Page 42 of Before We Say Goodbye
“You’re the only thing I’m ever sure of.”
They kissed, and Otis could feel some of her pain fall away.
“Did you really call your penis a lobster tail?” she asked, as they pulled apart.
A smile split his lips. “I was trying to be ... polite.”
Laughter spilled out of both of them, and Otis fell in love all over again. She had her own demons, but they’d be no match for her in the end. Otis believed that with all of him.
Often the years were determined by the vintage, whether it was wet or cold, hot or dry. Carmine was a dry farmer, meaning he didn’t use any irrigation, and as the warm months came, he cursed when it didn’t rain, saying he used to get all the rain he wanted, but now God had it out for him.
The ’75 harvest, the first since the end of the war, settled into a steady climate that brought the grapes to a nice balance. Carmine liked to pick after midnight while the fruit was cold. As they dumped grapes into the crusher/destemmer, he would blast Italian opera music, insisting that his wines demanded to be celebrated as they made their journey toward the bottle.
Otis soaked up as much as he could from his teacher—how carbonic maceration staved off oxidation, how sulfur could paralyze a wine if it was overused, how a bladder press was far gentler on the grapes and easier to clean than a basket press. Like Paul, Carmine had recently sworn off redwood fermenters and used only double-lined stainless-steel tanks, but that was one of the few modern techniques that he embraced.
“You need to unlearn some of these things,” Carmine said. “They’re good tools for larger wineries. Gallo has to use machines to pick, has to filter, to load up the sulfur. What we’re doing here allows for less intervention. This is liquid poetry. You don’t filter poetry, do you?”
At home, Bec always played the latest records. When Otis complained about how much she spent on them, she’d remind him how much that last bottle of Barolo or Barbaresco had cost them.
Pink Floyd’sWish You Were Herespun constantly on the turntable. Otis was still more of a classical or jazz guy, or hell, even some bloody silence, but rock ’n’ roll had its place, and he especially appreciated his fellow Brits, who rocked in a way the Americans couldn’t figure out.
He’d come home from a long day’s work, shut his truck door, and hear the familiar sound of Roger Waters’s voice coming from the open windows. He’d find Bec inside chasing Cam around, or maybe dancing with him, and he’d smile at her strength and promise himself that he wouldn’t work as hard next year.
In late October, after everyone else had gone home, Otis plopped into a chair across from Carmine and let out a long sigh. These long harvestdays were not for the weak. They cracked a couple of beers, because it takes a lot of good beer to make great wine, and spoke about the future for a while.
“Stop doubting yourself,” Carmine eventually said. “You don’t need half the fight you have to make good wine. I’m scared for the wine world, scared of what you’re going to do to it. I hope I make it long enough to watch it happen.”
Otis sneaked into bed that night, thinking that Carmine had given him the finest compliment of his life, but when he woke and found the other side of the bed empty, something in his gut told him he’d royally fucked up. Couldn’t Bec see that sacrifice bred greatness? Couldn’t she hold on a little longer?
He found Bec curled up on the comfy chair, cradling a steaming cup of coffee. Her cheeks glistened from fresh tears.
He sat down in the chair beside her. “Am I in trouble?”
She barely acknowledged him.
“Harvest is over. We made it.”
She smiled despite the tears. “You’ve been working seven days a week since you moved here—harvest or not. You haven’t once looked up.”
Here we go,he thought. “I’m trying to carve out our life, Bec. This isn’t the time to act like we’re retired. We must fight so one day we can sit back and enjoy it.”
“That’s not the way it’s supposed to work. Life isn’t a fight. The only opposition is what you’ve created in your head.” Tension coated her tone. “You’re fighting because you think you have something to prove. Just stop for a minute. You have a son that needs you.Ineed you. Nothing in this world matters more than what we have within these walls. Don’t you dare try to blame my frustration on my parents ... or my brother. I get the part they play. This isn’t about me or them. It’s about your absence.”
In her eyes he saw a future without her, and it seized him with fear. “Oh, Bec. Please. I’m making our dream happen. I just need a little more time.”
“Youneedto find balance.”
“I agree, it’s just—”
“I know, and I support you. I love your desperate want to make something great, but we have a lifetime to get there—”
“But we don’t. Though I do need to spend more time with you and Cam, I also need to pay the bills. I need to make more than six bucks an hour. I need to get us into a bigger house, to own a house. I need to ...”
She touched his face and looked into his soul. “You need to let go of your fears. We’re eating. We’re healthy. You’re doing exactly what you want to be doing. You told me to stop trying to rush having another baby. Take your own advice. Stop trying to rush your dreams. All the good things are coming. What we need is to be here now, for each other and for Cam. Don’t wake up one day when he’s twenty years old and realize you missed it. There’s not a wine in the world you’ll make that will ever matter as much as our son.”
If only her desperate words were enough.
Then the land came.
