Page 22 of Before We Say Goodbye
Was there any substance behind this wine thing anyway? Between classes, while seated along the shore of Strawberry Creek, the waterway that ran through Berkeley, he pondered his awakening while also looking for any indications that he’d misread this abrupt about-face in his life.
Otis had fond memories of his mother’s garden back in London. They’d had a first-floor flat with a small courtyard that she’d packed with flowers and vegetables. He would lean against the brick wall and watch her work and ask endless questions, desperate to understand how a seed could sprout into a plant, or how humans had discovered which fruits and vegetables were edible, or how a flower could detect the sun and grow toward it.
Seeing the vines at Murphy Vineyards had reignited his enthusiasm. To think a vine could bear fruit that would lead to wine was almost more than he could process, especially once he considered Paul Murphy’s words about how each year and each piece of land created different qualities in the grapes. The idea took farming to a new place. Wine production was the ultimate confluence of art and science, an intersection that called to Otis like a gesturing hand appearing out of the fog.
He’d adored so much about the farm in Montana: his mother’s much-larger garden, the steady howl of the coyotes at night, the fresh cream and milk, the early mornings where the rest of the world slept as he completed his chores, the constant challenges: a broken fence ortractor, an animal that needed special care, even a door that wouldn’t open. The list never ended, and he enjoyed doing his part and learning how to tackle anything that came his way. His aunt and her team of workers had been good about teaching him, showing tremendous patience to a young teen who had far more questions than answers.
But Otis wasn’t a Montana boy. He didn’t love raising cows, only to send them to slaughter. He wasn’t a cowboy. Forgive him for saying so, but he wasn’t a big Johnny Cash fan. He didn’t favor going to the rodeo, or playing pool and sipping on suds. He’d been an outsider, and that was why he’d moved so far away. Perhaps he was a California man. He could have his nature there but produce something with more appeal—a product with sophistication.
One thing was for sure. He found the idea of farming vines and making wines far more exciting than sitting hunched over a desk like his father stabbing at a typewriter. He had too much energy for a sedentary life. That all seemed clear now.
Was his dream worth giving up on college and facing the wrath of Addison Till, though? Did he need to be in that much of a rush? If he abandoned his current trajectory, he’d risk becoming the first Till in recorded history to not have done something important. Even if he did become someone in the wine world, that likely wouldn’t mean much to his family anyway.
“I believe in you, Otis,” Bec said one day in February. They were strolling to the café in Santa Rosa where she’d taken a waitress job. “But I’m not going to be the one to tell you to drop out of school. That’s your decision.”
“You have a sense of these things, though. Am I crazy?”
“I don’t know. To take a risk and chase something more appealing? I’ve never known anyone with ambition like you. Maybe that’s all it takes. Before I met you, I didn’t even know I should have something to aspire to.”
He wished someone knew the answer.
As Bec strapped on an apron and took her first order of the day, Otis mounted his motorcycle and headed to Murphy Vineyards to ask for a job.
“I’ll do anything, Paul.”
“Mr. Otis Till, bitten so badly by the bug that he’s willing to risk it all. You sound more like me every day, brother.” He fired up a joint and took a hit. “If you want to join the fellas and prune, that’s fine, but that’s all the work I have for you right now, and it doesn’t pay well. I guess that’s where it all begins. That’s how I started.”
“Pay me what you can. I just want to learn.” Otis took a long pull off the joint, then looked out over Paul’s vineyard of naked vines that would soon produce leaves and grape clusters, an army of soldiers readying for the next vintage. “I can’t exactly explain it, but this is where I belong.”
Paul let out a grin. “I know the feeling. Something tells me you’re up for the task.”
Chapter 6
A Crossroads
On February 27, 1970, Otis said sayonara to Berkeley. He wished he could have kicked it to the curb and not looked back, but the potential for cascading aftershocks of regret was high. Unfortunately, he’d already passed the point of getting any money back, a fact that would infuriate his father to no end. That was why he chose to withhold all information from his family until further notice.
He did not have such a luxury with regard to Bec’s parents. Though Otis had never been invited to crash on their couch and stayed in a cheap motel that rented by the hour on the edge of Santa Rosa, the Bradshaws always invited him for a meal. For better or worse, he was getting to know them intimately.
“Let me get this straight,” Marshall said to Otis at the dinner table that night. He’d been knocking back Miller High Lifes like his life depended on it. “You’ve dropped out of one of the best schools in the country and now plan on working in the fields?”
“Correct,” Otis said, wiping ketchup off the corner of his mouth, proving his citizenship one condiment at a time. Marshall had a million faults, but the man could grill a mean hamburger. “I have to start somewhere. One day I’ll have my own—” He stopped and tookBec’s hand under the table. “We ...wewill have our own vines, our own winery.”
Marshall ran a hand through his thin gray hair as a yucky grin materialized. The bags under his eyes puddled under fault lines of wear and tear. “I have one daughter, and for some ungodly reason, she’s enthralled by you. Should this truly last, I expect you to treat her like the princess she thinks she is. Pipe dreams don’t pay the bills, boy. You understand what I’m telling you?”
Otis resisted smacking the man’s head. No, who was he kidding? He wasn’t a smacker of heads. Instead, he met Marshall with fierce eyes and reminded himself that he could not fail. He’d prove to the whole fucking congregation of doubters out there that he was someone special, someone who could do great things on his own terms.
Aware of the venom in his sharp tone, he said, “You don’t have to worry about your daughter. I’ll give her and our life everything I have.”
“Let’s hope that’s enough,” Marshall said, unwavering. He picked a green speck of lettuce from his teeth. “I guess if you need a job, I can find you something.”
Otis nearly threw the rest of his burger at him. Did the man not hear what he was saying?
“When’s the last time you built anything, Dad?” Jed asked, saving Otis, who was seeing double with a silent rage. “What favors could you call in?”
Marshall’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what I do or who I know, son.”
Boy.Son. Marshall’s words dripped with condescension.
