Chapter 13 Jeweled Boots and Bedwetters
Jeweled Boots and Bedwetters
As the eighties broke, Rebecca fell in love with music that Otis did not understand.
Joan Jett, the Clash, Hall and Oates, Rick Springfield, the Go-Go’s, Journey, Air Supply.
He felt like an old man listening to his kids’ music—a sixty-year-old trapped in a thirty-year-old’s body.
Before too long, he’d feel the same thing when his kids were headbanging to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana; and forget about it when Michael got into his rap phase.
That was when Otis knew he’d been left behind entirely.
Besides, who had the luxury of listening to music anymore? Growing wine was a matter of life or death, especially now that zinfandel had lost favor with both the critics and drinkers. Cabernet sauvignon was all the rage, and Lloyd suggested they graft every last zin vine to cabernet.
Needless to say, that hadn’t sat well with Otis, and he’d drawn the line.
“Till the day comes when Burgundy starts grafting syrah onto their pinot noir rootstocks, I will not pander to wine trends, Lloyd. Our farm is meant for zinfandel. You can’t just plug any variety into the ground and expect great things. ”
“Fair enough,” Lloyd had said, proving to Otis that he was in control now. As he should be. After all, he was the flipping winegrower.
Camden and Michael, both spawns of Satan, spent most of their time swatting and screaming at each other, and in turn Rebecca spent most of her time screaming at Otis, telling him, “It wouldn’t hurt if you played the bad guy every once in a while.
You show up after a long trip and act like Uncle Otis, the fun guy who always wants to play, never scolds. ”
“Are you kidding me, Bec? Don’t you see how they look at you? You’re their hero.”
She didn’t understand how much it took to keep the winery growing.
She had a brilliant business understanding but remained stuck in the seventies mindset of “it’s all good, man.
” All good didn’t sell shite for wine. Forget mind over matter.
Otis had proved that it was his determination that had created their reality, not her woo-woo Ouija board sessions with Sparrow.
Besides, she’d taken on more than she could handle—especially considering her bozo parents and brother were barely contributing at all.
To their credit, they’d go through phases where they showed that they did actually have beating hearts.
Marshall had his good spells where he slowed his drinking, took a job, and behaved like a grandfather, telling a story or perhaps tossing a ball to the boys.
Occasionally , Olivia would swing by with candy or even offer to watch the boys while Bec took a rest. On rare visits, a not necessarily sober Jed would chase the kids around the living room in the wheelchair, and he’d smile as if he was actually happy for a change.
Bec had stopped complaining to Otis, as it only reinforced his argument that she needed to quit giving so much of herself to her family to make up for her perceived abandonment, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from playing intermediary and therapist, and giving them money, the latter of which was an epic sore spot between Otis and her.
In addition to carrying her family and running the business, she’d also decided to homeschool the children, as she felt sure she could give them a better education, at least in their earlier years.
She’d always loved the idea of homesteading, where the children contributed to create a self-sufficient lifestyle.
They had their morning chores, cleaning their rooms, feeding the sheep, collecting chicken eggs, cleaning out the coop, and then they sat with their mother at the dining room table for lunch, working through their various studies.
She was a good teacher, and both kids learned to read by age five.
Meanwhile, in the vineyards, Otis had upped their wine production, and all the new vineyards had finally come to maturity.
Bec had told Otis that he’d planted too much, joking in a not-funny way that if he didn’t slow down, he’d be dropping new vines into their bathtub.
He admitted he’d planted every possible patch he could, but the demand was high. He had to seize their good fortune!
Lost Souls had become a viable product, and Otis happily bought out smaller investors and paid dividends to the rest. Though they’d had a few arguments when Lloyd had tried to micromanage decisions in the fields and in the cellar, the two men were getting along.
Lloyd was proud of Lost Souls and had done his share to spread the word, putting bottles in the hands of important sommeliers, tastemakers, and journalists around the world.
Lost Souls Ranch reached its peak after seven years of incredibly hard work.
The stone house stood two stories high. They’d re-created so much of what he loved about Carmine’s farm.
Now sheep and chickens grazed in the rows.
Never once had Otis sprayed a single chemical.
Though he’d had his learning curves, the vines thrived, pushing out stunning fruit.
Otis and Bec’s room looked east over the oldest vineyard, and there were few days when Otis didn’t lift himself out of bed, smile at his bride curled up naked under the sheets, then peek out the window at the tangerine sun rising over their centennial vines and think that he’d finally done it. He’d cracked the code.
It was a Tuesday in the middle of August when a new disturbance ruptured the peace.
Veraison , the stage when the ripening berries changed color, was spreading across the vineyards.
Otis had been working since well before dawn, checking off a list that filled two legal pads, and now he’d collapsed onto a chair on the terrace to read the paper.
“The audaaaaaciteeeeeeeeey !” he yelled out as he read Sam Ledbetter’s latest article in The New York Times . Otis sprang to his feet, his mouth agape. “How could Lloyd claim responsibility for any of this? And who does Ledbetter think he is?”
Bec rushed out, barefooted in a sundress. “You’re going to wake the boys. What are you going on about?”
Otis held the paper toward her and jabbed a finger at the drawing of Ledbetter’s smug face. “Bedwetter’s at it again, as is your boyfriend. Apparently I’m a soldier and nothing more. And the wine’s shit.”
“I’ll choose to ignore the boyfriend comment.” She took the paper with a gentle hand. As she read, Otis paced the tiles, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf.
“Lloyd Bramhall has added another micro winery to his quiver. He says he’s excited about what he and the team are doing up there.
Apparently he’s enlisted a fellow from the Carmine Coraggio school, though I don’t see the comparison.
I suppose the fruit is farmed well enough, but the wines fall flat for me.
Nevertheless, Lloyd has a good eye, and I look forward to tasting future vintages and seeing if they find their stride. ”
She pulled her eyes away from the rubbish on the page. “Oh.”
Otis squared up to her. “Not even a mention, Bec. We finally get into The New York Times , finally get written up by Bedwetter, and my name doesn’t even come up.
I’m merely fellow. Fellow. Fellow— fucking fellow.
And Lloyd. The nerve. What he and his team are doing up here?
What in God’s name has he done to contribute to this wine?
When’s the last time he picked up so much as a shovel. ”
The oh-so-familiar calming hand of Rebecca rested on his shoulder. “Take some breaths, dear.”
“I beg of you not to patronize me.” He shook his head in a jittery furious motion, a soldier of misfortune—left, right, left, right. He could whip an egg with such force. “I won’t take a breath. What I will do is have words with Lloyd. He can’t go around telling people he’s making the wine.”
A note of incredulity rang in her otherwise calm tone. “I don’t think he said he’s making the wine.”
“He might as well have.” Otis tore the paper from her hands and dropped it to the floor and stomped on it. “We have to buy him out.”
“Then we need to slow our spending.”
“Don’t get started on this again. We have to keep upgrading equipment.”
“How about your travel? Do you have to stay at Ritz-Carltons? Do you need to be drinking Burgundy on Tuesday nights?”
“Burgundy doesn’t care what day it is. How can I attempt to make a wine of such caliber without knowledge of the great wines of the world?” He couldn’t stand it when she harped on spending. It certainly didn’t help that she was the one who ran the finances, so she knew every blasted move he made.
Back to the matter at hand, he said, “He always has an agenda. Now he’s taking all the glory.”
“What would Carmine say about glory?” There she went with her calm wisdom. Couldn’t she see what was happening all around them?
“Carmine isn’t the final say on all things.”
“He used to be.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve outgrown his production. I’ve got a few opinions of my own now.” Otis gathered the paper, crumpled it in his hands, then tossed it over the railing, where it landed on the wheelchair ramp and rolled into Bec’s tulips.
“What did Carmine tell you? Don’t listen to the critics.”
“Carmine, Carmine, Carmine. Easy for him to say when Bedwetter thinks he’s the greatest winemaker in California.”
“There will always be obstacles,” Rebecca said. “It’s how you handle them. Look at you, you’re falling apart.”
Otis flapped his hands in the air as he spoke. “Please don’t Obi-Wan Kenobi me. When we’re all paid up and when Lloyd is out of the picture, we’ll hire a salesman. For now, I have to do it all, and I’m going to sometimes get a little road weary.”
Bec approached him and slipped her arms around his waist. He was ready for her to attack him for saying that he had to do it all, but as usual she took the high road. “What’s the point of all this if you’re not enjoying it?”