Chapter 11 Lost Souls #3
“Well, we might have talked about it, but we’re a long way from owning it.”
“I already see it, Otis. We live on this farm. You’re making the wines of your dreams.”
Otis rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go again. I’m going to make you stop hanging out with Sparrow.”
She didn’t like that comment. “So I should just roll up my sleeves and work myself to the bone too? Your way is so much better, isn’t it?”
He sighed. Why was she always right? “How much is it?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars?”
“No, two hundred thousand guineas. Yes, dollars. It’s chump change. Let’s call the Realtor.”
As if he’d ever win this one. “Fine, let’s go see what we can’t have.”
“This was the worst idea in history,” Otis said, standing in the middle of what might have been the prettiest piece of land he’d ever seen. “Now I really want it.”
The real estate agent currently wandering around inside the house had no idea that his clients were late on two bills and had dined on hot dogs topped with canned chili for the third night this week.
Bec looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course you want it. It’s going to be ours. It’s already ours. That’s how it works.”
She’d said the same thing about having another boy, and that still hadn’t happened. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, though.
“I know, I know. Mind creates matter. Seth said so, so it’s true.”
“It’s science, Otis. Don’t belittle my beliefs.”
“You can’t know that this is ours,” Otis said, looking out over a piece of land that he’d give both kidneys for. Other than the birdsong and the swoosh of the breeze pushing the trees, there was absolute peaceful stillness.
The farm was called a ghost winery, as it had been left abandoned during Prohibition.
The land lay at the end of a winding gravel artery that threaded back into the rolling knolls of Glen Ellen, near to both Jack London’s Beauty Ranch and Carmine’s vine oasis.
Weeds and wild bushes had taken over. The vineyards hadn’t been pruned in ages, the canes swirling like barbwire.
Birds had made this land their paradise.
Frogs croaked from lily pads in the overgrown pond.
The charming stone house had been built by an Italian family in the 1870s.
A line of Douglas firs protected it from the setting sun.
This was not a place for potato chips and chili dogs.
This was a domain where chefs prepare their meals for the gods, a place for someone with actual money to create a paradise ripe for hosting friends and family, where kids ran with reckless abandon, where a poet of a winemaker could carve his place into history.
Almost all the property, including the stone wall that wrapped around it, was crumbling, but it had potential, like a dust-covered masterpiece found in the vaults of the Louvre.
The vineyard was enough on its own, scraggly vines of mysterious varieties that begged for a caretaker to bring them back to life.
Beyond the vines, a forested hill hosted countless species of trees.
Below the house lay a meadow of wildflowers.
Otis scratched his head and said to Bec, “The things you do to me. For the rest of my life, this place will be the one that got away. I can only imagine this is how Jack London felt when he set eyes on his property. Yet he had the money to pay for it.”
Bec slipped her arm into his. She smelled like fresh flowers and looked prettier than he’d ever seen her. “Let’s make it happen.”
“How? Some rich sap is going to swipe this up in the next day or two. We don’t have two hundred dollars to spare, let alone two hundred thousand.”
“Then we need investors.”
He found her eyes, and he saw that she was blinded to any of the obstacles in life right now. “Who could we talk into investing with us?”
The answer appeared like Norman Bates pulling back the shower curtain of Otis’s mind. “Don’t say it, Bec. Don’t say his name.”
She shrugged. “We’ll need a few investors.”
“Including you-know-who.” Had he a wine bottle, he would have smacked himself in the teeth.
Rebecca picked up a stone and placed it back on the wall. “He likes you, Otis. He believes in you.”
“First off, what are you doing repairing the wall? This isn’t ours.”
“It will be.”
“So matter-of-factly. You’re impossible sometimes. One day you want me to quit chasing this wine thing, and today you want us to jump into the deep end. I don’t even know why we’re here.” He threw out his hands. “And Lloyd. When’s the last time you saw him?”
Another shrug. “I bumped into him a few weeks ago. He said he believed in your vision.”
“You told him my vision? You always tell me not to worry about the how, that all we have to do is envision what we want. That’s because you were worrying about the how, greasing Lloyd up.”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “He’s a good man, Otis. He believes in you, and he told me that if we found a place, he might be able to help.”
“Of course he told you that. He’ll do anything to get in your pants.”
She picked up another stone and wedged it into a crack. “Don’t insult me. Everyone knows that you have a future in this business.”
“Don’t try to butter me up. My dream does not include Lloyd Bramhall, and I don’t appreciate you working behind the scenes.”
Something he’d said caused her to back away. “You know what? If you don’t need me, go do this on your own. Buy it or don’t.” She turned and began to walk back down the path that led to the truck.
“Oh, c’mon. Where are you going?” He raced after her. “You know how I feel about Lloyd. It’s impossible to not feel defensive when you bring up his name.”
Bec snapped back toward him. “It’s about trust, Otis. If we don’t have that, then what are we doing here? How many times do I have to tell you I’m not interested in him?”
“Every ... day? Multiple times a day. Jesus, Bec, look at him.”
She drew in a long breath. “You exhaust me.”
“I exhaust myself. Remember, you said yes when I proposed to you, and you said, ‘I do.’ No one was holding a gun to your head.”
She shot arrows out of her eyes. “Is that how you want to end this conversation?”
“I’m sorry, okay?”
She shook her head.
“ Lo siento . ”
“Ah, we resort to Spanish when we have trouble expressing ourselves?”
“ Si, senorita. Te quiero . ” He opened his arms, seeing a path toward forgiveness. “ Lo siento, mi amor . ”
Finally letting him hug her, she said, “I’ll let you off the hook this time, but I’m tired, Otis. Take some deep breaths. Quit trying to take over the world by tomorrow. For God’s sake, have a little faith in me ... and in yourself.”
In the morning Otis drove into the city and marched into the tall building where Lloyd Bramhall kept an office.
Otis still didn’t know what the man did, other than manage his trust fund.
On the fifth floor of what was called Bramhall Enterprises, Otis entered an office with high ceilings and several giant windows that looked out over the Golden Gate Bridge.
A photograph of Lloyd behind the helm of a sailboat hung next to his degree from Stanford.
Large-format bottles of wine rested in fancy wooden boxes.
“There he is.” Lloyd pumped Otis’s arm like he was trying to get oil out of him.
Up close, the man was even more arresting.
He should be in a watch ad. Probably was.
And the darn smile. Once again, Otis found it very difficult to dislike this chap.
Ten minutes ago, he was ready to warn him off his not-so-subtle pursuit of Rebecca, but now he was ready to hug the guy.
Or ask him to stand there for a minute so Otis could study his godly beauty.
Sharp cheeks, a jawline that would make Rembrandt weep, eyes that could pierce through armor.
Forget about his body. Apparently, before he walked through the doors of Bramhall Enterprises to do whatever it was he did every morning, he spent an hour or two toning his physique.
Who was Otis kidding? He stood no chance.
If this guy wanted to take Bec from him, all he had to do was snap his fingers.
“I appreciate you making the time.”
“For you, anything.”
Otis sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs facing the desk and rested his hands on his thighs. “Bec mentioned to you that we’ve been looking for a place?”
Lloyd’s eyes lit up. “You found it, didn’t you, Brit Boy?”
Otis swallowed back his urge to smack him for the terrible nickname.
“There’s a spot that’s come up for sale in Glen Ellen, an old ghost winery from back in the old days.
Forty-nine acres, thirty of which are planted with a hodgepodge of whites and reds.
Wine hasn’t been made from the fruit in many years, as far as I can tell.
The vineyards have been neglected but have enormous potential. ”
“You think you can make some good wine?” Excitement flashed in his eyes.
“We’re in the business of capturing terroir, and I can’t imagine wanting to capture anything more exciting, an entire host of microclimates. But I need investors, people who would put some faith in me to build up a brand.”
Lloyd turned to take a look out the window, and Otis wondered what the man was thinking. Otis had only made wine for five years. He didn’t deserve a chance like this, but he needed it. He wanted it.
“Lost Souls, huh?”
“That’s the idea.”
Lloyd twisted back and leaned over his desk. “What kind of terms are we talking here? How much are you ponying up?”
Otis held one nonnegotiable in his mind. “I can get half. Just need the other half. Well, I want fifty-one percent, because this is my baby. Then I’ll need some additional cash for the winery. That part, I’ll pay back first.”
Lloyd steepled his fingers. “What’s in it for me?”
“You’ll get your money back with interest, a share of the proceeds, and you get to hitch yourself to my wagon.” Otis raised a finger in the air, confident as he’d ever been. “I will make some of the most exciting wines in California. I have no doubt.”