Page 119 of Before We Say Goodbye
It only grew worse on the East Coast. On a sales trip in Tampa, Otis dined by himself, a salad with a piece of roasted chicken. He’d skipped the white Negroni that he’d drooled over and gone straight for one single glass of Rioja and a large bottle of Pellegrino.
At the table next to him sat a chatty couple who lit up when he mentioned that he was in the wine business, but when he’d told them he made wines in Washington, their eager eyes turned shallow.
“I didn’t know they make wines in Washington,” the lad said. “We were there recently, did the whole White House tour, Museum of Natural History. Which side of the Potomac are you on?”
Otis lifted his glass of Rioja and stared into it, feeling like maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew with his latest venture. Perhaps they should have bought a ranch house in Sonoma and traded in his tractor and shears for a Cadillac and golf clubs.
“No, not that Washington. I mean Washington State, on the other side of the country.”
The guy’s girlfriend hit him in the head. “And you call yourself a wine person, honey.”
Otis raised a hand in calm understanding. “No, it’s perfectly okay. It’s an up-and-coming wine area. Truly lovely Bordeaux varieties, but without the price tag.”Did I just say that? I sound like I’m selling Corvettes, not liquid poetry. Rebecca would be so much better out here on the road.
“What are the Bordeaux varieties?” she asked.
Otis spent the next thirty minutes giving them an education, and during their conversation he realized something. This was part of being a pioneer. It was a battle that would be fought one person, one palate at a time. What he knew as he paid their bill and bid them good night was that they would drink Washington State wines for the rest of their lives.
The experience of that evening lingered with Otis, and a renewed optimism came over him in the fall of 1999. He’d successfully navigated a rather heavy year of travel, something he hadn’t expected, but spreading the word was absolutely required. If many of the others in the region wouldn’t do it, then he’d do it on his own.
Rebecca was on board too. While he collected miles up high in the sky, she spent her days bettering Red Mountain in her own special ways, growing the nearly perfect tomato, planting flower beds, and tending to the sheep and chickens. She started a book club with many of the women on the mountain.
She ran the tasting room better than anyone Otis had ever seen. She had become so passionate about Washington State and Red Mountain, and when a new guest walked in, she pulled them into her and Otis’s world, giving them tours of the land and facilities—sometimes even their home, God forbid—and then she’d taste them through the wines with all the patience in the world.
“Don’t hold the bulb, hold the stem. There you go. Now give it a nice swirl and press your nose in. Don’t be afraid. Close your eyes and see where it takes you.” She could have sold grapes to a vineyard.
This was what it required, the second act of their lives, digging in and doing whatever it took to spread the Gospel of Red Mountain.
It was just that every time they found their stride, dark clouds came galloping in.
Otis was preparing a carne asada marinade for dinner when his phone rang on the counter. It was Aunt Morgan, who more often wrote letters than phoned. He quickly wiped his hands and accepted the call. “Everything okay?”
The long beat of silence confirmed bad news was coming. “Morgan?” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother, Otis. She’s in the hospital.”
His pulse froze. “What ... what happened?”
“They’re doing tests now, no one knows. She complained of a headache this morning; then I found her on the floor in the living room an hour ago. She was barely breathing.”
Otis pinched closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
It was too late to catch a flight, so they made the eight-hour drive and reached the hospital in Bozeman a little after midnight. In the hallway, they embraced Aunt Morgan, who told them that Eloise had had a heart attack and that she was in rough shape.
Otis entered the room to find his pale-faced mother staring back at him. A smile graced her face. “My son.”
“Mum.” He took her cold hand and kissed her forehead.
Eloise died two days later. Otis had barely left her side, and he was there when she closed her eyes for the last time. He wished he’d hadmore time with her, but life had gotten in the way. At least he had been there when she was issued her wings, and what he’d never forget was the strength and grace she’d showed all the way to the end. There’d been a time when he’d thought his father was the hero of the family, but by the time they laid her in the ground, he knew it was his mother who’d been the rock.
Vance hadn’t shown up in a long time, which Otis had interpreted as divine intervention, perhaps even a gift from his mother from heaven. A hired team continued to work Vance’s land, poorly if Otis was judging, but those men and women were the only signs of life over there. Clearly God had deemed this land too holy for Vance or his heavy metal music and his disrespect for the sacred.
Or so he thought. Otis was enjoying a nice afternoon. He’d hired a few interns from Washington State University to work with him in the cellar, and they’d spent the day cleaning. Otis found incredible joy in the sparkle of a spick-and-span winery. They were nearly ready to bring in fruit, and Otis was sure this was his year, the year he made a wine that would set the world on fire, a wine they would talk about from San Francisco to Tokyo.
He’d poured himself a finger—maybe two, maybe three—of a properly aged and particularly peaty Laphroaig and was about to peruse the newspaper when the familiar sound of vehicular invaders came from the vineyard road. As Rosco began to bark, Otis’s body seized up. Vance was back.
Things had been better lately. He’d found peace with his mother’s passing. Red Mountain was on the upswing.
And yet the darkest nights always followed the brightest days, especially in his world, as he spent his life under a ladder, his eyes on the black cat crossing in front of him.
