Page 59 of Before We Say Goodbye
Tomorrow came and went. And the next week. No callback. Each time Bec left the house, he’d reach for the phone and dial the number with the New York area code, but then he’d hang up before the call connected. He couldn’t beg.
Until he did a week later. “Yes, it’s Otis Till, from Sonoma again. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Sam Ledbetter.”
“One moment, please.”
A distinguished American voice came on the line moments later. “Ledbetter here.”
“Hi there, Sam. It’s Otis Till, Sonoma winemaker of Lost Souls.”
Agonizing silence.
Otis cleared his throat. “I wanted to see if you might be interested in including me on your next visit to Sonoma. I feel like ... I don’t know ... that providing some context might help you understand my wines a little more.”
“Uh-huh. It does work that way sometimes, doesn’t it?” He spoke the way Otis imagined people who summered in the Hamptons spoke, with a fancy lilt, likely inherited from generations of martini drinkers holding their noses high at anyone less well to do.
The door swung shut, and the boys came running in. He held a finger to his lips.
“Let me consider, Otis. I’ll have my secretary reach out in the coming months.”
“That would be—”
Bec came into the kitchen with curious eyes. “Everything okay?”
Otis pressed the phone to his chest. “I’ll be right off.”
She began to put away groceries behind him.
“Yes, that would be great,” Otis said into the phone.
“No promises, though.”
Otis wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the man with his own ascot, tell him that he wasn’t worthy of stepping onto the great land of the Lost Souls Ranch, but he couldn’t say a damn thing now,as Rebecca wouldn’t speak to him for a week if she discovered who was on the other end.
All Otis said was, “I understand. Look forward to hearing from you.”
After he’d hung up, Bec kissed his cheek. “Who was that?”
“Jack over at the farm shop. The brake disc for the Mahindra isn’t in yet.”
October used to be the month when Otis shone, when he felt the wolf howl within him. During October 1984, he had moments, especially with his boys, when he did feel okay, like life was almost normal, but right now, he was walking his vines, talking to them, and pleading that they take root and yield grapes that could make a worthy wine sooner rather than later.
Lost Souls Ranch was a sad affair during the harvest. With two-thirds of the vines standing only a few inches tall, there were barely any berries to take in. Otis had been forced to let half his staff go, as money was tight and there wasn’t as much work to do. He’d committed to some purchased fruit grown north a few miles, but even theideaof making terroir-less juice hurt him. Otis Till was not a bulk winemaker, the kind of businessman who sells juice to churches for communion, or that off-loaded jugs to grocery stores. He’d built a name on his farm, and he didn’t want to lose that reputation.
The worry ate at him. He was thirty-two and could very well be steering his family into a place from where they couldn’t recover. Sure, they could sell their land, pay back Lloyd, and live off the rest while he found another means of income, but they’d put so much into it.
The sound of the bell rang out over the fields.
Otis looked back toward the house. Was it already ten? Rebecca had given him a hard time—in a soft Rebecca sort of way—for taking so long to report yesterday, so today he hustled and tried to shuck all the worry clinging to him.
One year of recess, and he and his boys had done about everything imaginable. As he came up the hill, he saw Mike and Cam tossing the football. They were that age now where they loved playing ball more than anything. Otis didn’t quite understand sports, American or English, but he’d occasionally sip some whiskey and cuddle up with his boys to watch the San Francisco 49ers run up and down the field. He found it curious, these men tossing balls up into the air and being paid so much to do so.
Nonetheless, he’d decided to learn for his boys’ sakes. “Recess has commenced!” he called, stretching out his arms as he came up the hill to the lawn.
Cam smiled and slung a spiral in his direction. Otis made a play for it, but it fell through his hands. Needless to say, Addison Till had not thrown him long balls back in London. Or in Montana, for that matter. Otis picked it up and slung it back as best as he could.
“That’s not a spiral,” Cam said, catching Otis’s ugly toss. His son jogged toward him. “I told you, you have to hold it by the threads.”
Otis took the ball. “Like this?”
