Page 89 of Before We Say Goodbye
“Don’t mess with him.”
He raised his hands defensively. “I’m trying something new. Let’s have a year of tart wines. They’ll age forever. You wait till you taste the juice ... loaded with flavor. These guys who stick to the rules, always waiting until the fall, they’re going to have a bad year.”
Bec peered up the hillside to the other pickers. “I’m not going to fight you over it, but I know that Lloyd won’t take this well. This is nothing more than a protest, and you and I both know it.”
“Other than making something interesting, I suppose it’s also a way to play my hand. I’ll admit that. He needs to see he can’t push mearound. If he’d like, he can sell to us and we go on doing what we do.” Otis raised a finger. “Or, he can sit back and watch me pick in July—if I pick at all. He can watch our bottom line dwindle.”
“That’s your play?”
“That’s all we got, Bec.”
Far more important than the wines, Mike acquired a girlfriend. Or perhaps she acquired him. Sure, they were young and weren’t likely getting married, but the glow in Mike’s eyes was so welcome in the Till household. Or Château Till, as Otis had started calling it.
Only a few weeks into this budding romance, four days after the last of the grapes had been harvested, Mike climbed onto the stool at the island in the kitchen. He wore what he always wore, a white T-shirt and black jeans. Whereas Cam was fiendishly handsome and graceful, Michael was battling acne and moved his lanky frame awkwardly.
“Can I take Annette toPoint Breaktomorrow?”
“Point Break?” Rebecca said, wearing aMama Henapron and feeding her sourdough starter, a culture that Sparrow had shared with her years earlier. “No, sir. I’m sure it’s rated R.”
“Who cares?” Mike said, desperate lust for a girl in his eyes. Otis knew it oh so well.
Bec put another scoop of flour into the jar. “We care. Help me out here, husband.”
Thursdays, Otis always cooked, and he currently sipped on a glass of water while putting together a curry tofu dish that would be topped with fresh herbs. No, that was not true. Halfway through a bottle of Franciacorta, with a cabernet franc from Bourgueil on deck, Otis topped off the oil in his deep fryer, preparing to make the best frites his family had ever tasted, which would accompany three wonderfully marbled rib eyes.
“I don’t know whatPoint Breakis,” Otis said. “Seems fine to me.”
Rebecca gave him the stink eye.
Otis fell in line, put his “father” cap on, and inclined an eyebrow toward his son. “But you’re not going to see an R-rated movie. Nevertheless, all those tricks your old man taught you are paying off.”
“What aboutHot Shots!?”
“What’sHot Shots!?” Otis asked, wanting to say yes.
“It’s a comedy with Charlie Sheen.”
“What’s it rated?”
“PG-13.”
Otis pointed to Bec, who had her back turned, and silently whispered to his son, “She’s in charge. I’m okay with it.”
Mike mouthed back, “Help me.”
Bec had eyes in the back of her head and said without turning, “Otis, don’t make me the bad guy.”
“Mom, please.”
Rebecca turned, drying her hands on a towel. “Let me see if they talk about it in the paper.”
“I’m thirteen,” Mike pleaded. “I’m old enough to see PG-13 without even asking.”
Rebecca let out a long motherly sigh. “Fine, but I’m the one driving you.”
“What?” Otis said. “It will beIwho chauffeur the young lovers.”
“Not a chance,” Bec said.
