Page 99 of Before We Say Goodbye
“Dad, I have given you guys my everything. It’s time I look out for my family. It’s time I go live my life. We’ll get some good money from the sale. We can help you out, but we’re leaving, and I don’t know where. That’s the exciting part.”
Marshall inclined his eyebrows. “The exciting part, yeah. I’m sure your brother will think so.”
“He has to do his own growing; I can’t carry him. If you want my opinion, which I know you don’t, stop pandering to him. Quit picking him up every time he falls. I know that I’m done doing that.”
“We’re not asking for your opinion,” Olivia said, showing rare backbone.
“Oh, I know.” Bec centered herself. “I love you guys so much and can’t wait for you to visit us. And I’d love to know you support us.”
Olivia whimpered. “What happens when we can’t take care of Jed any longer? What happens when we can’t take care of ourselves?”
It was a hell of a question, a sharp blade of one.
“Mom, we’ll always be there for you, however we can. Hopefully, you guys have a lot of years left anyway.”
Marshall laughed. “Oh, joy.”
“Look, guys. I have to live my life. Mike will be in college soon. Otis and I have new adventures ahead.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
Bec didn’t look devastated; she looked like she’d expected nothing less. Hell, she looked more at peace than he’d ever seen her.
Harvest was everything Otis had hoped, and he felt like they’d captured the whisper of the ranch like never before. Once the wines were in tanks and fermenting without issue, the three of them started taking research trips. They drove down to Paso Robles and up to the Russian River Valley. They flew to Charlottesville for a few days and tasted interesting cab francs and viogniers, then shot up to the Finger Lakes for riesling. Nothing quite hit home yet, but the journey couldn’t have been more fun. Otis had never seen Mike happier. Something about this being his idea revved his engines.
The moving parts locked into place when they landed in Portland, Oregon. It felt different from California, but the West Coast vibe was still there and terribly appealing. Otis didn’t know the first thing about growing pinot noir. He’d thought about trying some back in Sonoma but had never quite gotten around to it. Like riesling, a variety like that took all your focus. It wasn’t something you could dabble in.
His suspicions proved to be true as they toured the Willamette Valley and met with growers over the course of a week. He couldn’t imagine a prettier place in the country. Could they get used to the cold and wet? The food was extraordinary, and the people seemed like thegood kind. They tasted pinot after pinot, and Otis would close his eyes and imagine a world where he devoted himself to a new grape.
Still, they had yet to see Washington State. They drove along the Columbia River in a rented Jeep, and when they finally crossed over the bridge, Otis’s world shifted. He had never seen anything like this landscape in his life. It wasn’t far from Montana, and yet it was a world away. When the vineyards came into view, he gasped. They were these beautiful stretches of green tucked onto desert hills. Oases in the desert. But that big wide river surely gave a nice cooling effect, not to mention an endless supply of irrigation water.
They stayed three nights in Walla Walla and met with folks that Otis had heard about over the years, the likes of Leonetti and Woodward Canyon. Everyone knew of Otis and treated him with almost too much respect. Not one let him go without asking about the early-pick vintage. He had done so much with his life, made some amazing vintages, but they’d likely putHe picked reds in early July one yearon his tombstone.
The wines.
Of.
Washington.
Otis wasn’t sure what to make of them. Some were far from polished. He could tell quickly that many of the winemakers were former cherry farmers trying to figure things out. They lacked a proper education in wine, including ample time spent in the Old World. The potential of this fruit and land, however, could not be denied. In the right hands, Washington State could produce wines that could disrupt the world order.
There are moments that define a life. The day you meet your soulmate. The day you marry her. The day your children come into the world. The day you find your purpose. In a winemaker’s life, the day you find your land.
If you’re lucky, you might find a second plot.
Otis knew even as they came around the bend on the highway that he’d found a place that would be as important to him as a Stradivarius might be to the right violinist.
This land was a petite blonde stopping a bus, climbing on, walking down the aisle, and connecting eyes as if drawing coordinates in the stars. She was the first breaths of two baby boys as they curled into their mother’s arms. She was a mirror of the piece of land that would become Lost Souls Ranch. She, this mountain, was as much destiny as Rebecca and the boys and the passion that had nearly consumed him.
Yes, she was a she.
Red Mountain exuded femininity. There were no formal signs, no tasting rooms. This wasn’t Sonoma. Certainly not Napa. This wasn’t even Walla Walla. This was the wild frontier.
She was just a blip on the map.
And yet she was everything.
Everything.
