Page 58 of Before We Say Goodbye
Rebecca sighed, realizing he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Will you stop worrying what everyone thinks? My tolerance for your self-absorption is high, but you’re pushing it. You’re walking a pity path that’s starting to become a paved road. So what if we have to tighten up for a few years. You can buy grapes and still make wine. And you have your consulting.”
“Tighten up for a few years?” Otis asked with exasperation. “Have you stopped running the numbers? Do you know how many payments we have due? For glass, the new John Deere, the new press.”
Rebecca returned to the counter with her blade. “Then you might have to stop drinking first growths for a while.”
“I rarely drink first growths.”
“Bullshit.” To her credit, she’d never once blamed him for not selling to Gallo or taking any of the offers that had come their way before their vineyards were infected. Still, cutting off his access to first growths was playing dirty.
“I’m going to have to sell my soul,” he said to her back. “No, wait, I already sold that to Bramhall. Do you mind if I sell your soul? No, yours is too pure. Maybe the kids’?”
She turned back around. “I’m just going to say it. Maybe this phylloxera mess is the best thing that ever happened to you. The way you’ve been with the boys lately, the way you’ve been with me. You’ve been so free. Don’t let Ledbetter—”
“Bedwetter.”
“I’m not calling him names.”
“I have to go see him.”
“You’re not going to see him. You’re not going to do anything but put your head down and keep making good wine.”
This was one of those times where he probably should have listened.
Addison couldn’t even wait a day to call and rub Bedwetter’s words in his son’s face. “Finally made theTimes, did you. You didn’t mention the phylloxera.”
“Because I knew what you’d say.” He hated that he’d had too much scotch and his words were slurring. “Bedwetter’s a clown.”
“He was writing about California long before Spurrier came in with his ‘Judgment of Paris,’” Addison said snidely.
Otis poured himself another.
His father loved to talk about the “Judgment of Paris” and how Otis should have chosen to throw anchor in Napa. “Dad, the whole ‘Judgment of Paris’ thing ... Sonoma made the chard. Not Napa, and yet they claim it.” How many times had he told his father this fact?
“It was Chateau Montelena, son. One of my favorite properties. Trust me, they’re in Napa.”
Deep breaths,Otis told himself. “Yes, Mike Grgich made the wine at Montelena, but the chardonnay was grown in Sonoma by Charles Bacigalupi. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“For God’s sake, Otis. Quit being sensitive. Get him out there to taste the wines. Perhaps he could give you some tips.”
Otis paused and swallowed back a geyser of f-words that wanted to leap from his tongue.
There was not enough whiskey in his house, nor in Sonoma, nor in all of California to drown his troubles. He had damn well tried to prove it this evening. Rebecca wasn’t speaking to him, likely because he was belligerently drunk. She’d tucked the boys in and retired herself,probably up there meditating or readingWay of the Peaceful Warrioror talking to herself, going on about “I choose, I choose, I choose.”
After the call Otis marched out to the terrace with the rest of the bottle and collapsed into a chair. He took another gulp. Goddamn that burn was nice, but it still wasn’t enough.
Could he survive two years of no income? He hadn’t saved like he should. Once the money had started coming in, he assumed it wouldn’t stop. So despite Bec’s warnings that they remain thrifty, he’d loaded the cellar with wines and upgraded the tractor and the irrigation system. He’d opted for the most expensive label designers and glass. He’d also insisted on traveling in style, always renting the nicest cars, staying in the nicest hotels, indulging in often-excessive meals.
Scotch in hand, he pressed his eyes closed and sought solutions. He’d replanted the vines. Nothing he could do now but hope they would take. Had he lost his momentum? That would be Bedwetter’s next article.Otis Till has lost his mojo!
No matter what Bec said—or Carmine, for that matter—Otis needed to resolve this Bedwetter issue. What if Otis invited him out there? Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding. The writer of abysmal wine prose came out once or twice a year to taste, and not once had he reached out to Otis. Perhaps there was a reason of which Otis wasn’t aware.
In the morning, while Bec and the boys were feeding the sheep, collecting eggs, and cleaning out the chicken coop, he calledThe New York Timesand asked for “Sam Bed—I mean—Ledbetter. It’s Otis Till, a winemaker out of Sonoma.”
“He’s in France right now,” a jolly young lady said, “but I’m happy to leave a message. He returns tomorrow.”
In a friendly tone that wasn’t exactly genuine, Otis said, “Please tell him to give me a call. I’d love to visit with him when he next comes out to Sonoma.”
“I’ll do that.”
