Page 49 of Before We Say Goodbye
It was a Tuesday in the middle of August when a new disturbance ruptured the peace.Veraison, the stage when the ripening berries changed color, was spreading across the vineyards. Otis had been working since well before dawn, checking off a list that filled two legal pads, and now he’d collapsed onto a chair on the terrace to read the paper.
“Theaudaaaaaciteeeeeeeeey!” he yelled out as he read Sam Ledbetter’s latest article inThe New York Times. Otis sprang to his feet, his mouth agape. “How could Lloyd claim responsibility for any of this? And who does Ledbetter think he is?”
Bec rushed out, barefooted in a sundress. “You’re going to wake the boys. What are you going on about?”
Otis held the paper toward her and jabbed a finger at the drawing of Ledbetter’s smug face. “Bedwetter’s at it again, as is your boyfriend. Apparently I’m a soldier and nothing more. And the wine’s shit.”
“I’ll choose to ignore the boyfriend comment.” She took the paper with a gentle hand. As she read, Otis paced the tiles, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf.
“Lloyd Bramhall has added another micro winery to his quiver. He says he’s excited about what he and the team are doing up there. Apparently he’s enlisted a fellow from the Carmine Coraggio school, though I don’t see the comparison. I suppose the fruit is farmed well enough, but the wines fall flat for me. Nevertheless, Lloyd has a good eye, and I look forward to tasting future vintages and seeing if they find their stride.”
She pulled her eyes away from the rubbish on the page. “Oh.”
Otis squared up to her. “Not even a mention, Bec. We finally get intoThe New York Times, finally get written up by Bedwetter, and my name doesn’t even come up. I’m merelyfellow.Fellow. Fellow—fuckingfellow. And Lloyd. The nerve. Whatheand histeamare doing up here? What in God’s name has he done to contribute to this wine? When’s the last time he picked up so much as a shovel.”
The oh-so-familiar calming hand of Rebecca rested on his shoulder. “Take some breaths, dear.”
“I beg of you not to patronize me.” He shook his head in a jittery furious motion, a soldier of misfortune—left, right, left, right. He could whip an egg with such force. “I won’t take a breath. What I will do is have words with Lloyd. He can’t go around telling people he’s making the wine.”
A note of incredulity rang in her otherwise calm tone. “I don’t think he said he’s making the wine.”
“He might as well have.” Otis tore the paper from her hands and dropped it to the floor and stomped on it. “We have to buy him out.”
“Then we need to slow our spending.”
“Don’t get started on this again. We have to keep upgrading equipment.”
“How about your travel? Do you have to stay at Ritz-Carltons? Do you need to be drinking Burgundy on Tuesday nights?”
“Burgundy doesn’t care what day it is. How can I attempt to make a wine of such caliber without knowledge of the great wines of the world?” He couldn’t stand it when she harped on spending. It certainly didn’t help that she was the one who ran the finances, so she knew every blasted move he made.
Back to the matter at hand, he said, “He always has an agenda. Now he’s taking all the glory.”
“What would Carmine say about glory?” There she went with her calm wisdom. Couldn’t she see what was happening all around them?
“Carmine isn’t the final say on all things.”
“He used to be.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve outgrown his production. I’ve got a few opinions of my own now.” Otis gathered the paper, crumpled it in his hands, then tossed it over the railing, where it landed on the wheelchair ramp and rolled into Bec’s tulips.
“What did Carmine tell you? Don’t listen to the critics.”
“Carmine, Carmine, Carmine. Easy for him to say when Bedwetter thinks he’s the greatest winemaker in California.”
“There will always be obstacles,” Rebecca said. “It’s how you handle them. Look at you, you’re falling apart.”
Otis flapped his hands in the air as he spoke. “Please don’t Obi-Wan Kenobi me. When we’re all paid up and when Lloyd is out of the picture, we’ll hire a salesman. For now, I have to do it all, and I’m going to sometimes get a little road weary.”
Bec approached him and slipped her arms around his waist. He was ready for her to attack him for saying that he had to do it all, but as usual she took the high road. “What’s the point of all this if you’re not enjoying it?”
“Iamenjoying it. Look at me. Look at this smile, this bright-eyed bushy-tailed smile.”
She let out a quintessential “Ugh.” He’d heard a chorus of those in their marriage.Ugh, ugh, ugh. Sure, he might have deserved them, but still ...
“What? Out with it, Bec. Get it over with.”
She paused, doing one of her little meditative recenterings. “You need to slow down. I don’t know everything you’re doing on the road, but I know you’re not taking care of yourself. I see the receipts, the itemized ones. You’re eating countless burgers and bacon. You’re drinking like you’re W. C. Fields.”
