Page 89 of Red Mountain Burning
She looked at him strangely. “I seem to remember you saying you wouldn’t urinate on a pinotage vineyard.”
He shrugged. “I suppose things change. I’ve taken to the variety. Besides, while we’re down there, we could surf giant waves among great white sharks. Shoot, we could even stop by North Africa so you could take a few poachers to justice while we’re at it.”
Joan rolled over and lifted her legs in the air. Then she pressed up into a handstand.
“Look at you, woman. That’s incredible.”
“Wanna try?”
“Will you quit trying to push your ballistic holistics on me? You know darn well I can’t pull off that nonsense.”
“You know what I really want to do?” she asked, still upside down.
“I’m dying to hear. Sail around the world on a twenty-foot skiff? Scuba dive down to the abyss? Fly over the Bermuda Triangle?”
“You’re being absurd.”
“Only because it’s called for, my dear.”
She lowered herself down with ease. “We Americans always forget our own country. We just so happen to have some of the most wonderful sites in the world right here at home. People from other countries actually come to see what we have to offer. What if we bought an RV and visited every single state?”
Oh, here she goes.Somehow, she’d just escalated a little two-week jaunt into an entire year of traveling.
“And what about my wine?” He hated to bring up wine again, but it was a real concern. Winemakers can’t take a year off.
“It must be so frustrating to be tied to a piece of land for eight months out of the year,” she said. “Take a year off. Let’s see what happens. You can travel with a little bonsai tree on the dash of your RV. Just to keep farming close to you.”
“Is that what you think I do? You can’t bottle bonsai juice.”
No matter how hard Otis focused on the conversation at hand, he still couldn’t shake the idea of journalists surrounding Bellflour as he pulled back the tarp on the sign. He’d decided to have Eli record the conference, so Otis wouldn’t have to attend in person.
* * *
Harry Bellflour loved the spotlight.He stood on one side of the ten-foot-long sign that was covered with a large black tarp. He was wearing a crisp pink button-down and khaki pants. His sleeves were rolled up, showing his watch and gold bracelet. He’d even had his neck cleaned up by the barber the day before.
A crowd of maybe fifty people were gathered around him, including journalists from as far away as Seattle. He had a crackerjack PR team that had a keen ability to get the media interested in their goings-on. Ten microphones dangled in front of him, and three video cameras pointed at him.
Looking down Otis Till’s driveway, Bellflour was disappointed not to see the old grump stopping by for the announcement. He would have loved to have seen Otis’s shocked face as he looked at the sign for the first time. Bellflour was sure both the sign and the name would be Otis’s worst nightmare.
“Why don’t we get started?” he said, flashing a smile he’d practiced earlier in the mirror. He waited until everyone was quiet to continue.
Rubbing his hands together, he said, “As many of you know, we’ve wanted to be a part of this mountain for a long time. As admittedly frustrated as I was by last year’s struggles, it seems there were much bigger plans in store. We’ve spent a long time deliberating as to what we wanted to bring to Red Mountain, what we could offer and how we could put our best foot forward. Otis Till and the rest of the visionaries have done something very special with this place, and they’ve brought great acclaim to the wines. What we want to do is bring a little fun.”
There it was. Fun. Stick to the message, Bellflour thought.
“When we started Drink Flamingo and first broke onto the national stage with our box wine, the idea was to bring wine to the people. I’ve never liked the stuffiness that came with wine. You all know what I’m talking about. The pretentious intimidation that scares off good people. We’re not that. The entire vibe of a flamingo is good times. Yes, the wines we will make on Red Mountain in this beautiful facility that you see rising up behind me will be serious. They will be high-scoring modern masterpieces. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun while enjoying them. That’s why you can expect a flamboyance of flamingos and lots of pink!”
He pulled at his shirt. “Real men wear pink, right?”
As always, the crowd laughed at his terrible cliché of a joke that he’d been using for years.
He waved a hand in the air as his vision came alive in his mind’s eye. “We’ll have huge parties, and I mean parties they’ll hear about in Las Vegas. We’ll have the best wine club you’ve ever seen, and our members will have access to our entire property: the pool, the cabanas, three hot tubs. We’ll bring in live DJs from all the big cities. You will not want to miss it.” He eyed one of the cameras directly and added, “Don’t delay in visiting our website if you want to join our club. We have a finite number of spots, and the interest has been overwhelming.”
Bellflour looked again to see if Otis might be popping his head up over the vines. He so wished he could be here. Gesturing behind him, Bellflour said, “Let’s pull back this tarp and celebrate the most exciting winery to ever hit eastern Washington. We’re not a stop on the wine trail. We’re the end destination.”
He reached for one side of the tarp. “Ladies and gentleman, I give you…”
The gasps and the click of cameras were music to his ears.
