Page 140 of Before We Say Goodbye
Otis flew them first class. Brooks had never been to Europe and stumbled around in wide-eyed awe at everything. When they started taking their appointments to taste, Brooks visibly became emotional. Otis could see that the wine bug had him, the toothy bastards sinking in their fangs.
The only thing he worried about was Michael. He hoped there wasn’t any jealousy.
Brooks explored on his own one day, and Otis and Michael went for a long walk along the river. Two hours in, they got hungry and found a traditional restaurant for lunch.
Over sausage and potatoes and cabbage, Otis said, “I’m going to ask Brooks to become my assistant winemaker, but I wanted to run it by you first.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Michael tapped his foot under the table, always on the go. He looked the part, a pressed shirt and chinos. A tight hairdo. On his wrist he wore Addison’s Rolex. Otis had given it to him shortly after Camden had died.
“I know,” Otis said, talking with his fork in his hand, “but I want to. I don’t want you to think I’m leaving you out. I know you don’t want to be a part of the business, but you’re always welcome. You know I’llleave it to you. Maybe you’ll sell. Hopefully to the right person. But I’d like you to be involved with the big decisions. More importantly, I don’t want you to think Brooks matters more to me than you.”
Michael slid his stein of beer closer to him. “Oh, c’mon.”
“I’m serious. He does feel like a son to me, but—”
“Dad, stop. I think you have enough love to go around. It’s amazing that you’re mentoring him. Look at him. He’s doing great, working hard. Keep doing that for him. You’ve done that for me all my life.”
“I’ve tried.”
“And succeeded. Look at what you did for Vance too. He never had that. I’m happy to share my dad with good men who didn’t have a father.”
Chills rose up Otis’s back. He leaned forward, waiting for Michael to lock eyes with him. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Upon their return, Otis took Brooks to meet Mitch Green, the hermit. Brooks ate warm cheese from Mitch’s pocket, cut from a dirty knife, and they drank several efforts from the previous vintage, all of them heavy with Brettanomyces, a yeast that makes a wine smell like the underside of a horse saddle.
“I hear the Round Table is becoming formalized,” Mitch said.
“That’s right,” Otis said. “We’re changing the name to the Red Mountain AVA Alliance, turning it into a nonprofit trade association, with a board of directors, the whole thing.”
“Good God,” Mitch said.
“I know. We’re growing up.”
Mitch led them to the vine that was the heartbeat of their land, and Otis could see that whatever road had led Brooks to Red Mountain, it might be that he would never leave. He burst with life out here and being around that vine seemed to heal him even more. Maybe he wouldone day take the helm of Till Vineyards, possibly even steer the ship that was Red Mountain.
In the months to come, Otis taught Brooks everything he could in the cellar, and when they were done, he said, “Take a couple of weeks off. Then we’ll do it all over again. We put one vintage in front of the other—that’s how you build a life in wine. That is, if you’re hooked.”
Brooks had turned less timid. He held Otis’s gaze. “I think I’ve found my calling.”
Otis’s cheeks swelled. “I think you have too.”
Chapter 30
Teaching Moments
“Who would have known that the 2009 vintage would be the one?” Otis had finally done it, made the wine he’d been going for all these years.
“What was your first vintage again?” Brooks asked. His confidence continued to grow, and he even seemed relaxed at the table, with one leg over the other.
Rebecca held out a hand. “Oh, don’t encourage him. He’ll race off to the—”
It was too late. Otis rose from the table where he, Brooks, Rebecca, and Mike sat in the living room. It was February 2011, and the ’09 vintage had shipped out into the world today, and so they’d pulled the cork on a bottle to see how it had fared.
Of course, they already knew. They’d been tasting the wine for almost a year and a half now. From day one, the land had worked with them. The pests were manageable, the spring rains not too harsh. They had their obstacles, but that was fine, that was always the way. It was just that Otis had found renewed spirit in working with and teaching Brooks. They faced their challenges with optimism and curiosity. They tasted the grapes every morning till the balance was right. Then they picked.
Otis jogged up to the winery in the cold, then stuck the iron key in the lock and pulled open the great wooden door that protected their entire wine collection. Down below, he lit the sconces and found what he sought: the first vintage of Lost Souls, not counting the wine he’d poured out.
Back at the table, Otis extracted the cork and took a sniff. The old label had nearly peeled off. “Can you believe it, Bec? Nineteen seventy-five is considered old now. I haven’t tasted this in years. There’s not much left. Actually, it’s a good thing Bec made me hold back a few cases.”
