Page 73 of Before We Say Goodbye
In the center stood the discount racks and the more popular SKUs. Otis was glad to see Heartbreak White Zin held a premium endcap position. He didn’t like the price, but he’d bring that up with his California distributor later.
Howard stuck out a fat hand. A thick gold bracelet wrapped around his wrist. “So glad you made it down. Joe will be here shortly.”
“Thanks for the invite. How are sales?”
Otis hated small talk and hated selling, but he’d learned a thing or two over the years. The two men discussed sales and the latest trends until the door swung open, and then there he stood: Camden and Mike’s true hero.
Joe Montana, otherwise known as Joe Cool, wore jeans with brand-new tennis shoes that were as white as Lloyd Bramhall’s teeth. Joe was a few years younger than Otis and wasn’t much taller. Otis had expected a giant to walk through the doors. He was certainly in better shape,though. The man played humble well and made Otis feel like he was the celebrity. Hell, maybe he was.
“I’m surprised you were able to get away,” Otis said. “Busy time of year.”
“For you and me both,” Joe said. “How’s the vintage looking?”
“Could be a great one, depending on what we see in the coming weeks. It’s been a hot summer. How’s your back?”
“Good as new, thanks.” Joe held eye contact for almost too long. “I can’t believe we’re finally in the same room. Lost Souls speaks to me. I’m a huge fan of Carmine’s, and when I read that he’d taught you, I jumped all over it. I have several vintages in my cellar, and I want more.”
Trying to not be starstruck, Otis said, “I’m sure we can work that out. How much are you looking for?”
Joe stated a number, and Otis tried hard to stay cool. “I expect we could do that.”
After some terroir discussion, with Joe holding his own nicely, Otis said, “You know, you should come up to the winery sometime. Bec and I would love to host you for a long lunch, taste through the older vintages. My boys would love to show you their skills with the pigskin.”Had he just saidpigskin? Dear Lord.
Joe gave him a firm handshake with an arm that was ruling the world. “It would be an honor. I’m actually considering how I could get into the biz, so I’d love your advice. In the meantime, how about some tickets to a game?”
“Oh, Cam and Mike would love it.”
“Consider it done.”
Otis sat between his two boys on the fifty-yard line of a 49ers-Oilers game in early November at Candlestick Park. “Your mom would tell me that working hard is not the answer, but let the proof be here. A littlehard work never killed anyone. So tell me who’s on the field? Which one is San Francisco?”
“You’re joking, right?” a fourteen-year-old Cam said. Each year brought more attitude.
“The purple team?”
“Red and gold. Oh, my God.”
Michael, now a tween, slapped his forehead.
Otis put his arms around them. “I’m kidding. I know that. And I know that guy behind the helmet—like, actually know him.” In truth, Otis was more intrigued with football now that he and Joe had become buds. The quarterback had come up for a lunch during the offseason, and they’d talked business and tasted nearly every wine Otis had ever made. They meandered the grounds, and Joe talked about his aspirations for one day owning his own, and then he’d tossed the football for two young boys who would tell that tale the rest of their life.
As the game progressed, Otis looked around and thought that he might have finally made it. All the hard work had meant something. Maybe, for the first time, he felt worthy. This was the culmination of everything he’d ever done. Sure, the money had come from committing the ultimate sin against his art with Heartbreak, but at least it funded his noble pursuit of bottling the terroir of his Glen Ellen estate.
He’d come such a long way from that puny bloke on the purple bus.
The boys were sugared up and out of control on the way home. Otis had bought nearly every bit of 49ers paraphernalia, and Camden was now hitting Mike with a big red foam hand. The old Otis might have lost his temper, but this Otis was different. He didn’t feel anxious today. He felt like, maybe, just maybe, he’d finally learned his lessons and had come into his own.
They pulled into the driveway, and all three of them had big smiles on their faces. “Race you to the—”
Rebecca stepped onto the terrace and descended the steps with drooped shoulders. When she looked up, her eyes told a devastating tale.
Chapter 17
Built on the Back of White Zin
They held the funeral at Saint Philips in Bozeman. No one mentioned the sparse attendance, though Otis knew it weighed as heavily on his mother as it did him.
Afterward at the ranch, people gathered in the kitchen of Otis’s parents’ house—one of the two houses on Aunt Morgan’s ranch—to celebrate Addison’s life. Wide-brimmed hats hung on the outside railing and coatrack; cowboy boots clicked on the hardwoods.
