Page 139 of Before We Say Goodbye
Brooks gave it a go. Some spilled onto his chin.
“Yep, that happens to everybody in the beginning. Don’t worry. Taste that fruit, the balance. You know that zing you get when biting into a lemon? That’s the acid. You don’t pucker with these wines, but when you pick the grapes right off the vine, the acid is enough to make them tingle in your mouth. That same acid helps preserve the wine’s aromatics as it ages. I know it’s a lot, but bear with me for a while. You never know, you might fall in love.”
Brooks took another sip. “It’s good ... really good. Sorry, I’m just out of my element.”
“Not for long, Brooks. Not for long.”
Otis and Rebecca shared a smile.
After dinner Brooks helped with the dishes, and then they returned to the table. Rebecca had made a pound cake. Otis pulled everyone espressos from his new machine.
Out of nowhere, Brooks started talking. “I don’t know who my parents are. I grew up in the foster-care system, juggled by different homes in California. Then I ran away as a teenager, escaped a pretty ugly situation. Spent the last ten years bouncing around the country, bumming rides, hopping trains. Moving from one place to the next. I haven’t been good at keeping jobs, but they haven’t meant much to me. I hope that changes with this one. Seems like a damn fine place to be. I’m tired of sleeping on the ground or in a shelter. I’d like a life. I just don’t know how to get one. I guess that’s why I called, because it seemed like you’d given me something no one ever has before.”
Brooks raised his eyes to Otis, then to Rebecca. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You won’t,” Otis said.
Rebecca reached across the table and took his hand. “You’re a good man. I can see that. Sometimes we all need a break. Let’s make this one yours.”
The next morning Jed called Rebecca to tell her that their mother had passed away from a stroke. Olivia had been diagnosed with diabetes a year prior and had done nothing to manage it. They met Mike later that afternoon at SFO and drove up to Santa Rosa together. How sad that it was always death that brought people together.
Otis and Rebecca paid for the funeral and bought two burial plots next to each other in a nearby cemetery, so that Marshall could join her when his time came. They’d offered to include Jed, but like Bec, he wanted to be cremated.
After people started to leave, Jed wheeled outside to speak with Otis and Rebecca. He wore aVietnam War Veteranhat over his grayinghair. “I know apologies only go so far, so I won’t drown you in them, but I’m sorry. To both of you. Otis, I never gave you a chance. Bec, you have nothing to do with what happened.” He gestured to his legs. “I’m sorry I ever said that. Maybe it’s what was supposed to happen. Maybe it was the kick in the ass I needed. You were right—right about a lot of things. I should have gotten into computers way back when.” He smiled warmly. “It’s never too late, though. The VA is going to help me get into school, hopefully Sonoma State. I’m going to major in computer science, if this old brain can do it.”
Bec’s mouth fell open; her eyes reddened. “Really?”
Jed set his hands on the wheels of his chair. “I gotta do something. Just to get out of the house. Dad’s driving me crazy, and now that Mom’s gone ... I don’t want to abandon him, but I have to start looking out for myself.”
Lowering, Bec put her hands on Jed’s temples, and peered into his eyes. “I love you, brother.”
“I love you, too, sis.”
Brooks settled in and proved to be a hell of a hard worker. After dabbling for a month with the fermenting wines, Otis let Chaco teach Brooks how to prune and drive a tractor. Otis would often grab him for lunch, though, and they’d eat tacos on the back of the truck and talk about what makes a great wine, about permaculture, and how the sacred soil must be treated with reverence.
At night he’d take Brooks down into the cellar and open bottles of wine, sometimes spitting, sometimes not, but they’d always pay the wines respect. Otis could see the glimmer in Brooks’s eyes, and though the young man didn’t speak much, certainly not about inner feelings, he showed an enthusiasm that Otis recognized from his own experience.
They took a glass out into the vines one night. Rosco walked alongside them. Otis could feel Carmine in the chilly air. A full mooncast a warm glow over the land. Recalling his most valuable lesson, Otis reached for a handful of soil and dropped it into his glass, then knocked it back. “That’s what we’re doing here.”
Brooks smiled, but not like he thought Otis was crazy. More like he got it; he understood.
Then Otis spoke of balance. “That’s the key, Brooks. Not only in wine, but in life. You might have to learn the hard way like I did. Maybe you already have. This life, this wine life, can consume you. Just as the wines must strike the balance of its constituents, including the acidity, the alcohol, and the tannins, we must find our own. We must be at harmony with ourselves, with those around us, and the ones we’ve lost and found. Only then will our wines sing.”
Otis sipped his wine and ran a hand through Rosco’s thick coat of fur. “I don’t know if I’ve ever made the wine I want to make, but I’ve tried. Sometimes tried too hard. I’m finally on the right path. I have found the terroir that sings to my soul, and I have come to peace with so much of the pain inside. Now, all I can do is wait for the vintage like a surfer waits for a wave. They always come, but not always when you need them to. Do I make sense?”
“You do.”
Otis collected the glasses and stood. “On that note, I’m cooking my wife dinner tonight.”
“How’s she doing?” Brooks asked. “Since her mother ...”
“She’s working her way through it, as best she can. If I could take away her pain, I would, but I know she has what it takes to pull through. All I can do is be there for her, hold her when she wants holding, listen when she needs to talk.” He sighed. “What I hope for you is that you find a woman like I have, and when you do, Brooks, you give her more than you give anything. Because she matters most. Don’t ever forget that.”
Brooks nodded and stood. “I want to thank you. For everything. I feel ... I’ve been running all my life, and, maybe for the first time, I don’t feel like running anymore.”
Otis’s chest filled. “I’ll tell you what my father never told me. You have nothing to prove, Brooks Baker. Just chase your passions and love your people like you might never see them again. The rest will all work out.”
Never had Otis left his land days before harvest, but things had changed. He’d corrected his overcorrection. Naturally, he planned on returning with plenty of time left to harvest grapes, but it was the right time to take Brooks to the Mosel in Germany. He asked Michael to go too. It took some arm twisting due to his son’s tendency to lose himself in work, but he finally caved.
