Page 86 of Before We Say Goodbye
Just as Otis left the row and reached the gravel road that led to the cellar, Scooter pulled up in one of the farm trucks. He rolled down the window. Old country music played in the background. “Good morning. You ready to pick some chardonnay?”
Otis shook his head; his empty coffee cup dangled from his finger. “We’re going to let the fruit hang this year.”
Scooter grabbed one of the suspenders of his overalls. “What?”
Otis put a hand on the window frame. “I’ve been going at it too long. We’ve been taking too much from this land. Let’s take some time off. We’ll still pay everyone, but we’re not making wine this year. I want the grapes to shrivel on the vine.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
It didn’t take long for word to spread. One of the vineyard guys must have said something, because in the next few weeks, Otis got calls from distributors all over the country, asking for an update. When he went to town, all the winemakers and other farmers asked too. “I heard you were dialing back Heartbreak, but now you’re not even picking fruit?”
Otis smiled every time, knowing he’d made the ultimate sacrifice. It didn’t matter if no one else understood.
Though he hadn’t intended it, his choice threw gasoline on the fire of his celebrity. Joe Montana and Tchelistcheff heard about it. Hugh Johnson wrote about his “brazen decision” inDecanter. Even Bedwetter jumped into the melee, writing:Otis Till and his renegade ways have only exacerbated the rabid desperation for his wines from drinkers across the globe. He is to wine what Folkwhore is to music.
Otis knew Folkwhore well, as they were one of Camden’s favorite bands, one of the groups that had come up in the Seattle grunge scene with Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Soundgarden. Otis might have preferred that Bedwetter compare him to Yo-Yo Ma, but he didn’t mind being called a renegade.
Considering Otis had deleted a year of profits from the books with his decision to skip a vintage, it was inevitable that Lloyd would strike again. Otis had felt him silently stewing. He and Bec hosted him for another formal meeting at the dining room table of Lost Souls Ranch. The boys were at school. Lloyd pulled in in his weathered Ferrari. He’d aged even more since they’d last seen each other, gray hairs sprouting on his sideburns. Wrinkles had found him too. His shoes weren’t even polished.
He came at Otis hard as they met at the door. “You know what you’re doing, right? You’re sabotaging our brand. Premeditated murder.”
“Premeditated murder?” Otis asked. “That’s rich.”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing the same with the reds.”
“It’s true. We’re taking a year off.”
“We? So you’re in collusion with the vines?”
“Of course we are, you bumbling fool.” Otis cackled with all the griminess of a seasoned wine rep talking about how “smooth” the wines in his bag were. “You know, I used to look up to you. I used to think we saw eye to eye. So much so that I ignored your obsession with Bec, but you can’t see past the dollar signs, and that’s a tragedy. It might be wise for you to take a year off as well; you’re looking a bit ragged.” Otislooked down. “Growing a belly too. Go spend some time in the fields. I’ll give you a shovel. You remember how to work one, don’t you?”
Bec came from inside, saying, “Otis, please try to be civil. Welcome, Lloyd.”
“Yes.Welcome, Lloyd,” Otis said. “Please come in and poison our house with your toxicity.”
“Otis, seriously,” Bec said.
“Sorry.”
Lloyd stood there like a statue, clearly trying to decide his next move.
Otis pulled open the door and turned back. “Well, are you coming in?”
“Don’t start throwing insults,” Lloyd said. “I told you. Things will get ugly if you don’t get back to the plan. Pick the red grapes and make some wine. We can put off building the new facility for a year, but you can’t skip a vintage. I need you to make forty thousand cases of Heartbreak.”
Otis let the door swing shut and squared up to Lloyd. “I’m not making an eyedropper full.”
Lloyd crumbled before them. His exquisite jawline splintered. Words he shouldn’t say likely lined up on his tongue. Once he’d calmed himself, he said, “I have a buyer. More money than we’ve ever been offered.” He started to say the number, but Otis stopped him with a raised hand.
“Don’t say it. We’ve been down this road before.”
Lloyd went incandescent, as if he were plugged into a socket. “Otis, don’t make me force you to sell. Because I can. I want to do this in a friendly way, but I don’t have to. I own almost half of this winery, and I can make you buy me out. At a number you won’t like. Or we can sell and walk away from each other.”
Bec finally hit her limit and sharply clapped her hands at Lloyd. “Is this really who you are? It was never about the terroir, was it? Don’t you see what Otis has done for this place? For our wines? He needs a break and yet you don’t care. Maybe he was always right about you.”
Otis gleamed with delight. As much as he wanted peace among all men, he couldn’t help but relish in the idea of the epic collapse of Lloyd Bramhall.
