Page 9 of Red Mountain Burning
5
The Grumpy Wise Man
Otis Till pulled back the curtains and peeked out the window of the house he and his deceased wife had built twenty-three years ago after uprooting their family from Sonoma to pursue a new grape-growing frontier in Washington State. As a way to hold onto his youth and to pay homage to the old world, they’d built their home and the winery in the style of an English countryside cottage. He looked up past his vineyard and winery, farther up the drive, to what had become the future flagship site of Drink Flamingo.
Everyone had thought they’d chased the box-wine empire off the mountain, but their Chief Visionary Officer, Harry Bellflour, had slipped in and bought the old Davidson property next to Till Vineyards. Before Bellflour, it had been Henry Davidson who had tormented Otis, but in a much more serious and violent way. Otis and Henry had been in a feud of sorts that had ended when Henry had shot Joan Tobey two years ago and nearly killed her. Henry had gone to prison, and Joan had recovered, but the guilt of that day still attempted to strangle Otis on quiet nights.
Squinting, Otis could make out Bellflour leading a group of men in business-casual attire across the property. April was nearly over, as were the spring rains, and dust rose with the men’s steps. Bellflour was flapping his fat hands around like a slimy salesman, and Otis could only imagine what kind of bullshit web the man was spinning.
When Otis had first learned late last year that Drink Flamingo had bought this cursed ten acres that abutted his own ten acres on the southeastern side, he’d nearly fallen to the ground. He remembered clutching his chest and feeling the pain of an entire life wasted as he imagined the worst.
This same man had nearly gotten away with building a trashy theme park at the gates of Red Mountain, right on the highway near the exit to the appellation. If he had, anyone who’d come to taste the wines of Red Mountain would have first seen this eyesore with gaudy and noisy carnival rides, a lazy river, an RV park, giant pink flamingos, and God knew what else.
Thankfully, Bellflour had been forced to bail on the plans. He’d discovered in the final hour that the property didn’t have enough water to support his shoddy vision, so he’d sold the nearly worthless land to a newcomer, Remi Valentine, who would be marrying Margot in the fall. Otis often thought of the day Joan had popped a cork at Margot’s house to celebrate the collapse of Drink Flamingo’s takeover of the mountain. The news had spread throughout the wine world, and Otis had proudly read in the trade journals—even a well-placed mention inDecanter—that Red Mountain had protected herself.
But had she?Otis wondered.
He wasn’t as bullheaded as he used to be about boxed wine. In fact, after being swayed by Brooks, who was more up to speed with the trends, Otis had taken a full turn in his opinion. Alternative packaging had become the rage among the new guard of winemakers, and many interesting wines had popped up in cans and boxes from all over the world.
Still, nothing—nothing—Drink Flamingo did was interesting. If some fifth-generation farmer in Beaujolais was putting his unfiltered organic gamay into a box, that was okay with Otis. But Harry Bellflour might as well be pissing in those dreaded black boxes featuring pink flamingos and terrible slogans likeDrink inside the boxorQuit your day job, but never quit drinking Flamingo.
In the continued fashion of Otis’s ominous bad luck—that damn black cat constantly clawing at him—his nemesis would now be his neighbor. The irony was not lost on anyone, especially Otis. He put his heart and soul into his wines and into Red Mountain the same way Yo-Yo Ma danced his bow across the strings of his Montagnana cello. Otis had created a piece of property so special that visitors often came to pay homage to his piece of land like they might walk the rows of Romanée-Conti in Burgundy, kissing the ground and tasting the soil. Many had referred to their visits to Red Mountain as pilgrimages.
How in God’s name could Otis continue to shepherd this land with a corporate beast like Drink Flamingo staking its claim?
Having riled himself up to a boiling pot of fury, Otis let go of the curtains and turned with a tense jaw to the woman eating a poké bowl at the kitchen table. With all due respect to the woman he loved, how could she go on smiling euphorically with a terror like Bellflour only a few hundred yards away?
Otis already knew what she’d say if he expressed how he felt. Not that he hadn’t done so a nearly infinite number of times since he’d first heard the news of Drink Flamingo’s next chess play.
She’d say, “Don’t let anyone else drive your emotions. Just let go.” Or, “Attachment is suffering. Why tie your own happiness to your neighbor’s actions?”
Damn it. If she weren’t right all the time, he’d happily jump into an argument with her. With all this anger, he’d jump into an argument with a damn brick right now.
Catching himself from senselessly putting her in the crosshairs, he still couldn’t avoid dumping his emotions on her. He said through gritted teeth, “If he puts up a giant flamingo in the yard, I will burn the whole thing to the ground.” So much for keeping his thoughts to himself.
Joan Tobey finished chewing. “Darling, you must stop worrying.”
He paced the kitchen floors. “Stop worrying? I’m not sure you’ve grasped the severity of the situation. This guy is not going to put up something classy. We’ve already gotten a taste of his style. Expect the worst and double it. This is a winery where decisions are made by men in ties who live and die by Excel sheets and PowerPoint presentations. They couldn’t change an implement on a tractor if their lives depended on it.”
“It’s their property,” she said, clearly tired of this discussion. “You know as well as anyone that the idea of Red Mountain is to be open to all.”
“There must be exceptions,” Otis insisted, looking at the bowl of rabbit food she’d prepared for him. Oh, he’d kill for a hamburger right now. Even after two years of adjusting to her diet, he’d eat a hamburger the size of Texas if she’d let him. His only hope for cheating now was cramming a bag of chips down his gullet at Home Depot.
He shook his head at his own grumpiness. How could anyone, especially him, think a bad thought of her at all? He loved her more and more every day and was forever grateful that she’d recovered from the gunshot that had nearly killed her. Though he didn’t always show it, he would choose her over his vines if it came down to it.
He kissed the top of her head, her short gray hair. “I know I sound like a broken record, but there must be rules. If Bellflour turns this place into some kind of Disneyland, I’ll stick my pocket knife right in his side and let him bleed out on my vines.”
Joan sighed. “I’m afraid the challenges never stop coming.”
“Oh, that is perhaps the one thing I know more than any other. Especially in my case.”
Joan’s phone rang on the counter, and she answered.
Otis sat down at the table and stared at his breakfast, remembering Joan’s go-to quote whenever he scoffed at a giant bowl of vegetables.Remember, Otis, food is medicine.
Picking up a pair of chopsticks, he fumbled around, attempting to grab a cube of sweet potato. After a weak effort, he cast them to the side of the plate and retrieved a fork. Once he was finally eating—orgrazing, which is what it really felt like—he couldn’t help but listen to her conversation. Evidently, she was talking to a complete stranger.
“What are you selling?” she asked.
