Page 111 of Before We Say Goodbye
“The French composer. And Puccini and even Pavarotti. I’m sure you know Pavarotti, right?”
Vance shook his head.
“Oh, my.” Otis turned back toward his own property. “Those vines are my babies, and I know it’s hard for someone who isn’t into wine to understand. Growing grapes, fermenting them, it’s my passion, one of the reasons I was put on this earth. The thing is ... a good winegrower must create harmony in his vineyard, and the goings-on here disrupt the synergy. The young vines coming to life absorb everything around them. They want to realize their full potential with ...”
Otis stopped, unsure of what else to say.
Vance looked at him like he belonged in a straitjacket. He shot smoke through his nostrils like a bull who’d seen red. “Look, neighbor, what’s your name again?”
“Otis, Otis Till.”
“Look, Otis Till. Are you trying to tell me I can’t have my friends over? Can’t play music? It’s the one thing my brother left me, this land. You trying to run me off? He was here long before you. I imagine a lot of people were. I know the Davidsons, your other neighbors, have been here for generations. Then you come up and start telling people what to do?”
This isn’t going well,Otis thought. He wondered what would happen if he stuck his fingers right into the gauges in Vance’s ears, then tugged with all his might.
Likely not a good idea,he decided.
Otis recalibrated. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I suppose I’m trying to find some common ground, perhaps appeal to the artist in you, even.”Not that the shit you’re playing has anything to do with art,he thought to himself. “There are ordinances. That kind of noise late at night. I can’t sleep. My vines ...”
“Your vines can’t sleep either? Look, Otis Till, I have a naked and lonely woman in that trailer. Your problems, they aren’t mine. You want a quieter place? I’m sure there’s another mountain with a plot of land available.”
Vance couldn’t have said anything more ignorant, but Otis pressed on with a level tone. “Ah, that’s just it. There are indeed other mountains, but they’re not like this place. The land you’re standing on is holy ground. Your brother must have known it too. I can’t quite explain it. This slope here, the way the sun falls. Soil ripe for planting. The river down there. Proximity to a town. People with ambition. Above all, wines that sing. The wines from Red Mountain vines sing, Vance.”
The guy worked on his cigarette as if it were the only oxygen in the vicinity. “Are you trying to belittle me?”
“No, I’m not—”
“I’m feeling belittled.”
“Belittled?”
“Don’t patronize me. You go play your stupid music to your vines; I’m going to play my music to my land too. I’m sure you understand. Now get off my property.” Vance grew taller, his chest puffing up. A sense of foreboding filled the air.
Otis worried he might not have another opportunity to speak with Vance, so he clamored for a solution. “No, please. I ... look, what if I bought your property? What is it, ten acres? Would you allow me to purchase it from you? It’s clear you have no intention of taking care of the trees or planting grapes. It’s worth far more than what your brother paid. I’ll pay handsomely.”
Vance laughed. “You come up from California like you’re Lewis and Clark, try to impose your laws. This isn’t California. Besides, I figure this land’ll be worth a whole lot more if I hold on.”
“Let’s talk numbers.”
Vance pulled at his beard. “Let’s not. Now get off my property before we have a problem.”
Otis thought it would be a good time to say goodbye. He lifted his hand and bid him adieu.
On his way to pick Rebecca up from the airport, Otis decided not to complain to her about Vance. He would spare her all the worry and disgust that had penetrated his cerebral cortex. He’d learned that, no matter the offense, and despite her equal passion for their land, she didn’t harbor anger at people—even terroir terrorists—the way he did. If he brought it up, she’d worry that he was slipping back to the man who’d gone to the Super Bowl without his family. The man who’d struck Lloyd in the mouth.
No, he wouldn’t bring it up to her. He’d wait for her to form her own opinions of Vance Mason.
The kid hadn’t hosted parties every night, only on the weekends, but come Friday nights, it had been debauchery. Otis had tried calling the cops, but the officer who drove up echoed what Bec had said, that this was ag land, and nothing could be done. There were no noise ordinances. “Move into the city if you’re looking for quiet time.”
Otis didn’t point out the irony in that. “What about the fires?”
“Fire ban starts in June,” said the officer.
Otis found Rebecca at baggage claim, standing there in a breezy button-down dress and sandals, looking radiant. For a moment his new struggles washed away. She kissed him as if they’d only just met. By gods, he didn’t know why she loved him so, but dammit, she did.
“How was your trip?” he asked, already knowing the answer from the look on her face. Her hair was pulled back, showing a potentially new piercing high up on her ear—he’d lost count years ago.
While he’d been decaying, along with his young vines, at the sounds of metal music shaking the land, she’d been healing her soul and igniting her chakras.
