Page 109 of Before We Say Goodbye
Mitch jabbed his cane into the dust. “It’s not only these vines that grow toward her. Every vine I’ve planted. She’s the heartbeat.”
“The heartbeat,” Otis whispered, gliding his fingers up into the leaves. “Does she have a name?” Not all grape vines were feminine, but this one was as feminine as Aphrodite.
Mitch shook his head. “I never could name her. Didn’t feel worthy of it. But she has a personality. Snaps at me if I don’t pay attention.”
Everyone laughed.
Otis turned to their new friends. “You’re only now showing us?”
“You have to plant some roots first,” Anne-Marie said, “before we show you her secrets.”
“There are more secrets?”
“They’re endless,” Tom said. “You’ve found a place begging to be tended to, begging to be discovered. A place that will one day grow some of the most important grapes in the New World.”
Otis could have damn near cried.
That night, the coyotes howled their songs and sent tremors through Otis’s bones.
Chapter 24
Neighborly Disturbances
On February 2, 1996, the temperature on Red Mountain fell to negative sixteen degrees, and so many vineyards were lost. Planting on a five-to-seven-degree slope had been the Tills’ salvation. The steady run of air descending down to the river kept the freeze from settling. After countless bud dissections, they determined they’d lost only 25 percent of their vines.
Otis weathered the news well and found gratitude that they didn’t lose more. He and Bec expected to face new challenges, but he couldn’t have imagined such a jarring winter. Nevertheless, the pruning went well, and the entire mountain celebrated when budbreak came in mid-April. This was a farmer’s life, fighting from year to year.
Camden and Michael were both thriving. Cam had landed his dream job as a biologist for the National Park Service. Though he was based in Denver, he spent a lot of time on the road, visiting parks all across the US. On weekly calls from his University of Washington dorm, Michael told them he was exactly where he needed to be. His love of football had never died, and he always squeezed in some talk about the Huskies games.
“Have you met anyone?” Bec asked one day, failing to hide how important his answer was to her. “Not a girl, I just mean friends. Have you found your people?”
“Yeah, Simmons and I hang out. He’s pretty cool.” Simmons was his roommate. Otis and Bec had first met him when they’d moved Michael in.
“And classes?” Otis asked.
“Guys, I’m fine. I love it here. I gotta go, but I’ll call soon, okay?”
In May, Rebecca went to Bali for a month of torture. Well, yoga and silent retreats, same difference in Otis’s opinion. He began to replant the vines they’d lost with the help of his new crew. He hired Chaco, a man with a silver front tooth who admitted to having a sordid history back in Mexico working with cartels, but he’d cleaned up and tended vines for fifteen years in Washington State. Chaco brought with him his team of hard workers, who understood the land and were entirely open to farming without chemicals.
Otis invited all the employees to taste wines, and he’d talk about his latest philosophies, how this was far more than a cash crop, that wine was life, and that he expected them to treat the vines and wines with reverence. In return, he would pay them well.
It was after one of these meetings, one week into Rebecca’s trip, when Otis saw Vance coming up the road. He hadn’t seen him all year and had hoped that it might be a quiet vintage, sans the sounds of the band from hell.
“Shit,” he said, scratching his head.
“Quién es ese?” Chaco could speak English but knew Otis could understand him in Spanish.
“El diablo,” Otis said.
That night Otis sat on the back deck, Rosco at his feet, and lit a pipe, something he’d recently taken up. He felt a certain need to havea little extra fun while Rebecca was gone. Usually he’d take Mondays through Wednesdays off drinking, but while she was away, he’d abandoned restraint and was drinking a handful of special bottles from deep in the cellar.
He’d already enjoyed two glasses of a 1975 Trocken riesling fromEgon Müller, and he’d just poured himself a stellar glass of a pinot noir from Coche-Dury. By God, it had some panache. He smacked his lips in delight. Even Vance couldn’t get in the way of the glory of a well-made Burgundian wine.
The second glass tasted even more delightful, and he stepped inside to grab some tasty treats. A neighbor had recently gifted Otis a cut of salmon that he’d caught and smoked himself. Turned out to pair wonderfully with the pinot noir, and Otis fell into a joyful state of bathing in the setting sun on the back deck. Later, he’d grill a steak the size of his head, because Rebecca had been threatening to go vegetarian again, so he better take advantage while she was away.
Then came the sound of approaching vehicles. Rosco raced to the rail and let out a deep bark. Coming up behind his dog, Otis saw several cars driving entirely too fast along the shared gravel road—a line of morons who wouldn’t know Barolo if it rained down upon them.
“Slow down, you ingrates!” Otis yelled, tobacco smoke rising from his lungs.
