Page 18 of Before We Say Goodbye
Otis wasn’t particularly hungry, so he decided to simply drive. He’d never owned a car, and it was nice to listen to the radio and cruise along SR 12 south of Santa Rosa. Though he wasn’t a wine aficionado, he was well aware of Sonoma County’s rich wine history, and he was curious to see the landscape.
Rebecca’s awful troubles aside, Otis had his own. They paled in comparison to Bec’s, or those of the men being drafted or the people warring over civil rights, but his troubles existed, nonetheless. Hell with it, they didn’t only exist, theyplaguedhim. Was he really meant to be a writer, even if he didn’t feel passionate about it the way his father did? Seemed like a recipe for being a piss-poor writer, if you asked him.
Even now, he could hear his father’s clackety typing in the other room, as if his old man were still fifteen feet away. Otis could hear Addison talking to himself, too, occasionally cracking up with joy, a man who knew exactly what he should do with his life.
The DJ said it was Aretha Franklin who’d been singing, then talked about the weather—the fog was coming—and signed off for the day. The next DJ kicked things off with Creedence Clearwater’s “Down on the Corner.”
Otis couldn’t help but turn up the volume and pat his hands against the steering wheel. Bec was right—she and Otis were young. He had to let go and enjoy the ride.
Then it happened . . .
Otis came around a bend and set eyes on a vineyard for the first time in his life, cascading rows of grapevines stretching over the land, the leaves a dazzling green. Otis felt as if he’d driven right onto the canvas of a painting. The scent of ripe grapes rushed in through the open windows.
He’d thoroughly enjoyed watching America pass by from the purple bus—when he wasn’t too distracted by the boisterous yet petite sensation next to him—and there was no denying the beauty of Montana he had come to know as a teenager, but he couldn’t recall ever laying his eyes on such a miraculous view.
The murky stew in his mind faded away, taken over by the sweet fruity smell, the vision of the vines, the taste of the wines to come, the touch of his fingers on the wheel, the sound of Creedence, the sense that he should quit with all the worrying. What a foreign feeling, one he wished he could pull over and quickly bottle, because rarely had he felt so utterly complete.
Otis slowed the car, noticing heads poking out from the rows. They must have been harvesting. Getting a better look, he saw people with baskets full of purple clusters hanging from their necks. Was California wine even any good? He’d had his fair share of wine in San Francisco, the jugs someone would bring home from the store, but he’d not paid much attention to them.
When he saw a sign for a wine tasting, he hit the brakes. He had a few bucks in his pocket. Perhaps he could bring a bottle back to Bec’s parents, a sort of peace offering.Here you go, a bottle of wine for your daughter’s hand.Did they even drink wine?
Otis parked between a tractor and a Ford truck loaded with plastic bins. He headed toward a red barn with a sign that readMurphy Vineyards. Inside, a long plank of wood rested on two sawhorses.On one end stood a group of four thirtysomethings equipped with wineglasses, laughing together.
The freckled redhead behind the bar waved him forward. She looked to be in her late twenties and wore a blouse with an exposed midriff. Her long thick hair, the color of orange leaves, hung in loose braids. She had piercing cobalt eyes that evoked a sense of knowingness, like a woman who’d been a mystic in a past life.
“Looking to taste some wines?”
Otis’s heart rate lowered in her presence, and he sidled up to the bar. “I suppose so.” Apparently no one was checking IDs around here.
She set down two bottles that featured a sketch of the red barn on their labels. “We have a chardonnay and a cabernet sauvignon, blended with some cinsault and merlot.” She poured the white first.
Otis gave it a sniff and then put it to his mouth like he’d seen his parents do. It took him a moment to put things together, but something about the smell and how he’d just seen the vines that bore this fruit gave the sip extra power.
“They’re harvesting reds today. Feel free to walk through those doors and see the action for yourself. Ask for my husband, Paul. He’s easy enough to find. Long hair and handsome.”
Otis set the glass down. “This is your place?”
“Ours, yes. I’m Sparrow.”
“Otis Till, quite the pleasure.” He eyed the open doors in the back of the barn. “Should I go now?”
“Sure. Take your glass. Here, let me top you off.”
With a replenished glass of chardonnay, he strolled through the back, coming out into the light again. Rock ’n’ roll played from a radio perched on the low branch of a tree. About fifteen people were back there, two of whom stood in large bins, stomping on grapes, big grins stretched across their faces. In a patch of grass, next to a stack of crates brimming with freshly picked grapes, several people played a game of bocce ball.
Otis timidly stepped forward, curious as a dog who had caught a scent.
“How’s it going?” said a voice.
Otis looked over to see a well-cut shirtless guy with his trousers rolled up. His dusty-brown hair was long enough to get into a ponytail. And perhaps he carried some of that same knowingness in his eyes that Sparrow had exhibited, though it seemed more like contentedness. “I’m Paul Murphy.”
“Ah, I met your wife. I’m Otis Till.”
Paul apparently did not practice spatial etiquette and wrapped an arm around Otis’s neck. “Welcome, Otis. You ever seen this go down before?”
Otis cleared his throat and tried hard to accept such an invasion of his space. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Want to stomp?” Any closer and Paul would be kissing him.
