Chapter 13 Jeweled Boots and Bedwetters #2
“I am enjoying it. Look at me. Look at this smile, this bright-eyed bushy-tailed smile.”
She let out a quintessential “Ugh.” He’d heard a chorus of those in their marriage. Ugh, ugh, ugh . Sure, he might have deserved them, but still ...
“What? Out with it, Bec. Get it over with.”
She paused, doing one of her little meditative recenterings.
“You need to slow down. I don’t know everything you’re doing on the road, but I know you’re not taking care of yourself.
I see the receipts, the itemized ones. You’re eating countless burgers and bacon.
You’re drinking like you’re W. C. Fields. ”
“You’re the one who makes me bring the itemized receipts.”
She let her chin fall. “Is that the point?”
He didn’t tell her that he’d also taken his first sniffs of cocaine with a distributor in Florida who’d overpaid to get only fifteen cases of Lost Souls. What else does one do on a fast boat in Miami while the speakers are blaring Hall and Oates?
He took her hand. “My dad barely says anything when I send him wine these days. He wouldn’t know a good wine if it hit him in the head anyway, but he loves to read Bedwetter, and I’m sure this article solidifies his argument.
His soldier son, a.k.a. fellow , should have done something of which I was capable.
I should have finished Berkeley and should be writing for the Times right now.
Lord knows, the bar is not high, if they’re letting Bedwetter in.
Instead, I’m the failed and forgotten disciple of Carmine, and a lackey of Lloyd’s who doesn’t even get a mention. ”
“A lost soul,” Bec said.
“That’s right. My dad raised a lost soul.”
“Please don’t let Ledbetter get the best of you.”
“His name is Bedwetter.”
“Yeah, well, he makes you act like a child.”
Otis breathed into lungs that felt like rocks and looked into the eyes of this nearly perfect being he’d married. She was cheerleading for the wrong man.
Though he wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d left him alone with his misery, Bec grabbed him and held him tight, not a word said, conveying her reassuring and unwavering love, holding him till their hearts began to beat at the same rhythm again.
Later in August, Lloyd came to town, rolling in with an arm crooked out the window of his new Ferrari.
He slid out wearing jeweled boots. His jeans were tighter than green tape around a vine.
His shirt was pressed with so much starch you could have driven his fancy car over it without making a crease.
Meanwhile, Otis had been repairing irrigation all morning. He stepped out of the south vineyard block and wiped the sweat and dirt from his face. Bubbles had been hovering around him all day and followed him toward the Ferrari. Otis wished he’d taught his dog to attack, but it was too late now.
Lloyd knelt to pet Bubbles and said to Otis, “There’s my Brit Boy. How’s harvest looking?”
Otis’s fists tightened. “What was that Ledbetter article all about?”
Lloyd recalibrated. He apparently hadn’t expected a standoff. “He didn’t get it quite right, did he?”
“No, he did not.” Otis stood three feet from him, looking up at this exquisite specimen of a man.
Lloyd waved it off as no big deal. “Don’t pay those things any attention. Hey, at least we got more press. People are starting to get what we’re doing.”
“What is it exactly that you’re doing?” Otis asked, standing his ground.
As if he kept reserves, Lloyd unpeeled another layer of handsome. “I’m doing my part. You’re making good wine, but I’m pulling strings in the background.”
“Pulling strings?” Otis raised a finger. “Don’t take credit for my wine, Lloyd. I’m grateful that you helped bankroll this thing, but it’s mine and Rebecca’s blood and sweat out there in the fields. Don’t ever forget that.”
A flash of anger threatened like thunder, but Lloyd wrangled it in quickly. “No one is forgetting what you do.”
“Bedwetter is. Maybe remind him next time.”
“I’ll do that. More importantly, I have big news. Bec around? I think she’ll want to hear.”
Otis didn’t like how Lloyd brushed the Bedwetter issue aside, but he was too damned taxed to do anything about it. He’d just returned from two weeks on the East Coast, securing new distribution. He never imagined what slinging juice on the road could be like, the toll it took.
Otis gathered Bec and watched her kiss Lloyd on the cheek. He seemed all too delighted by her touch, and Otis wondered whether anyone would notice if he chopped Lloyd up and buried him in the vines.
They sat on the terrace under the shade of a pergola. A noisy bird called out from the patch of trees nearby. The subtle scent of ripening grapes had started to fill the air.
Lloyd crossed one leg over another. His pant legs rode up, revealing more of his fancy boots. “Gallo wants to buy us.”
Heads spun; eyes popped out.
Lloyd directed his attention at Bec. “The brand and the land. They regret not buying the property in the first place. They love the label and wines and see big potential. They’d want you to stick around as winemaker, and you could keep living on the property.”
“How much?” Bec asked.
“No,” Otis said, his body tightening. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to know.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Lloyd said with greed dripping from his words. “You want to know.”
“You say a number, and I’ll punch you in the mouth.” Otis gripped the water glass in his hand so hard he felt the glass bend.
“Otis ...” Bec said, as if he were a dog who’d stolen her sandwich.
“Don’t Otis me. I don’t want to hear it. This place is not for sale, and I’m not going on Gallo’s payroll.”
“Everything is for sale,” Lloyd said.
“No, it’s not. We’re getting closer and closer to buying you out, and I’m going to farm this land till the day I die. I belong here, every bit as much as I belong with Bec.”
Lloyd uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. His teeth were as white as the pope’s robe. “Gallo doesn’t go around throwing money at people every day. We can find another piece of land and do it all over again. Well, after a few years. They want you to sign a noncompete.”
“This is laughable.”
Lloyd looked at Bec as if she were the sane one of the two. He stated Gallo’s bid.
“What did I say?” Otis’s teeth clenched, the tendons in his neck twisting.
Lloyd kept his eyes on her. “Think about it. I’ll stop back by tomorrow around the same time.” He glanced at Otis. “I knew you wouldn’t jump on it, but let’s see if it makes more sense after sleeping on it.”
That night, after they’d tucked in their boys, Otis made Bec a vermouth over ice and gave himself a hefty pour of Glenmorangie, because anything other than scotch wasn’t strong enough for the forthcoming conversation.
He sneaked a large sip and then topped his glass off before finding her in the living room listening to Fleetwood Mac.
Lowering the volume on the record player, he said, “Can we please finish this conversation?” They’d revisited the topic of selling maybe ten times since Lloyd had left, never once finding common ground.
A sigh escaped her lips.
“I know, I know, but we have to. I need us to be on the same page.”
“You mean, you need me to see it your way.”
Otis handed her the vermouth, then set his drink down on the coffee table before sitting next to her on the couch.
“Well, yes. Yes, I do. I let you win all the time. This one, I need.” He pressed his hands together in prayer position.
“I’m begging, Bec. Let this go. I don’t want to sell.
We haven’t done what we’re supposed to do here. ”
She stared into the purple hues of the vermouth. “You don’t know what it’s like to be poor. Not really.”
“We were dirt poor for years after we first met.”
“We were kids. We have a family now. This is a chance for us to never worry about money again.”
“I’m not worried about money now. You don’t need to be either. We’re just getting started. We don’t need Gallo’s money to be rich.” Something occurred to him. “Is this about helping your mom and dad out too? Your brother?”
“Not only that, but yes. I would like to take care of them.”
Otis shook his head, frustration seizing him.
“I also think it might be a good time for you to take a break. Before you kill yourself.”
Otis rubbed his eyes and then massaged his temples.
This was the one battle she couldn’t win.
“Look, I’m working on slowing down. We can keep helping your family out.
I’ll watch my expenses. We’ll focus more on saving, but we can’t sell this land.
You might as well rip my heart out and stomp on it.
” He found her eyes. “Please, Bec. My soul is here. My destiny.”
She set her glass down next to his and sat back. It took her a moment, but then she finally looked at him. “More than anything, I’m worried about you.”
“You don’t need to be. I am already feeling more relaxed. Let’s not give up on what we’ve built. I’m a new man, Bec. Let me prove it to you, okay?”
She gave the smallest nod possible.
“Is that an okay-we-don’t-have-to-sell nod?”
“I’ll let it go. For now. But I’m watching you, Otis. I’m far more concerned about the health and security of my family than I am about taking over the wine world.”
Oh, he was well aware. “Fair enough. I’m going to prove to you that we can cover all bases. No need to choose.” Smiling at this momentous victory, he inched toward her and kissed her cheek. “I won’t let you down, my love.”
The summer of 1983 was off to a good start.
The vines spoke to Otis more than most years.
Sales were superb. By June, he’d sold the entire ’81 vintage, which had only gone to market late last fall.
He was tempted to pull more out of his cellar to sell, as he’d been holding back fifty cases from each of the past few years, but Bec told him he’d kick himself later. She was probably right.