointing out that the trim on the dash and throughout the car was plated in eighteen-karat gold. Patsy and GeeGee climbed into the backseat and I slid into the red leather passenger bucket seat. Elvis got behind the wheel, started up the engine, and we proceeded down the driveway with his bodyguards following in a car close behind.

The streets were quiet as we rode toward the airport. It was about fifteen minutes away, and as we neared it, Patsy suddenly suggested we take a tour over Memphis in Elvis’s plane.

“Let’s fly over Nashville,” Elvis quickly countered.

I didn’t say a thing. Taking a short flight in his private plane would be an extraordinary experience for me, not only because it was with Elvis, but because I had only flown commercial one other time at the age of thirteen.

At Memphis Aero, Elvis’s Lockheed JetStar stood alone on the tarmac. Its interior lights were aglow, the door was open, and the steps were down, awaiting our arrival. I followed Elvis into the plane, where he introduced me to a pilot with the fitting name of Milo High and his copilot, George.

As Patsy and GeeGee took a seat on a lime-colored couch, I followed Elvis down the plane’s small aisle past yellow chairs facing each other, with small tables between them. Patterned fabric lined the walls near each window.

I chose a lime-colored chair in the back and Elvis’s bodyguards sat nearby. I expected Elvis to sit down near me, but instead he turned around, walked to the front of the plane, and began speaking with Milo.

After a few moments, he looked back at me and said, “I forgot something.”

Elvis headed out the door with his bodyguards in close pursuit; I suspected he had gone back to Graceland. Patsy and GeeGee remained seated and I stayed in my chair, the three of us making small talk. By the way they were acting, like this was any other ordinary night, I got the feeling that this sort of impulsive outing with Elvis wasn’t unusual for them.

When Elvis and his bodyguards returned, he walked down the aisle with a mischievous grin on his face and sat down in the chair opposite mine. The plane’s door closed and the engines fired up. As we began to taxi, Elvis announced that he had gone to get pajamas for everyone and we were all going to Las Vegas.

Las Vegas! Pajamas!
The thought of flying over Memphis or Nashville was one thing, but I had never been out west. Nor had I ever spontaneously left with anyone on a trip—never mind a man I’d just met! How long would it take us to get there? How long would we be gone? Where would I sleep?

I was twenty years old but suddenly felt like I was about ten. I wanted to call home to let my family know what was happening. When Elvis asked me if this plan was all right, what could I say? “No”? “Maybe”? “It’s too far”? “Stop the plane, I want to get off!”

Seeing Elvis’s enthusiasm, I made an effort to hide my concerns. I simply smiled, answered yes, and allowed myself to be swept away to Las Vegas.

I was silent as we took off, and gazed out my window into the night, my mind racing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Elvis was watching me. I glanced at him and he quickly turned his head, looking out his window as if not wanting me to know he had been staring at me. The cabin remained fairly quiet until a while into the flight, when Elvis looked over his shoulder toward Patsy and GeeGee and said, “You know, I would like to see Ginger in new clothes and jewelry.”

Elvis stood up and took a few steps to the rear of the plane. He returned carrying a small, worn black square case by its handle. Placing the case on the table between us, he sat down, opened it, and took out a long necklace made of black plastic beads with a cross at the center.

“Lean forward, Ginger,” he said, and gently placed the necklace over my head.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Hold out your wrist and close your eyes,” he said then.

I felt something slip over my hand. Opening my eyes, I was shocked to see a gold identification bracelet on my arm with “Elvis” written in sparkling diamonds.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now everyone will know you belong to me.”

As I thanked Elvis for these pieces, I felt stunned that he would give me gifts so early in our relationship and unsettled that everything seemed to move so fast with him. I wondered if Elvis did this sort of thing with women on a regular basis, or whether he was serious about wanting me to belong to him.

For my part, I felt suddenly special despite my anxiety. I was more excited than apprehensive though and falling “in like” with Elvis.

Later, when I took the bracelet off, I noticed a date inscribed on the back and saw that he’d been given the bracelet in 1963. It wasn’t until after Elvis passed away that I discovered he had worn this bracelet onstage and in private for many years before generously gracing me with it as a token of his affection.

Sandwiches were passed around, but I was too overwhelmed to eat. Shortly, the lights inside the plane were dimmed so everyone could rest, but I was keyed up emotionally and couldn’t sleep. So I sat, eyes closed, wondering what lay in store for me. My concerns eventually gave way to excitement, however, the more I thought about seeing Las Vegas.

As we neared the end of the flight, Elvis asked me to follow him to the cockpit. I did, and as I stood next to him behind the pilots, looking through the windshield at the lights below, I suddenly felt his arm slip around my waist.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Elvis whispered in my ear.

In the distance, what looked like an island of tiny shimmering diamonds surrounded by a sea of black velvet slowly began to appear as we approached Las Vegas.

“Yes,” I replied, as it was truly breathtaking.

We landed at the Hughes Air Terminal. As we descended the stairs from the plane, a dark-haired man in his late thirties greeted us. Elvis introduced him as Dr. Elias Ghanem, his friend and personal physician. The two of us joined Dr. Ghanem in his car while Elvis’s cousins and bodyguards followed in another.

Riding through the streets of downtown Las Vegas, I felt like I was moving through a dream world. I was mesmerized by the city’s endless, brilliant display of lights. I couldn’t believe I was really there.

We drove around to the back of the Hilton International Hotel, entered the building, and took an elevator up to one of the rooms. Elvis’s bodyguards brought in a suitcase and, after making sure things were secure, they left.