Page 72 of Before We Say Goodbye
She pulled away and touched his cheek. “It’s not about that.”
“I know, I know, but this is the symbol. This is me letting go. Let’s make white zin and let’s have some fun doing it. You want me to quit taking myself so seriously. There is no better way.” He laughed in a sad way. “No better way at all.”
As the spring of 1986 gently wrapped her fingers around the hills of Sonoma, Otis stood at the bottling line of a custom crush facility in Santa Rosa and watched twenty thousand cases of bottled white zin get plastered with labels. More than a year had passed since Otis had punched Lloyd.
Giving the effort all he had, Otis had made a wine that he knew was good—in its own way, of course. There was no terroir to speak of. This juice had been made from multiple batches of conventionally farmed overcropped zin that he’d bought from various large vineyards across Sonoma, but he knew it was good and that Americans would absolutely adore it.
Turned out he was right. They sold every case for a ridiculous amount of money, and it required absolutely no travel on his part. He’d called his most loyal distributors, and the conversations had all gone in a similar direction.
“What? Otis Till makes a white zin? Never would I have imagined.”
“Me, either, trust me, but we must give the people what they want, right? Are you interested?”
“What’s it called?”
“Heartbreak. It’s my heart on the label with a crack of lightning across it.” He’d almost called it Goldrush, which was the other truth behind the wine.
“I’ll take as much as you’ll give me.”
Times got better from there. Otis started jogging a few times a week and eventually got up to seven or eight miles. He didn’t require the bell to remind himself to take breaks, and he took them often. He didn’t take one airplane, didn’t even drive down into the city. He hid on the ranch and let himself heal. He could feel his body tightening and detoxing. He even joined Rebecca and the boys in meditating, although those occasions were as rare as a full moon—or perhaps a supermoon.
The money poured in. It was enough to take a leap of faith and triple the production of white zin for the ’86 harvest, bringing inpurchased fruit from other farmers. Was it a gamble? Bec felt sure of the potential, so Otis went along.
The only deep sadness came when Bubbles succumbed to kidney disease. They buried her in the forest and marked the grave with a cross that Cam made with two-by-fours. It was the boys’ first introduction to death.
Nineteen eighty-seven was a banner year for sales. They sold every damn case of Heartbreak without even shipping samples. Not only was Otis featured inWines and Vinesand theSan Francisco Chronicleand other magazines and papers across the country, but he got his firstWine Advocateratinganda mention from Sam Bedwetter.
Firstly, theAdvocatescore. Robert Parker had come to town a few months before, and Otis had sent his single vineyard syrah and zins to the wine commission for the tasting. Carmine had warned him not to, as he despised scores, but Otis had shrugged and said, “It couldn’t hurt.”
Robert Parker gave him two 93s, which were solid numbers and above the pack of other Sonoma and Napa wines he’d rated. Otis thought he’d deserved better, but he’d take it. Wine drinkers now loved scores, and retailers had started posting those scores on shelf-talkers, the small cards with text promoting each wine that hung under bottles on shelves.
Bedwetter’s gentle mention wasn’t enough to make Otis refer to him by the man’s real name, but Otis did feel his pride swell when he read the article.Otis Till of Lost Souls is laughing all the way to the bank with his Heartbreak White Zin. His new SKU is one of the bestselling wines in the country. Sutter Home better pay attention, or he’ll steal their shelf placements in grocery stores.
There was no mention of his estate wines, which hurt him some, but Otis did enjoy the idea that the many readers ofThe New York Times, including his father, would see that he’d climbed out of the holeand was getting back on top. He would rather be called a terroir god, but he’d takelaughing all the way to the bankin the meantime.
Enjoying a taste of not having to worry about money, he decided that he could certainly sacrifice a bit of his soul to feed his children, buy out Lloyd, build a new facility to accommodate the growing production,andpurchase a few things they needed.
Like a bladder press from Italy. The finest of crusher/destemmers from Germany. A fancy fountain for the courtyard. A vertical of Château Margaux, cases of Dujac and Leroy. Several cases of cru Beaujolais. It felt good to spend money and know that they still had plenty of it.
A few days before harvest began, Otis was standing in Rebecca’s office, chatting with her about the construction plans for the new facility, including their own bottling line, when the phone on her desk rang. Bec picked it up and chatted with the man on the other end for a moment. She covered the mouthpiece as she handed him the phone. “It’s Howard from Beltramo’s.”
Otis took the phone and tried to match Rebecca’s charm as he greeted the buyer from one of the best bottle shops in the Bay Area. “Howard, how are you?” He was a heavyset fellow who refused to spit wine, and he was infamous for drinking all day with his distributor reps and finding himself fully drunk by noon. At that point, he would expect someone to take him to lunch. Otis had volunteered more than a few times, and those lunches had often led to dinner and beyond. More to the point, he was a knowledgeable and kind man who never dodged his salespeople and had a long list of wealthy clients. It paid to stay on Howard’s good side.
“I know you’re not traveling right now, but I have someone who wants to meet you. An important client. You a football fan?”
“Not really. My boys are.”
“They might know Joe Montana, the quarterback?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“He loves Lost Souls and wants to meet you. Could you come down this weekend?”
Though Otis was no football fan, he perked up at the idea of Joe Montana even knowing his name. Joe had played his way into California stardom.
After the call, he said to Bec, “I’ll get some autographs for Mike and Cam, maybe even some tickets. Good seats this time. What do you say?” He’d taken the boys to a few games over the years, and it was no exaggeration to say that the games were the highlight of their lives.
Bec had no qualms, and that Saturday, he drove down to Menlo Park and stepped into Beltramo’s. If there was any place he’d want to hunker down after a nuclear attack, it would be here. Otis walked the shelves lined with the finest wines from around the world as if he were strolling through the pearly gates to shake hands with God. With the amount of money Otis had spent here over the years, he should have owned part of it, but the place had been in the Beltramo family since 1882.
