Page 35 of Before We Say Goodbye
Rebecca bailed on the fall semester of Sonoma State, as Camden arrived in September 1973, a plump baby born three days after his due date. Otis was right in the middle of harvest but had rushed to Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital when the call came. Though they’d been plagued by more money troubles—his bike breaking down, Bec siphoning too much of what little money she made to her family, Otis barely making enough of a salary to call it a job—Camden was a welcome bundle of joy.
Otis’s parents flew down, mixing with the in-laws as best as they could.
“He’s a harvest baby,” Otis proclaimed, assuring his family he would be one of the best winemakers in the world, that he was already aligned with the grapes.
Addison Till nodded his head with a morsel of encouragement, but Otis suspected that everyone, maybe Bec included, prayed that the wine bug wouldn’t get close to biting this young boy. Otis could see how all eyes glazed over when he spoke ofterroir, or about the latest trends in farming, or about the writer and farmer Jack London and what he’d done to bring ancient Chinese techniques to California. No one needed to say that Otis and Bec weren’t in the financial positionto have brought a child into their lives. In addition, Otis’s decision to dump his first batch of wine had drawn unsolicited reminders from both Marshall and Addison that the admissions office at Berkeley might give him another chance.
This year Otis was trying again, working that same block of orphaned vines. He’d spent countless hours loving on them, dropping fruit, pruning—perhaps too heavy-handedly—talking to them, begging those vines to give him the chance he needed. Fear had a grip on him, and with every bite of ramen noodles and hot dogs they ate, he reminded himself of the stakes.
As soon as the 1973 harvest ended, and while his latest wine fermented, Otis worked with Marshall on a new project renovating an office building. He figured learning the construction trade would be invaluable when—notif—he found a way to buy his own piece of paradise. It was a bloody miracle that Marshall had gone back to work, and Otis made a stab at building a relationship with the man out of love for Bec.
Throughout the winter and into the spring of 1974, even as the vines came alive, Otis worked both jobs while somehow attempting to help Bec at home. He found that he could survive on four hours of interrupted sleep as he balanced his heavy load. He would have complained to Rebecca, but she’d been the one peeling herself off the pillow for Cam every night. Of course, she handled her lack of sleep so much more gracefully. Otis was the Scrooge of Sonoma, while she still managed to smile.
They were getting very little help from her parents. Marshall and Olivia would pop by on occasion, but there was no babysitting, no casserole delivery. Barely a diaper change. Uncle Jed was no uncle at all. He’d shown no interest whatsoever in Cam’s existence. All that Bec had done for those three, and they couldn’t return the love. It was heartbreaking.
At Murphy Vineyards a year after Camden’s birth, Otis filled a bottle without a label—what they called a shiner—from the tank he’d used for his first vintage and carried it out to the tables where everyone had gathered for a preharvest dinner.
The scene reminded him of their wedding. Stretches of Chinese lanterns hung overhead. Everyone had brought a dish. Sparrow was the salad person, sharing the rich bounty of her garden. Paul always prepared an enchilada casserole that his mother used to make back in Oregon, and it was barely edible, but no one had the guts to tell him. He was a terrible cook but too kind and happy for anyone to want to burst his bubble. Bec had made mac and cheese, and it disappeared before Otis had even gotten a bite. Lloyd had arrived in a shiny new convertible Jaguar and brought with him a selection of French wines and several tins of Caspian Sea beluga caviar. Otis would have thought him to be a show-off had he not been so eager to enjoy his first caviar experience.
Perhaps what made the night different from their wedding was Cam, the young hellion always by their side. Their son sat in the grass, playing with building blocks. He’d finally discovered his tongue and rambled on about God knows what as he built his toy empire. Otis felt proud to raise his boy amid the vines and couldn’t wait for the day that Cam took a seat at the table.
After chatting briefly about the economy and stagflation, they played the usual game, guessing country, region, producer, and vintage of each mystery wine. For this particular tasting, everyone had brought one bottle to contribute.
They finally got to Otis’s offering—the wine he’d made. He’d tasted it every week since he’d picked the fruit eleven months prior, and he’d come to know it as if it were his second child—one who did not require diaper changes.
Like a Parisian chef eyeing his patrons, Otis studied his friends’ faces as they tasted, searching for clues in their expressions.
“Oh, my,” said Paul. “That’s got to be a ... is that? I don’t know. I’m thinking Bordeaux.”
“Whatever it is, it’s groovy,” said one of the cellar rats.
“I think it’s California,” Bec said. “Tchelistcheff?” She was referring to André Tchelistcheff, the legendary Russian winemaker whom Georges de Latour had recruited to transform Beaulieu Vineyard in the Napa Valley.
If only she knew what her guess meant to him.
“Yeah, maybe,” Paul agreed, elevating an eyebrow with his nose still stuffed into the glass.
Lloyd harrumphed. “You know half of Bordeaux sneaks syrah into their wines to give some extra panache. I wonder if that’s the case here. Who brought this?”
Otis ignored the question and splashed the wine around in the glass before jabbing his nose in for another sniff. He took a sip and let it dance on his tongue. It really was delightful, utterly alive in the mouth. The savory taste lingered like an outgoing tide, and Otis thought that maybe, just maybe, he had what it took.
“Moment of truth,” Paul said, drawing the bottle out of the bag. “Hold on, is this one of our bottles?”
Otis smirked, but in his depths he glowed like a star coming to life for the first time. “It’s my wine,” he said, unable to stop himself from swelling with pride.
“Get out,” Paul said.
Others chimed in, telling him he’d done it, made something spectacular. A fellow vineyard worker clapped him on the back. Bec slipped her arms around him.
“A wine this good needs a good name,” Paul said. “Are you ready to share yet?”
Otis hadn’t even told Rebecca the name he’d chosen, as he was worried he’d jinx it and end up pouring another vintage down the drain.
The time to fess up was now. “Just like Bec and me when we first met, that block Paul gave me is a lost soul. There you go, the first vintage of Lost Souls.”
“I’ll be damned,” Lloyd said. “You show talent, Otis. There’s something special about this juice. It’s a good name too.” His head bobbed up and down with approval, marking the first time Otis sort of liked the man. He still wanted to punch him in the mouth for eyeing Bec, but maybe Lloyd Bramhall wasn’t a total piece of shit. Perhaps a bit of scat, though.
A round of applause rose into the air. Otis couldn’t remember feeling prouder, and he stood and kissed his wife, then scooped Cam up from the grass and met his eyes, whispering, “I’m paving the way for you, my son.”
