Page 45 of Before We Say Goodbye
In the morning Otis drove into the city and marched into the tall building where Lloyd Bramhall kept an office. Otis still didn’t know what the man did, other than manage his trust fund. On the fifth floor of what was called Bramhall Enterprises, Otis entered an office withhigh ceilings and several giant windows that looked out over the Golden Gate Bridge. A photograph of Lloyd behind the helm of a sailboat hung next to his degree from Stanford. Large-format bottles of wine rested in fancy wooden boxes.
“There he is.” Lloyd pumped Otis’s arm like he was trying to get oil out of him. Up close, the man was even more arresting. He should be in a watch ad. Probably was. And the darn smile. Once again, Otis found it very difficult to dislike this chap. Ten minutes ago, he was ready to warn him off his not-so-subtle pursuit of Rebecca, but now he was ready to hug the guy. Or ask him to stand there for a minute so Otis could study his godly beauty.
Sharp cheeks, a jawline that would make Rembrandt weep, eyes that could pierce through armor. Forget about his body. Apparently, before he walked through the doors of Bramhall Enterprises to do whatever it was he did every morning, he spent an hour or two toning his physique. Who was Otis kidding? He stood no chance. If this guy wanted to take Bec from him, all he had to do was snap his fingers.
“I appreciate you making the time.”
“For you, anything.”
Otis sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs facing the desk and rested his hands on his thighs. “Bec mentioned to you that we’ve been looking for a place?”
Lloyd’s eyes lit up. “You found it, didn’t you, Brit Boy?”
Otis swallowed back his urge to smack him for the terrible nickname. “There’s a spot that’s come up for sale in Glen Ellen, an old ghost winery from back in the old days. Forty-nine acres, thirty of which are planted with a hodgepodge of whites and reds. Wine hasn’t been made from the fruit in many years, as far as I can tell. The vineyards have been neglected but have enormous potential.”
“You think you can make some good wine?” Excitement flashed in his eyes.
“We’re in the business of capturing terroir, and I can’t imagine wanting to capture anything more exciting, an entire host ofmicroclimates. But I need investors, people who would put some faith in me to build up a brand.”
Lloyd turned to take a look out the window, and Otis wondered what the man was thinking. Otis had only made wine for five years. He didn’t deserve a chance like this, but he needed it. He wanted it.
“Lost Souls, huh?”
“That’s the idea.”
Lloyd twisted back and leaned over his desk. “What kind of terms are we talking here? How much are you ponying up?”
Otis held one nonnegotiable in his mind. “I can get half. Just need the other half. Well, I want fifty-one percent, because this is my baby. Then I’ll need some additional cash for the winery. That part, I’ll pay back first.”
Lloyd steepled his fingers. “What’s in it for me?”
“You’ll get your money back with interest, a share of the proceeds, and you get to hitch yourself to my wagon.” Otis raised a finger in the air, confident as he’d ever been. “I will make some of the most exciting wines in California. I have no doubt.”
Lloyd’s beautiful golden eyebrows rose. “Tell me the details.”
Otis expanded on his thoughts, touching on his vision for the land and for Lost Souls. “Just give me a chance to buy it back from you; I’d need that in the contract.” It felt like a deal with the devil, but Otis would do anything.
Sitting up with an erect spine, Lloyd flashed another grin. “Let’s go see it.”
Lloyd bit. He loved the place and said to count him in, that he didn’t want to miss out. Lawyers went to work drawing up paperwork, and Otis put on his sales hat and attempted to lure more money from other people in his life.
His first call was to his father. Addison had some money tucked away in a savings account that might be enough.
“Otis, you can’t ask that of me.”
“I know but ... I am anyway. Dad, do you remember when you realized writing was what you were supposed to do? You’ve told the story a million times, how you were lost as a teenager and had no compass and then your English teacher said you had a gift and how her words set you free?”
An epic clearing of the throat traveled through the phone line. “I know the story.”
Otis pushed harder than he ever had. “Winemaking does for me what writing does for you, and I need help right now. Sure, I can do it another way. I can skip this land and buy some bulk juice, but I’m a farmer. It’s in my bones. I swear I’ll pay you back.”
“What if you don’t, Otis? Or what if it’s too late? Your mum and I will need that money for retirement.”
Otis sat back in the chair and considered his words. “There is no way I will fail.”
For the next ten seconds, as he listened to his father breathe, Otis hoped he might enjoy the sweet sound of a yes. It scared the hell out of him, but he still hoped.
“I’m sorry, Otis,” Addison finally said. “You’ll have to look elsewhere.”
