Page 105 of Before We Say Goodbye
“Oh, dear. I feel like I’m teetering on being exiled to the doghouse. Believe it or not, I am capable of seeing outside of myself.”
She grinned at him, showing both surprise and appreciation. “I do feel forgotten sometimes, just another vine down a row.”
That one hurt. “You know that’s not how I feel.”
“I know.”
Otis topped off their glasses. “Do whatever it is that fills your cup, but don’t move on without me. I want us to grow together, you know?”
“We will. I’m in love with Red Mountain, too, and I want to be a part of its evolution, to help grow this community. I share in that dream with you, and I’m excited about getting into the tasting room. Can you believe we’ve never had one?”
“It will be a new—”
Gravel crunched in the distance, a foreign sound at this time of night. Headlights followed, a vehicle driving up the shared road past their farm. More headlights, another car—no, two more. All moving in the same direction.
“What’s going on?” Otis asked, standing up and approaching the railing. He imagined his feeling was similar to that of the Romans when the Visigoths invaded their land.
The cars came to a stop outside the single-wide trailer on the orchard land that abutted the northern side of the Till property. Otis had briefly met Henry Davidson and his family on the other side, but he’d not come in contact with anyone from this property.
Car doors shut. A few raucous voices rose into the night. Yellow lights illuminated the trailer.
“I have a bad feeling,” Otis said, recognizing a tingling in his chest.
Rebecca didn’t say anything, and he knew she felt the same way.
A racket rose out over the land the next evening while Otis and Rebecca were preparing dinner: coq au vin. Otis had never heard anything soexcruciating in his life. A moment ago, pure bliss, the very marrow of the universe humming through his land. Then ...
Thrashing metal.
After tearing off his apron and stomping through the house, Otis slid open the back door and poked his head out.
“What in God’s name is going on over there?” Turning back to the house, he said, “Bec, I may lose my mind right now!”
“What’s wrong?” She stopped cooking as she picked up the noise herself. Her shoulders slumped. If Otis was reading her correctly, it wasn’t the sound that bothered her. It was that she could tell that trouble was imminent.
Bec followed him out onto the porch, the racket shaking the land, disturbing the baby vines working to take root. Otis took the binoculars off the hook and looked north to their neighboring property, a hodgepodge mess of cherry trees.
Near the single-wide trailer that had stood empty for so long, a fire blazed. Behind it, three men attempted to make music in what looked like a band practice of sorts, though it sounded more like their attempt to wake the dead. The drummer pounded on his instrument with rage. A bassist thumped a beat that vibrated the planks of the deck. The guitarist—clearly Beelzebub himself—played with so much distortion there was barely any separation between the notes. This wasn’t music at all, this was ... torture.
Tears pricking his eyes, Otis offered her the binoculars. “See for yourself. We’ve worked too hard to ...” His words fell off.
Once she’d gotten a good look, she said, “They’re playing some music. It’ll be over before too long.”
“Playing some music? That’s not music, Bec. That is the symphony of the devil.”
“God, you’re dramatic, Otis. I bet Michael would love it.”
Otis cringed at the memory of the Metallica poster Mike once had on his wall. What had Otis done wrong?What had he done wrong?The poster had hung beside another featuring an on-the-edge-of-risquéphotograph of supermodel Carmen Forrester. He should have ripped them both off the wall, but Bec had insisted they choose their battles. Considering his difficulties, she’d always given their youngest more slack than Camden.
“Okay, I’ll admit that I’m not up on the latest trends, but—”
“That’s an understatement—”
“This is not music, Bec. More importantly, they are ruining our peace. They’re disturbing our babies out there who are far too young to endure such racket. From Puccini yesterday to this?”
“I think your vines can handle it.”
Her tone suggested he was being absurd, and he didn’t like it one bit. “Can they, Bec? I’m going to call the police.” He started inside.
