Page 13 of Red Mountain Burning
Joan took his cap and placed it back on his head. “And what would you do with all your time if you weren’t out there working your land?”
Otis turned to her and met her diamond eyes. He could see freedom for a moment, but then it dashed away like a disappearing light. “As long as I’m with you, I’m not sure I care.”
“That’s very sweet of you. But we both know you’d go crazy without your vines. I’m not sure I could stand being with a ‘retired’ Otis. Talk about a handful.”
He had to admit, a retired Otis did sound like a disaster. “That’s why this whole mess is so confusing. What would you do if a man had invaded your land? A thousand years ago, I would have run him through with a sword. What now? Run? Fold the hand I was dealt? What would I do with the land? For a long time, I thought I’d leave it to Brooks, but I wouldn’t wish this taintedterroiron anyone now.”
“I’ve already told you what I’d do, Otis. I’d forget about him and focus on your own vines.” She nestled into him. “Let everything outside of this property drift away.”
* * *
“We’ll see you gentlemen soon,”Harry Bellflour said, offering a final wave to the two consultants from Napa who were climbing into their rental car. Once they’d pulled away, he turned to his colleagues, the Drink Flamingo controller and the new CEO, Wendall. “I think they’ll do,” he said with confidence.
Wendall was still trying to establish his dominance in the company and frequently spoke with his arms crossed. “Yeah, they’ll be fine. I wonder about Otis Till, though. Will he be a problem?”
Bellflour often wanted to punch Wendall right in his giant nose, but he needed the man on his side. After the fiasco last year with the project near the highway, Bellflour was skating on thin ice with the members of the board.
He pulled on his Padrón cigar, enjoying the gentle burn of the Nicaraguan leaves. “Nah, he’s just an old man holding onto the past. He’s harmless.”
Wendall kicked the dirt. “We need to get to the airport. You sure we’ll have the winery up by the end of September?”
Bellflour turned and looked at the frame of the building. He’d had a few hiccups, but things were going as planned now.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m confident. In fact, I’ve already committed to buying several tons of cabernet. We don’t have a choice.” They would have to wait at least two years to get any fruit off the vines they’d planted on the estate, so, in the meantime, they would purchase fruit from other Red Mountain wineries.
Not only was Bellflour intent on meeting the deadline in order to save face, but he also felt a burning need to fire back at Otis and the rest of his clueless neighbors. They’d tried to laugh him off the mountain, crucifying him in the media. No one waged war with Bellflour, and he’d prove it soon enough. It didn’t matter that Otis had saved his life—maybe he’d have a statue done of the grapefather and put it poolside as a way of saying thanks. The old man was still a bastard and needed to be knocked off the playing board.
Wendall straightened his collar. “No more mistakes, Harry.”
Bellflour felt the tendons in his own neck tighten. He’d had nothing to do with the screwup with the water rights on last year’s property, but here he was, still taking the blame.
“The facility will be operational, and the tasting room will be open,” Bellflour said. “I give you my word.”
Until their own vines bore fruit, they would mostly serve offerings from their boxed-wine collection. Bellflour was also working on a frozen-sangria project and had filed paperwork for the trademark to the nameFro-gria. If he could get that project up and running in time, he could also serve Red Mountain Fro-grias.
Wendall smoothed his hands together. “I don’t need to tell you what another PR disaster would do to us. I’mstillcleaning up this whole Red Mountain mess.”
Bellflour could hear the threats of last chances in his new boss’s tone. His fingers tightened around the cigar. “We learned a lot about this mountain last year…and about the people. Nothing can stop us now.”
“I do love the idea of using a social media campaign to name the winery,” Wendall admitted.
Bellflour smiled proudly. “Why not let the millennials do all the marketing for us?”
Showing the board he was as plugged in to modern times as ever, Bellflour had suggested they have one of their fans name the winery, and their PR team had put together a brilliant social media contest that was underway. The person who named their flagship winery would get an all-expenses-paid trip to the grand opening at the end of September and a lifetime membership in the wine club.
“I look forward to hearing what they come up with,” Wendall said.
“There are already some great ideas on the table. I’ll send you some favorites soon.”
The three men shook hands, and Bellflour offered a last wave as they rounded the yet-to-be paved driveway.
“Good riddance,” he whispered, watching their rental car disappear down Sunset Road. He was always the guy on the ground, the man getting things done, and it was so easy for those chumps from corporate to fly up here and point fingers and bark orders. It was he—Bellflour—who uprooted and moved every time they started a new project and needed someone to manage the thick lists of to-dos.
