Page 67 of Before We Say Goodbye
Addison dabbed his mouth with a napkin like he was inside Buckingham Palace dining with the Prince of Wales, then said, “I’m tackling the influence of modern culture on the time-tested traditions of the past.” He kept going for about five minutes, but Otis tuned him out. Had his father not done the same to him all his life?
The man should write a book on how to set a bar so high for your son that he’ll spend the rest of his life parked in the shadow of a paternal dark cloud. Addison hadn’t said a word about the quality of the wine from the last vintage. Barely a thank-you for the case of wine Otis had shipped to Bozeman. Shipping wasn’t getting any cheaper, by the way. Next year it might be a bottle, if Addison was lucky.
If that weren’t enough, Lloyd’s presence swelled like a malignant tumor at the table. Carmine was the only one who had turned down the invitation. Not because of the booze but because Carmine didn’t do parties. What a freaking hero. Here Otis was hosting one that he didn’t even want to attend. Why couldn’t he be like Carmine and simply say no? No, no,no. What a lovely motto.
Otis came back to reality only when he heard Ledbetter’s name. Making it even more excruciating was that it came from the mouth of Addison Till.
Addison had said to Lloyd and Paul, “Superb mention in Sam Ledbetter’s article.”
“Aw, thanks, man,” Paul said, holding his hands in prayer position. Despite how wonderful Paul was, Otis had an urge to throw a corn dog at him.
“I’d love to taste your wines sometime.”
“Sure, come over before you go back. I’d be happy to walk you through them.”
“Thank you,” Addison said. “I just may. He’s a great writer, isn’t he? Quite humorous, in a dry way, of course. Lloyd, have you tried to get him to taste the wines here?”
Otis wondered whether his father realized the evil of his ways.
Lloyd set down the can in his hand. That was the other thing. Beer. Sure, beer was fine, but a long lunch like this required a Vouvray, not a lager. Why was it that football brought out the heathen in everyone? Hold on, that wasn’t a beer becauseno one was even drinking beer. It was a bloody soda!
“He’ll get to us eventually.”
Us?What in hell did Lloyd have to do with Lost Souls?
Addison finally turned to his son. “It could be the name. You see him mostly writing about more traditional-type wineries. Lost Souls has a sort of childish quality that could be turning him off.”
Otis’s blood simmered in his veins, nearly scorching his insides. “Right, Dad. Maybe I should change the name of the winery so that Samuel Bedwetter can piss all over—” Otis stopped and turned to make sure the boys were out of earshot. “So that I could get some miserable old man in Manhattan to mention me in hisshitcolumn.”
Addison groaned disappointment. “I don’t think it’s shit. In fact, I find it very useful to have a guide of what I might find at the local stores. The retailers don’t have a clue what they’re doing.”
Otis was ready for battle. “That statement couldn’t be further from the truth. The people in retail stores are the ones who can get to know your palate and steer you in the right direction. What do you think they do all day? They study wine, talk about it, meet with reps, taste wines. They know more than you’ll ...”
Hearing his tone, Otis stopped just as he was getting going and looked over at Rebecca. She was staring at her plate. Dammit, the doghouse was calling again.
Lloyd stood. “I’m going to toss the ol’ pigskin for the boys.”
Otis cut him a look. “Yeah, you do that.”
Silence fell over the entire table. Addison didn’t even clear his throat. Otis wished to be anywhere. The jungles of Vietnam, front row at a heavy metal concert, supine position at the dentist office staring up at a power tool, prison. Yes, prison. Hell, he’d rather be neck deep in a tank of white zin.
Jed broke the silence with a laugh that crescendoed like a Mahler symphony. When he garnered the attention of every single human present, he said, “For God’s sake, will everyone please get a drink? This is awful.”
Another beat of silence, this one more anticipatory.
Otis didn’t move a muscle, simply waited to hear Bec’s voice. She was the mayor of this town. He could almost feel her weighing the decision.
One.
Two.
Three seconds.
He counted to ten before an answer came.
“Fine. Otis, would you like to grab some—”
Before she’d finished the sentence, Otis was already in the cellar, gathering his largest formats, a three-liter of an ’81 Morgon Beaujolais and a five-liter of a ’79 Lost Souls. He’d never been so eager to have a drink in his life. No one has ever seen a man open two large formats faster.
