Page 19 of Before We Say Goodbye
“Oh, no, thank you.”
“You sure, man?”
Otis did want to stomp, though. He looked again at the two people in the bins, dancing over grapes. Then he turned only slightly to Paul, their faces far too close. “Well, are you ...? I don’t mean to ...”
Paulfinallypulled his arm away, and Otis felt like he could breathe again. Otis would find the American sense of privacy funny if it weren’t so unsettling. Also, why was Paul so bloody happy? Perhaps he was high, but nevertheless, he looked as if he hadn’t a trouble in the world!
“Take your shoes off, brother. You’re up next. You’ll never forget it. In the meantime, help yourself to more wine.” He pointed to a barrel, on top of which a jug rested.
Otis looked down at his shoes, wondering whether he was really about to do this, worried about the sight of his toenails and the cleanliness of his feet.
“I’m just a visitor, you know,” he called out to Paul, who had started walking away.
Paul whipped around and stood before Otis, placing a hand on each shoulder and forcing Otis to make eye contact. “We’re all just visitors, aren’t we?”
“I . . . I suppose so.”
Paul leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, returning Otis to the mannequin form that he’d taken at Rebecca’s only an hour earlier.
“Everyone,” Paul called, “meet Otis. He wants to stomp.”
“Hi, Otis,” everyone said at the same time.
Otis raised a stiff hand to these strangers. Though he felt violated and exposed, he also, oddly, felt right at home. Perhaps a dose of vulnerability wouldn’t kill him.
He removed his shoes, rolled up his pants, and polished off the white in his glass. An easy buzz settled over him. He poured himself the red wine from the jug. Before he took his first sip, he raised his gaze to the slope of vines, where he could still see the harvesters’ bobbing heads. The sight seemed to grow more exquisite by the second, as if he were dialing in the focus with each breath of this Sonoma air.
The red wine clung to his mouth before slipping down his throat. He had no idea how to properly taste wine, but the sensations that came over him were almost more than he could handle. He could taste the wine down to his very toes—the unmanicured ones. The soundtrack of everyone’s laughter, mixed with the devotion they gave to this task, only exacerbated how he felt.
There were no words, though. Human explanation would have insulted the experience.
With that reverence in mind, Otis took another sip. Fireworks shot off in his mouth and caused a tingle down deep.
“You all right?”
Otis came to, noticing his new friend staring at him. “All right? I’m bloody fucking fantastic.”
A smile stretched on Paul’s face. “I see a man who’s been bitten.”
“Bitten?”
Paul clapped him on the shoulder. “The wine bug. It’s sunk its teeth into you.”
“Is that what you call it?” Otis grinned. “It tastes like God is in this wine.”
“Of course he is. What better way of expressing nature than capturing it in a bottle? You’re drinking the lyrics to a song that’s just been written. You’re drinking a year, captured in a glass. Last year’s weather, the choices made in the cellar, everything that happened here on Murphy Vineyards. Nineteen sixty-eight in your mouth, man. Never can it be repeated. It’s as unique as butterfly wings, a fingerprint of the earth. If last year had a hand, then we took it and pressed an inked finger down. Now you have it in your mouth and stomach and heart. By taking that in, you’re one of us.”
For God’s sakes, this man was the greatest proselytizer to have ever walked the earth. Another word and Otis would fall to his knees and weep.
Collecting himself, he managed to ask, “Is this your family’s place?”
He shook his head. “My parents are Mormons from Oregon, so they’re not big into what I’m doing, but this is my dream.”
“How’d you get started?”
Paul pointed at a man dressed like he’d disembarked from his yacht in Catalina. Khakis, boat shoes, a polo shirt. An expensive haircut with a perfect curl on top and a tight shave. He was as handsome as any man Otis had ever seen.
“That guy there, Lloyd Bramhall. He’s my ticket. His family owned half of San Francisco at one point, textiles, real estate. Now he’s just having fun. I somehow talked him into investing and helping Sparrow and me buy land. Now we owe him a tremendous amount of money, and he owns my soul, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Look at them. Those are my vines now ... my winery. An impossible dream coming to life.”
