Page 84 of Before We Say Goodbye
“We’ll see what my lawyers say. You don’t want to make me an enemy, Otis.” Lloyd looked to Rebecca.
“Nope, don’t look at her,” Otis said. “I think we’re done here. Pack your briefcase and hit the road.”
Lloyd shoved his papers into his case and stomped out the door.
“That went well,” Otis said to Bec, as they heard Captain Dirtbag descend the steps.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to make him an enemy, Otis.”
Standing, Otis drew her in and kissed her mouth. “He’s been an enemy for a long time. Don’t underestimate me, my dear. He can bring his lawyers if he wants. He will not take advantage of us any longer. I need a break, and I’m drawing that line in the sand right now. Isn’t that what you want?”
She gave him a smile and pressed her body into his. “I know that you’re a man of extremes. Find the middle ground. Don’t upset him. Yes, take care of yourself, but don’t start a war.”
Just then, the Ferrari puttered to life, and Lloyd tore out of the driveway.
“Wah, wah,” Otis said in a baby’s voice. “My name’s Lloyd, and I’m not getting what I want. Wah, wah, wah.”
Bec shook her head sternly.
Otis kept going, determined to get a laugh out of her. “Wah, wah, Bec. Your husband won’t listen to me. He doesn’t want to work anymore, and now I’m—”
She finally smiled, and Otis said, “Ahhhh. That’s all I needed, my love.” Then he went in for another kiss.
“That’s what he told me,” Bec said, shining with delight in a way that only she could. “He said he was going to jump out the window if I left the seat.”
“So he blackmailed you on that bus,” Cam said with a charming grin, drawing smiles from the rest of their little family, all sittingtogether around the kitchen table. With every passing month, he grew more into his body, filling out and growing stouter.
On a butcher block rested Marcona almonds, cornichon, Castelvetrano olives, cherry tomatoes from the garden, walnuts from their trees, one of Bec’s lovely baguettes, and two cheeses: an English cheddar and Humboldt Fog. It would be the perfect meal if it were accompanied by a few fine shavings of an acorn-fedjámon Ibéricoor evenprosciutto di parma, but Bec was on another vegetarian kick, God bless her. Though Otis smelled bacon in his dreams, he was determined to ride out this rabbit-food diet, if only to prove his discipline.
“That’s why we were eventually conceived?” Cam asked. “The reason we’re all here? Because he threatened to jump out the window if you left his seat.”
“This is the grossest discussion on earth,” Mike said, putting his head in his hands. He’d taken to wearing black jeans and white T-shirts every day, and they hung loosely on his skinny frame.
Otis cleared his throat. “If you say it like that, I guess so.” He held a glass of an exquisite Bernkasteler Ring Riesling that he and Bec had picked up at auction in Germany.
“I was going to Berkeley to major in journalism, as you know, to follow in my father’s footsteps. She had just pointed out—rightly so—that maybe I should do something I actuallywantedto do. Kind of like the stand Cam has made. The same one that is welcome by Mikey, if he chooses not to take over the farm. Of course, I’ll jump out the window if he bails on me, too, but hopefully I’ll survive.” He winked to make sure they knew he was being playful.
Their laughs filled Otis’s heart.
“For the record,” Bec said, “I was mesmerized by his ambition, but he needed to point it in the right direction. Same goes for you two. That’s why we want you to chase your own dreams. You’re the one who has to live them. Not us. We understand if you don’t want to be a part of the farm.”
Otis swirled the nectar in his glass. “I can’t imagine you’ll find anything more noble than making wine, but ...”
Bec eyed him.
Otis broke off a chunk of bread; crumbs spilled onto the table. “I’m kidding. Your mother’s right. You can’t live our dream. It has to be yours. That was the first of a million lessons your mother taught me over the years. No matter what you do, find a partner like her, someone who can see past your flaws and find the good in you and lift you up. You understand?”
Both boys nodded.
“Make sure you find someone who knows how to make bread like this too.” He moaned with delight as he dipped a piece in a bright-green olive oil made down the road.
“I’m just trying to figure out what Dad brought to the table,” Cam said. “I’ve seen the pictures. He was funny looking.”
“Funny looking?” Otis said, scrunching his face and flaring out his nose. “What’s funny looking about this?”
More laughter filled the air, and Otis felt at ease.
September was here. Harvest was here, starting tomorrow morning with the chardonnay. It had been a hell of a vintage: easy temperatures, the perfect amount of rain, manageable pest pressure. Otis had been completely hands off. They’d barely pruned, let alone applied treatments for pests or weeds. What he’d been working for since he took over the farm had finally happened. He’d created such a happy environment that it had thrived on its own. Which was all to say that Rebecca—and Carmine, for that matter—were right once again. Otis didn’t need to work himself to the bone to make good wine. He needed to stand back and let nature do the hard work.
