Page 52 of Before We Say Goodbye
“Is that an okay-we-don’t-have-to-sell nod?”
“I’ll let it go. For now. But I’m watching you, Otis. I’m far more concerned about the health and security of my family than I am about taking over the wine world.”
Oh, he was well aware. “Fair enough. I’m going to prove to you that we can cover all bases. No need to choose.” Smiling at this momentous victory, he inched toward her and kissed her cheek. “I won’t let you down, my love.”
The summer of 1983 was off to a good start. The vines spoke to Otis more than most years. Sales were superb. By June, he’d sold the entire ’81 vintage, which had only gone to market late last fall. He was tempted to pull more out of his cellar to sell, as he’d been holding back fifty cases from each of the past few years, but Bec told him he’d kick himself later. She was probably right.
Lloyd didn’t stop trying. Every few months he’d return with new opportunities, assuring them that the time to sell was now. Otis stood firm, not even considering the higher offers that started to come in. To Bec’s credit, she stopped pushing after that night on the couch, though he knew she’d sell in a heartbeat if he got on board.
The boys were five and nine. Camden was going into fifth grade. All he wanted to do was escape into nature. It had always been thatway with him, and Otis guessed that he’d work the vines as he got older. In fact, his boy could already prune with the best of them. Cam loved being out there, playing cowboys and Indians, digging deep holes, building tree forts, chasing Bubbles up and down every hillside.
Michael was more complex. He was all heart and cared so damn much for everyone around him, even at his young age. When Otis or Bec had a bad day, Michael would climb onto their laps and ask what was wrong. He fared much better than Cam at school, eliciting grand reviews from his teachers. Otis’s only worry was that he had his mother’s tendency to disappear into himself on occasion, that hidden part fighting battles only he could see.
Leaving the boys was getting harder and harder, and Otis was glad he wouldn’t have to spend the summer traveling. He needed a break. The road was draining him. Not that he wasn’t having fun, but it wastoomuch fun. Bec would have killed him if she knew the full extent of what he was up to. Though his father wouldn’t have believed it—despite the $10,000 check he’d written the man to settle their debt—Otis had become a celebrity in the last few years. People clamored for his wines and fought for his time. Otis and Bec even had stalkers, wine enthusiasts who would creep by on the road and, in some brave cases, pull over and ask for a tasting. He was on the brink of installing a gate, but for now they’d posted a big sign with painted black letters that read:We’re all out.
Of course Otis didn’t mind the attention. He thoroughly enjoyed his jaunts into San Francisco, where the wine buyers did a double take when they saw him, comping his meals, sometimes even inviting him into the kitchen for a line of blow. The same happened all over the country during his travels—the wine reps and managers from the distributor, the wine buyers and chefs from the restaurants, they all wanted a piece of Otis Till and would wine and dine him and drag him out until the wee hours of the morning.
Didn’t mind it? Hell, he loved the attention. Craved it even.
Thank God he had the farm as an escape. Reentry was tough, though, returning from those fast-lane trips to find Bec exhausted from running the entire ship.
“It’s your turn,” she’d say, the words that became her anthem upon his returns.
“I know, I know, but ... let me catch a breath.” Couldn’t she see that he’d worked himself to the bone out there? Yes, she’d been pushing herself, too, but he wasn’t givinghera hard time.
He’d just returned from Chicago, where he’d landed a glass pour at Gene & Georgetti, a quintessential Chicago steakhouse, and he’d dined later with a host of journalists and wealthy collectors who’d spoken about him in ways that both stroked his ego but also made him feel uncomfortable, as if he were a commodity. They called him the new wave of wine, a god of the grape, a vine whisperer, names that went to his head.
Thank God he was home for a while.
This June day was sensational, blues in the sky that made it look like the ocean had floated up there, greens so vivid it was like living in a crayon box. Otis held Bec’s hand, and Michael rode on his shoulders. Camden raced ahead of them, waving them along.
“You wait, Dad.” Otis had no idea what Cam had up his sleeve, but he could barely stand the joy of the moment, knowing he was home, and his family was healthy, and they’d finally made it.
Michael drummed a beat on Otis’s head, singing, “Can you tell me how to get ... how to get to Sesame Street?” Otis jumped in with him, singing along.
While they sang, Camden led them deep into the woods, where he’d built a fort like Otis had never seen. Three rooms, all constructed with fallen limbs and a few tarps he must have borrowed from the tractor shed.
“It’s my secret winery. I’m going to make the best wine in the world.”
Otis grinned and knelt beside him. It was all he could do not to break down and cry. “What an accomplishment, my boy.”
Cam shrugged. “You know how Mr. Paul gave you some grapes? I was thinking you might let me have a row. Just to make a little.”
Shivers cascaded up Otis’s back. “You know I will. Of course. We’ll have to set your lab up, too, bring in some barrels.”
On the way back, they took a shortcut through the vines. Camden and Michael were chasing each other, and Otis had his arm around Bec. She seemed distant, but it was often that way when he first returned from a trip.
“I’m home, baby. I know it’s been a lot, but we’re almost there.”
“Are we?” she asked.
“You were right all along. We did it.”
She looked away, a signature move lately.
“Hey, I’m serious.”
“You don’t look good, Otis. You’re killing yourself.”
