Page 64 of Before We Say Goodbye
The following minute carried a serrated edge that could have sawed down a tree.
Finally, Lloyd cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I had an idea I wanted to run by you.”
Never was Otis interested in Lloyd’s ideas until right now, when it could provide such a welcome distraction. “Oh, yeah, what’s that? Why don’t we sit down on the terrace?” Otis wiped the sweat off his brow.
Lloyd pulled back his sleeve and glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. “I have to get back for a meeting in the city but wanted to put something out there. It was the heavy topic last night.”
Otis could only imagine.
“White zin,” Lloyd said.
“What about white zin?” Otis asked with a bitter taste coating his tongue. White zinfandel was made by limiting the amount of time zinfandel grapes spent on the skins and then stopping the fermentation with sulfur to keep some of the sugar content, making for a slightly sweet, pink wine.
“As you know, it’s the new rage.”
“Because people are idiots.”
“Maybe so, but there’s money to be made.”
Otis pointed to the last of his old vines. “Let me guess. You want me to use our babies to make a wine that has less soul than Sprite?”
“I was thinking bigger than that. I was thinking we buy bulk and make a shit ton of wine. This is an opportunity like none I’ve ever seen.”
“You better go,” Otis said, praying to God Bec wouldn’t get behind the idea.
“Oh, c’mon. Think about it. You need money. I’m giving you a way to earn some.” Lloyd’s eyes tracked to Bec, hoping she’d jump in.
“I’m not making white zin,” Otis said. “Thanks for the idea. It’s good to see you. And goodbye.” Otis put his arm around Rebecca and attempted to guide her back to the house.
Bec shook him off. “How much could we sell? What kind of FOBs are we talking about?”FOBmeantfreight on board; it was the price at which Otis and Rebecca sold their wine to distributors.
“We could sell more than we could ever make,” Lloyd said, greed dancing in his voice. “People are begging for it.”
Otis set his fists on his waist. “Don’t even tell me you think this is a good idea, Bec.”
“I think we need money.”
“We also need our souls. I’d rather rob a bank.”
The boys walked up. Ball in hand, Cam said, “Dad, did you see Lloyd’s arm? I’ve never seen anyone—”
“Yes, I saw Lloyd’s arm,” Otis said sharply. “Boys, we’re wrapping up an adult conversation. Do you mind waiting inside?”
“But, Dad,” Cam said, “we wanted to see if we could get a game going. Me and Lloyd versus you and Mike.”
Mikey threw his hands in the air. “What? No, it’s Lloyd and me versus you two.”
Otis’s jaws tightened like a coyote trap. He had to pry them open to say, “I will not ask again.”
They took his meaning and retreated inside with slumped shoulders.
Otis reverted his gaze to Lloyd and stepped toward him. “Lloyd, let me make two things clear. We’re not ever selling this place, and I am not ever making white zin. I don’t care if the world is on fire and white zin is our only hope. I don’t care if the White House is begging for it. No. White. Zin.”
Lloyd’s eyes went to Bec.
Otis snapped his fingers. “No, don’t look at her. Look at me.”
When Lloyd did, Otis said, “She runs the books and the farm and about everything else, but the vines and wines are mine. I’m not making white zin, and if you ever bring it up again, I will knock you in the mouth.”
