Page 33 of Before We Say Goodbye
The old man’s head kicked back. “Ah.”
“I’ll work for whatever you pay. I just need to know what you know. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to make great wine. To make something that people won’t forget.”
Carmine laughed at that. “That’s not the goal in what we’re doing here.”
“What is it then?” A note of pleading lingered in the air.
“It’s not something I could even teach,ragazzo. All I can say is keep trying, keep doing what you’re doing. I’m not much of a teacher. There are better ones all over the valley.” The evidence of Carmine’s Italian heritage became more obvious with each word he spoke. In the last few decades, many Italians had immigrated to California and planted grapes.
“I don’t want other teachers. It’syourwines that speak to me.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s not something I do.”
“Surely you have a cellar rat or two.”
Carmine pinched his cigarette between thumb and forefinger and drew in a puff. “I’m done teaching people. I’m wrapping up. My career is over. My vineyards are folding in on themselves. Go study at Davis. Learn the chemistry. Go get a job at Gallo. Learn how to sell. ’Cause it don’t matter how good your wine is, selling’s the hard part. Good luck.”
Otis took a questionable step forward. “With all due respect, this is all I want. To be a winemaker and to put my name on something to be proud of.”
Carmine held his ground, and for a moment Otis thought he might come around. But then: “Good luck,ragazzo.”
“I’m dumping it.”
“Don’t be a ...” Not one to name call, Bec held back. “It might improve.”
“I’ve tried all the tricks. There’s no hope for it.”
They were at a Sonoma taco joint they frequented. The floors were greasy, the windows hazy, but the tacos were good enough to serve to the Queen Mum.
Otis felt a rumble in his belly as he fidgeted with the bottle of habanero hot sauce. “I don’t want anyone to ever know how much I messed up. I don’t want to ever be reminded.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe this wine is the most important you’ll ever make because it marks your Neil Armstrong moment, your first big step.”
“You mean big stumble?”
“Oh, here we go again. You know I love a good ‘woe is me’ with my tacos.”
He pinged the hot sauce bottle down onto the table. “Is that being funny? Is this my wife cracking jokes? In my desperate hour of need.”
Were it anyone else, he’d be mad, but her face glowed with love and joy. How could she find life so agreeable? How was she not terrified? “This is your life, too, you know. You’ve put all your chips on me. On Otis Till. We very well could be picking up the pieces of a broken dream before too long.”
“You’re a fox when you’re passionate. A big sexy fox.”
He glared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, allowing some of her annoyance to shine through. “Did you think you’d make a perfect wine right from the get-go? Who gave you that impression? Making wine, growing it first, it’s not an easy thing. You’ve been doing this, what? Three years? How long has Carmine been at it? How many vintages has he screwed up? No, you don’t pour that wine out. You catalog it and taste it every year to remind yourself of your hard work. When you finally make a wine you’re proud of, you taste them next to each other and remind yourself for one damn minute that you’re capable of extraordinary things. You hear me?”
Her speech wasalmostenough to lift his spirits. “I still want to pour it out.”
Bec laughed at him.
“You’re kicking me while I’m down. And I’m down, Bec. I’m not some child who broke his toy in the tub.”
“No, Otis. I’m not laughing at you for that. I’m laughing because I’ve never seen someone with such a desperate want to create something wonderful. You’re a miracle.”
He was the one to laugh this time. “You really must stop doing all those drugs. I’m afraid you see something in me that’s not there.”
Bec reached across the table and took his hand. “One day, when you’re the most famous winemaker in this state, when people cry as they taste your wines, will you please tell me that I was right all along?”
