Chapter 15 Zin and the Art of Implosion #2
“Oh, c’mon. Think about it. You need money. I’m giving you a way to earn some.” Lloyd’s eyes tracked to Bec, hoping she’d jump in.
“I’m not making white zin,” Otis said. “Thanks for the idea. It’s good to see you. And goodbye.” Otis put his arm around Rebecca and attempted to guide her back to the house.
Bec shook him off. “How much could we sell? What kind of FOBs are we talking about?” FOB meant freight on board ; it was the price at which Otis and Rebecca sold their wine to distributors.
“We could sell more than we could ever make,” Lloyd said, greed dancing in his voice. “People are begging for it.”
Otis set his fists on his waist. “Don’t even tell me you think this is a good idea, Bec.”
“I think we need money.”
“We also need our souls. I’d rather rob a bank.”
The boys walked up. Ball in hand, Cam said, “Dad, did you see Lloyd’s arm? I’ve never seen anyone—”
“Yes, I saw Lloyd’s arm,” Otis said sharply. “Boys, we’re wrapping up an adult conversation. Do you mind waiting inside?”
“But, Dad,” Cam said, “we wanted to see if we could get a game going. Me and Lloyd versus you and Mike.”
Mikey threw his hands in the air. “What? No, it’s Lloyd and me versus you two.”
Otis’s jaws tightened like a coyote trap. He had to pry them open to say, “I will not ask again.”
They took his meaning and retreated inside with slumped shoulders.
Otis reverted his gaze to Lloyd and stepped toward him.
“Lloyd, let me make two things clear. We’re not ever selling this place, and I am not ever making white zin.
I don’t care if the world is on fire and white zin is our only hope.
I don’t care if the White House is begging for it. No. White. Zin.”
Lloyd’s eyes went to Bec.
Otis snapped his fingers. “No, don’t look at her. Look at me.”
When Lloyd did, Otis said, “She runs the books and the farm and about everything else, but the vines and wines are mine. I’m not making white zin, and if you ever bring it up again, I will knock you in the mouth.”
Handsome smile alert. He didn’t even seem fazed by Otis’s threat. “It’s just a suggestion. I know money’s tight.”
Otis didn’t say a thing. Bec didn’t dare.
Lloyd took the hint, said a quick goodbye, then retreated to his race car and sped away.
Otis tried to take Rebecca’s hand, but she pulled it back. “You need to grow up.”
Christmas of ’84 was anything but joyful.
Otis and Rebecca had been at each other’s throats throughout harvest. After one of her rants, Otis would throw himself on the sword.
“You’re right,” he would say. “I am impossible. I don’t want to compromise my art and make white zin or fucking blue cabernet.
I want to continue making wines that matter. ”
She’d quieted about the white zin thing, though he suspected she’d been speaking to Lloyd on the side. If he found that out for sure, he would absolutely lose his mind.
What brought it all to a head was Rebecca’s statement—not question—on Christmas Eve.
Bec’s parents had just left, and the boys were asleep, and Otis and Rebecca were playing Santa Claus.
Rebecca wheeled in a new bicycle for Mike.
Otis had gone to work setting up a train set for Michael that promised to take three hours, what with the awful instructions.
“Jed wants to go back to rehab,” Rebecca offered.
“Oh, yeah?” Otis had a proper buzz from having drained almost two bottles of wine. Marshall and Olivia’s presence always forced him to overindulge. Marshall had a never-ending evil eye, and Olivia’s fragility was too difficult to be around even halfway sober.
“I want to pay for it.”
“Pay for what?” He stuck a screwdriver into a hole in the track.
“We’re going to pay for Jed to go back to rehab. The VA is being difficult, and they won’t pay for a good one anyway.”
“What does he need, a Four Seasons?” Otis took a soothing breath, set the screwdriver down, and tried not to show how maniacally angry he’d become in a matter of seconds. “With what money?”
“With our money.”
“We don’t have money.”
“We do. We have savings.”
“What happens when we need our savings?” Their words came out faster by the second.
“We’ll be back in greener times by then?”
“How could you know that?”
“I know.”
Otis wanted to eat his wineglass when Bec started talking like that. He picked up the screwdriver and went back to work with determined fury. “What an epic waste of money. Like last time, he’ll go right back to using.”
“It doesn’t always take.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
“He’s my brother, and he wants to get better. Can you imagine what he’s been through?”
“I appreciate that, but we can’t put our security at risk for him.” Where was the bloody whiskey bottle?
“He’s family.”
Even as he continued to protest, Otis knew she would win. Was it any wonder why he had to work so hard? Sure, he’d simply spread himself a little thinner, because he had plenty of time and energy and money. Who needed sleep? He could whittle his four hours down to two.
The real rage rose on the day the San Francisco 49ers made the Super Bowl.
Rebecca, who wasn’t much of a sports fan at all, had suggested the wonderfully stupendous idea of inviting everyone over to watch the game.
Not just everyone, but everyone . Otis’s parents in Montana.
Her parents. Her now-sober brother—coming off a rehab Otis and Bec had paid for.
All the employees. Carmine. Paul and Sparrow. Lloyd .
The boys had run outside to throw the ball after losing their minds over the win.
Otis and Rebecca still sat with Bubbles on the couch, facing the television.
A reporter was wrapping up an interview with Joe Montana.
A giant bowl with remnants of popcorn rested on the coffee table beside an empty bottle of rosé Champagne.
“You want to invite Lloyd?” Otis asked, wishing he could get away with opening a second bottle without being scolded.
“He’s our partner.”
“He’s evil.”
“You’re a child.”
The conversation felt like a hundred they’d had in the past.
“I know you don’t like football,” Rebecca said, “but this is about the boys. Look at their joy. Let them see what a real American life is like, getting the family together the way it should be.”
This was always her way, giving, giving, giving, and always talking about the perfect American life. How far she’d come from her hippie youth.
“There’s one thing, though,” Rebecca said, pouring both of them more water from the carafe. “With Jed getting out of rehab, I’d like to make the party alcohol-free.”
Otis’s head spun all the way around, 360 degrees of mind-bending shock. “You’re kidding. Just when I thought you had lost your humor. Not bad, actually. You nearly gave me another heart attack—not even a mini one, a full-blown affair. You’re funny.”
She wasn’t laughing. Hell of a poker face.
“Wait, you’re not being serious. Hold on. You are. You want to host a party with our extended family and friends—many of whom are in the wine business—and yet ask them to abstain from alcohol.”
Apparently Otis was having a conversation with himself, as she collected the bowl and bottle from the table and headed for the kitchen. He hated this, how she let him process things verbally on his own. She didn’t even have to participate in their arguments sometimes.
“If you are, in fact, being serious,” he called out to her, “this is not funny and not even a discussion. You win everything, but not this one. No way.”
Not a peep.
“With my father there. Your father. With Jed? Oh, I’ll be drinking. Everyone will be drinking, or it will be a nightmare. You’re going to punish me for Jed’s drug abuse?”
He followed her into the kitchen and waved a hand in front of her face. “Anyone in there? Do you hear me? We’re either having a party with alcohol flowing like the Nile River, or we will not be hosting anyone at all.”
She finally spoke, her deceptively sweet little mouth peeling open. “I don’t think it would hurt you to take some time off from drinking anyway.”
“Oh, here we go again. I only drink too much when I’m stressed out. That happens to be a lot lately.”
She went quiet again.
He knew he couldn’t win, but he tried anyway.
“I beg of you. Let’s not have a party. No one says we have to. I’m not inviting people to our house, to our vineyard and winery, and asking them not to drink. What they put in their mouths is their business. What I put in my mouth is my business.”
Rebecca, ever patient, reached for his hand. “I love you.”
Otis’s shoulders slumped. He knew she’d won. No other woman on earth could control him like her, by bloody blue gods; that was why he loved her more than any other man could love a woman.
Her idea was still a bad one, though.
On game day, January 20, 1985, Lost Souls Ranch resembled a rehab facility.
Everyone dead sober. The conversation stale and awkward.
Not a smile within ten miles. It fit that it was cold outside.
The long tables in the living room where they’d hosted countless wonderful meals inspired by European cooking now hosted buffalo wings, cheese curds, jalapeno poppers, hamburgers, and nachos. What a travesty.
Otis couldn’t get past being grumpy. This was not a time to expect everyone to be sober.
Except for Jed.
Otis wasn’t a monster. He was happy for Jed.
He wasn’t happy that he’d had to pay for the rehab and now had to endure a sober family get-together.
What was it that Sinatra had said? That he felt bad for a man who didn’t drink, as he woke up feeling the best he would all day.
Sinatra’s heart would break for Otis right now.
Actually, Sinatra would have had his people take care of Jed—and Lloyd—a long time ago.
This would be the last time Otis paid for rehab, though. If Jed slipped up, then Otis would enjoy one of the finest “I told you sos” in history, then make Rebecca sign a document agreeing that Jed was on his own next time.