Page 86 of Red Mountain Burning
We Need to Talk
One month later, Joan told Otis, “We need to talk.”
It was July 15, and Otis’s mind was focused on the coming harvest. The berries would change colors soon, and before he knew it, he’d be making the rounds, testing and sampling the ripening grapes, working to choose the perfect day and hour to harvest. The fall would go by in a flash as fermentations filled his cellar, and he needed to prepare for the frenzy.
As he heard her words, however, harvest lost its prominence.
Joan had made him breakfast, as if breakups were best served with a healthy meal. More specifically, the worst breakup of his life served with a quinoa-crusted quiche with broccoli, peppers, and onions.
It was a great quiche. It could have used some bacon, but nevertheless, much more appetizing than the four words she whispered across the table.
We need to talk.
Otis pulled the fork out of his mouth and nearly spat the quiche back onto his plate. Were it possible to frown with his whole body, that’s what he did. His shoulders collapsed, his lips fell, and his chin dropped. What kind of fool would let a woman like Joan go?
He’d seen it a mile away, too. As those four words seemed to paralyze his body, he scolded himself for not taking her subtle threats seriously. Like watching a meteor head toward earth from a million miles away, he’d known his world was coming to an end. He’d watched her pull away from him. He’d listened to her as she kindly urged him to give her more attention, to stop biting down like a bulldog on his problems—many of which he couldn’t affect anyway.
He pulled off his reading glasses and set them on the table next to the newspaper he’d been working his way through. Nothing he’d read mattered now. The only headline in his world was:Otis Till is a damn idiot.
Like a tsunami that came out of nowhere, a sadness rose high and crashed over him. The world had given him a second chance after Rebecca. Never had he thought he would love again after losing her. Joan had come in and given him the special gift of breathing life back into an old man’s crusty body. He’d found a reason to live again, a much stronger one than those damn vines out there that seemed to be more trouble than they were worth.
He finally turned to her. “I hate myself for not loving you the way you deserve to be loved.”
She looked away, thinking about his words. Then, locking eyes with him, she said, “Don’t say that. This isn’t just about you. You’re obsessed with Harry Bellflour and his project. I’ve become obsessed over your obsession. We’re dragging each other down.”
“You’re not dragging me down.”
“I am, Otis. Listen to the way I speak to you. I’ve somehow turned into your mother, and that’s not fair.”
“I’m sure I deserve it. I’m acting like a child.”
“I’m worried about you,” she said. “Your blood pressure is through the roof. You look ten years older. You’re sneaking out in the middle of the night to do things that I suspect are against the law. And if you’re not careful, your wines will start to suffer.”
Otis dropped his head. “I’m trying. I swear to you.”
“I know you are, and I am too. But I think being together might keep us both from getting healthy. I’m not pointing fingers. Please know that.”
Nodding, he looked at a picture of his two boys in front of him on the wall. They would have loved Joan, and they would have been beyond disappointed in him for so many reasons. Even Rebecca would shake her head.
The idea that losing Joan might be because of Harry Bellflour and Drink Flamingo crushed him. He only knew of one thing to do. “I’ll put the vineyard up for sale tomorrow. We’ll leave this place and never come back.”
Joan shook her head ever so slightly. “I would never ask that of you, and running away isn’t the answer. It’s like I’ve told you before. Even if Drink Flamingo didn’t exist, you’d find another obstacle to occupy your mind. That’s how you deal with the pain that’s eating you up inside. And I’m clearly dealing with my own pain by trying to solve your problems for you.”
“Tell me what to do then. I’m out of answers.”
“That’s just it. I don’t need to be telling you what to do. I can’t help you.”
“Of course, you can.”
As if she had no fight left, she said, “You know what I think it is? We need to address what’s troubling us deep down. For me, it’s not your actions. It’s my inability to accept them. For you, it’s not Harry Bellflour and his cabernet.”
And his pinotage,Otis thought but chose not to say it out loud. Now was not a good time for humor.
“It wasn’t even Henry Davidson that was the real problem,” she said, referring to the man who’d shot her.
“Then what is it?”
“You fear losing the people and things you love.”
