Page 118 of Before We Say Goodbye
“That’s right. Everybody’s talking about Amazon now, how they might go beyond books. And Starbucks is growing. Microsoft. It’s crazy here.”
“Your mother and I bought a little Amazon stock during the IPO.”
“Really? Wouldn’t it be cool if I could land a job with them? They’ll need lawyers.”
Otis pulled at the cord of the phone. “I’d love it if you stayed in Seattle. Your mother wants to buy a place there soon anyway. Now that we have some wine to sell, it’s probably time.”
“I have two roommates who would love to be taken out to dinner.”
“It would be our pleasure.” Otis didn’t mention that they hadn’t eaten out since TGI Fridays had burned their jalapeño poppers.It will all be okay,Otis kept telling himself. Red Mountain would grow. There was a time like this back in Sonoma and Napa. Perhaps there had even been a Red Lobster in Burgundy at one time.
Wait, no.
Definitely not.
After the blistering harvest of ’98, Otis hit the road. Rebecca was okay with his forthcoming departure this time, probably even excited about him leaving the house, as he hadn’t traveled much in years. If he was being honest, he was excited too. It would be nice to get out there and share their new project with old friends.
He had a different mindset this time and was determined to travel in a health-minded way. Not only for Rebecca, but for himself.
Water. That was key. Drink lots of water and go find the bloody gym in the hotel. All those years of travel, and he’d always opted for a bacon omelet over the gym to start his day.
Midnight was the rule. Not a minute later, he had to get back to his room. This meant some of his old friends would get upset with him. No matter, he had to look out for himself.
Salads. That was another biggie. Sure, maybe some prosciutto and Manchego from time to time, perhaps a bagel with schmear or a slice or five of pizza when he reached New York, but he would focus on ordering a salad with protein on top.
Mindful drinking too. It was a concept he’d learned from Rebecca’s incredible ability to eat mindfully. Whereas he could shove a rib eye into his mouth without even noticing, she would pause to consider all the people and animals and plants that had contributed to the plate before her, and she had the extraordinary ability to savor each bite as if it were her last. He would do the same thing with wine. He would cherish every sip, not only delighting in the bouquet and structure, but searching deep into the tertiary dimensions of the wine to find the essence of her—the land and climate and men and women behind it.
No Negronis, period. He needed to get that one tattooed on his hand.No Negronis.It went without saying that cocaine wasn’t even an option. ANo cocaine or Negronistattoo would be a hell of a conversation starter, though.
As this new Otis, the reinvented and reinvigorated soldier of his land, arrived in each state to spread the Gospel of Red Mountain, his distribution network wouldn’t know what hit them.
One of his first stops was right back where it all began in San Francisco. He arrived a day early to visit with a few old wine-biz friends. On the second night, he slipped up and stumbled into his hotel an hour past midnight, but he accepted that he was a work in progress. The next morning he peeled himself out of bed, hit the treadmill for thirty minutes, then enjoyed—no, not enjoyed—surviveda greendrink poisoned with wheatgrass. Rebecca wouldn’t believe him when he told her.
That Tuesday, a young wine rep picked Otis up and spent the drive to Beltramo’s gushing over him. An enormous case stack of Heartbreak cabernet sauvignon greeted them at the front of the store. Since white zin had fallen out of fashion, the new owner of his former property and brands was now trying out other varieties. Otis couldn’t imagine what the wines tasted like, and he had no intention of finding out. A little harder to swallow was when he set his eyes on the new vintage of Lost Souls.
They’d fancied up the label. The glass was far heavier, heavy enough to make a good weapon. He glanced at the alcohol content.Seventeen percent.“Dear God,” he said to the rep, who was barely old enough to drink, “they’ve really sold themselves out, haven’t they? They must have picked on Christmas Day.”
“It’s selling like you wouldn’t believe,” Howard said, coming down the aisle in an apron. Gray whiskers spun like birds’ nests around his ears. Their handshake turned into a hug, and they caught up for a while.
“How’s the new project?” Howard asked, clearing his throat. “I’m excited to taste it.”
Otis and the rep prepared the wines on an empty wine barrel in the back room. When Howard joined them, Otis took over and began to tell the tale of Red Mountain while extracting from his man bag a jar of Red Mountain soil. He twisted the lid, and a cloud of dust rose into the air like magic.
“Look at that,” Howard said, grinning bird’s nest to bird’s nest.
“Alluvial silt,” Otis said. “Several feet of this before reaching a hardpan floor of high-pH calcium carbonate that the roots rarely penetrate. So they don’t go deep, they go wide.”
After a few minutes of weaving together Red Mountain prose, he stopped himself. Howard was getting fidgety. “Let me back up. Let’s talk Washington State.” He told Howard of the Missoula floods and how they had carved out the Columbia Valley. He talked about the heatunits, the amazing drainage of the soil, then backed up even further to talk about Seattle, just to set the stage.
Unlike Otis and the young rep, Howard didn’t spit, and his cheeks turned red and his speech jolly as he caught his morning buzz.
Howard set down his empty glass on the barrel. “They’re exceptional, Otis, but I can’t sell them.”
“What do you mean? They’re a third of the price of Lost Souls.” He could hear the frustration in his own voice.
“I know. The juice is as good too. Still, it’s Washington. No one knows Washington makes wine. I’ll take a couple of cases, for old times’ sake, but I’ll probably have to close it out by the end of the year. I’m just telling you the truth.”
Otis exited Beltramo’s with his head down.
