Page 115 of Before We Say Goodbye
Otis sliced a hand through the air. “I don’t do slack. That’s your department. All I want to do is get these new vines online and make some good wine this year. But I can’t because there is no water. Hottest place on earth. Hotter than the Sahara. Why do we even have an oven? I can roast you a chicken by setting it under the hood of my truck for ten minutes.”
She smiled.
“What?” He hated it when she didn’t take him seriously.
“I think you’re sexy when you get all fired up.”
“Only you wouldn’t be bothered by drought.”
“Otis, listen to the land. Vance has you so riled up. Be smarter. Connect. We’re where we’re supposed to be. You have to embrace it. Remember the mildew our first year? Remember how the water wouldn’t drain, and it wouldn’t stop raining?”
“It’s the opposite problem here.”
She sighed in defeat. Even the great Balinese princess known as Rebecca Bradshaw Till had her limits. “It’s not a problem. You’re learning a new language. We all are. Give it time.”
Otis shoved his hands into his pockets. “Time? I’m almost forty-four. You see my gray hair. A man only has so many vintages.”
“You’re such an exaggerator. You might have lived half your life, and you have three gray hairs.”
“Four.” He stopped, weary of himself. “I know, I know, it’s just ... I want this place to be perfect.”
“Sounds to me like you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”
A knock saved Otis from a full-on therapy session.
“Yes?”
Cam pulled open the door. “Hey, Dad, you want to go fishing with Mike and me in the morning? We’re driving east to the Snake.”
“I can’t. I have ...” His unsaid words trailed off to oblivion.
Otis didn’t even have to look at Rebecca to know he was being given a choice right now. This wasn’t about being guilted into something, or about dealing with the vines, or even fishing, for that matter. This was an opportunity to go spend time with his boys.
Otis looked up at his oldest son. “Why, yes, Cam. I’d love to go. What time do we leave?”
Cam looked at Rebecca with golf balls for eyes. She shrugged her shoulders.
“What? I’m full of surprises.”
Cam let loose a smile. “Yes, you are. Shall I wake you or do you want to set an alarm? We’re leaving early.”
“Son, farmers are the ones who wake fishermen. Not the other way around. I will have fed and watered the sheep and will be eating lunch by the time you wipe your sleepy little eyes.”
“How do you put up with him, Mom?”
“They should give me a medal, shouldn’t they?”
Sometimes small victories were all one needed to keep going.
The next evening, fillets of steelhead sizzled on the grill on the back deck. The dark clouds in the pink sky threatened what could possibly be rain, though that would be rare for August. Besides, Otis never got that lucky.
“How’d your dad do?” Rebecca asked, sipping on a kombucha that she’d fermented herself, something she’d learned to do in Bali.
Mike and Cam looked at each other and smiled. Was there anything better than having raised two men who still enjoyed each other’s company?
“He’s getting better,” Cam said. “Still needs more patience. He has to let the line unwind behind him before he moves it forward again.” He stood and demonstrated with a fake rod in his hands.
Otis could see Camden back on the water earlier. The man had a touch like no other with a fly rod. While Otis hacked away at it, constantly getting snagged by a tree behind him, Camden made his line dance. He could set a dry fly exactly where it needed to be with such a light touch it was as if the fly had a parachute. Needless to say, Cam had caught his limit.
