Chapter 5 Wine Country
Wine Country
Rebecca’s awful troubles aside, Otis had his own.
They paled in comparison to Bec’s, or those of the men being drafted or the people warring over civil rights, but his troubles existed, nonetheless.
Hell with it, they didn’t only exist, they plagued him.
Was he really meant to be a writer, even if he didn’t feel passionate about it the way his father did?
Seemed like a recipe for being a piss-poor writer, if you asked him.
Even now, he could hear his father’s clackety typing in the other room, as if his old man were still fifteen feet away. Otis could hear Addison talking to himself, too, occasionally cracking up with joy, a man who knew exactly what he should do with his life.
The DJ said it was Aretha Franklin who’d been singing, then talked about the weather—the fog was coming—and signed off for the day. The next DJ kicked things off with Creedence Clearwater’s “Down on the Corner.”
Otis couldn’t help but turn up the volume and pat his hands against the steering wheel. Bec was right—she and Otis were young. He had to let go and enjoy the ride.
Then it happened . . .
Otis came around a bend and set eyes on a vineyard for the first time in his life, cascading rows of grapevines stretching over the land, the leaves a dazzling green. Otis felt as if he’d driven right onto the canvas of a painting. The scent of ripe grapes rushed in through the open windows.
He’d thoroughly enjoyed watching America pass by from the purple bus—when he wasn’t too distracted by the boisterous yet petite sensation next to him—and there was no denying the beauty of Montana he had come to know as a teenager, but he couldn’t recall ever laying his eyes on such a miraculous view.
The murky stew in his mind faded away, taken over by the sweet fruity smell, the vision of the vines, the taste of the wines to come, the touch of his fingers on the wheel, the sound of Creedence, the sense that he should quit with all the worrying.
What a foreign feeling, one he wished he could pull over and quickly bottle, because rarely had he felt so utterly complete.
Otis slowed the car, noticing heads poking out from the rows.
They must have been harvesting. Getting a better look, he saw people with baskets full of purple clusters hanging from their necks.
Was California wine even any good? He’d had his fair share of wine in San Francisco, the jugs someone would bring home from the store, but he’d not paid much attention to them.
When he saw a sign for a wine tasting, he hit the brakes. He had a few bucks in his pocket. Perhaps he could bring a bottle back to Bec’s parents, a sort of peace offering. Here you go, a bottle of wine for your daughter’s hand. Did they even drink wine?
Otis parked between a tractor and a Ford truck loaded with plastic bins. He headed toward a red barn with a sign that read Murphy Vineyards . Inside, a long plank of wood rested on two sawhorses. On one end stood a group of four thirtysomethings equipped with wineglasses, laughing together.
The freckled redhead behind the bar waved him forward.
She looked to be in her late twenties and wore a blouse with an exposed midriff.
Her long thick hair, the color of orange leaves, hung in loose braids.
She had piercing cobalt eyes that evoked a sense of knowingness, like a woman who’d been a mystic in a past life.
“Looking to taste some wines?”
Otis’s heart rate lowered in her presence, and he sidled up to the bar. “I suppose so.” Apparently no one was checking IDs around here.
She set down two bottles that featured a sketch of the red barn on their labels. “We have a chardonnay and a cabernet sauvignon, blended with some cinsault and merlot.” She poured the white first.
Otis gave it a sniff and then put it to his mouth like he’d seen his parents do. It took him a moment to put things together, but something about the smell and how he’d just seen the vines that bore this fruit gave the sip extra power.
“They’re harvesting reds today. Feel free to walk through those doors and see the action for yourself. Ask for my husband, Paul. He’s easy enough to find. Long hair and handsome.”
Otis set the glass down. “This is your place?”
“Ours, yes. I’m Sparrow.”
“Otis Till, quite the pleasure.” He eyed the open doors in the back of the barn. “Should I go now?”
“Sure. Take your glass. Here, let me top you off.”
With a replenished glass of chardonnay, he strolled through the back, coming out into the light again.
Rock ’n’ roll played from a radio perched on the low branch of a tree.
About fifteen people were back there, two of whom stood in large bins, stomping on grapes, big grins stretched across their faces.
In a patch of grass, next to a stack of crates brimming with freshly picked grapes, several people played a game of bocce ball.
Otis timidly stepped forward, curious as a dog who had caught a scent.
“How’s it going?” said a voice.
Otis looked over to see a well-cut shirtless guy with his trousers rolled up. His dusty-brown hair was long enough to get into a ponytail. And perhaps he carried some of that same knowingness in his eyes that Sparrow had exhibited, though it seemed more like contentedness. “I’m Paul Murphy.”
“Ah, I met your wife. I’m Otis Till.”
Paul apparently did not practice spatial etiquette and wrapped an arm around Otis’s neck. “Welcome, Otis. You ever seen this go down before?”
Otis cleared his throat and tried hard to accept such an invasion of his space. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Want to stomp?” Any closer and Paul would be kissing him.
“Oh, no, thank you.”
“You sure, man?”
Otis did want to stomp, though. He looked again at the two people in the bins, dancing over grapes. Then he turned only slightly to Paul, their faces far too close. “Well, are you ...? I don’t mean to ...”
Paul finally pulled his arm away, and Otis felt like he could breathe again. Otis would find the American sense of privacy funny if it weren’t so unsettling. Also, why was Paul so bloody happy? Perhaps he was high, but nevertheless, he looked as if he hadn’t a trouble in the world!
“Take your shoes off, brother. You’re up next. You’ll never forget it. In the meantime, help yourself to more wine.” He pointed to a barrel, on top of which a jug rested.
Otis looked down at his shoes, wondering whether he was really about to do this, worried about the sight of his toenails and the cleanliness of his feet.
“I’m just a visitor, you know,” he called out to Paul, who had started walking away.
Paul whipped around and stood before Otis, placing a hand on each shoulder and forcing Otis to make eye contact. “We’re all just visitors, aren’t we?”
“I . . . I suppose so.”
Paul leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, returning Otis to the mannequin form that he’d taken at Rebecca’s only an hour earlier.
“Everyone,” Paul called, “meet Otis. He wants to stomp.”
“Hi, Otis,” everyone said at the same time.
Otis raised a stiff hand to these strangers. Though he felt violated and exposed, he also, oddly, felt right at home. Perhaps a dose of vulnerability wouldn’t kill him.
He removed his shoes, rolled up his pants, and polished off the white in his glass.
An easy buzz settled over him. He poured himself the red wine from the jug.
Before he took his first sip, he raised his gaze to the slope of vines, where he could still see the harvesters’ bobbing heads.
The sight seemed to grow more exquisite by the second, as if he were dialing in the focus with each breath of this Sonoma air.
The red wine clung to his mouth before slipping down his throat.
He had no idea how to properly taste wine, but the sensations that came over him were almost more than he could handle.
He could taste the wine down to his very toes—the unmanicured ones.
The soundtrack of everyone’s laughter, mixed with the devotion they gave to this task, only exacerbated how he felt.
There were no words, though. Human explanation would have insulted the experience.
With that reverence in mind, Otis took another sip. Fireworks shot off in his mouth and caused a tingle down deep.
“You all right?”
Otis came to, noticing his new friend staring at him. “All right? I’m bloody fucking fantastic.”
A smile stretched on Paul’s face. “I see a man who’s been bitten.”
“Bitten?”
Paul clapped him on the shoulder. “The wine bug. It’s sunk its teeth into you.”
“Is that what you call it?” Otis grinned. “It tastes like God is in this wine.”
“Of course he is. What better way of expressing nature than capturing it in a bottle? You’re drinking the lyrics to a song that’s just been written.
You’re drinking a year, captured in a glass.
Last year’s weather, the choices made in the cellar, everything that happened here on Murphy Vineyards.
Nineteen sixty-eight in your mouth, man.
Never can it be repeated. It’s as unique as butterfly wings, a fingerprint of the earth.
If last year had a hand, then we took it and pressed an inked finger down.
Now you have it in your mouth and stomach and heart. By taking that in, you’re one of us.”
For God’s sakes, this man was the greatest proselytizer to have ever walked the earth. Another word and Otis would fall to his knees and weep.
Collecting himself, he managed to ask, “Is this your family’s place?”
He shook his head. “My parents are Mormons from Oregon, so they’re not big into what I’m doing, but this is my dream.”
“How’d you get started?”
Paul pointed at a man dressed like he’d disembarked from his yacht in Catalina. Khakis, boat shoes, a polo shirt. An expensive haircut with a perfect curl on top and a tight shave. He was as handsome as any man Otis had ever seen.