Chapter 15 Zin and the Art of Implosion #3
The other thing. His father didn’t like football any more than he did.
Addison Till sat next to Otis in a vacuum of awkward silence.
Why? Because there was no wine to numb Addison’s ever-present grudge toward Otis for having dropped out of school, a grudge that would last until his dying breath.
Talk about “I told you sos.” Addison could slam you with one without ever saying the words. His eyes shot “I told you sos.”
“How’s the new book coming?” Marshall asked Addison, surprising everyone with his attempt at making conversation. “What’s the topic?”
Addison dabbed his mouth with a napkin like he was inside Buckingham Palace dining with the Prince of Wales, then said, “I’m tackling the influence of modern culture on the time-tested traditions of the past.” He kept going for about five minutes, but Otis tuned him out.
Had his father not done the same to him all his life?
The man should write a book on how to set a bar so high for your son that he’ll spend the rest of his life parked in the shadow of a paternal dark cloud.
Addison hadn’t said a word about the quality of the wine from the last vintage.
Barely a thank-you for the case of wine Otis had shipped to Bozeman.
Shipping wasn’t getting any cheaper, by the way.
Next year it might be a bottle, if Addison was lucky.
If that weren’t enough, Lloyd’s presence swelled like a malignant tumor at the table.
Carmine was the only one who had turned down the invitation.
Not because of the booze but because Carmine didn’t do parties.
What a freaking hero. Here Otis was hosting one that he didn’t even want to attend.
Why couldn’t he be like Carmine and simply say no? No, no, no . What a lovely motto.
Otis came back to reality only when he heard Ledbetter’s name. Making it even more excruciating was that it came from the mouth of Addison Till.
Addison had said to Lloyd and Paul, “Superb mention in Sam Ledbetter’s article.”
“Aw, thanks, man,” Paul said, holding his hands in prayer position. Despite how wonderful Paul was, Otis had an urge to throw a corn dog at him.
“I’d love to taste your wines sometime.”
“Sure, come over before you go back. I’d be happy to walk you through them.”
“Thank you,” Addison said. “I just may. He’s a great writer, isn’t he? Quite humorous, in a dry way, of course. Lloyd, have you tried to get him to taste the wines here?”
Otis wondered whether his father realized the evil of his ways.
Lloyd set down the can in his hand. That was the other thing.
Beer. Sure, beer was fine, but a long lunch like this required a Vouvray, not a lager.
Why was it that football brought out the heathen in everyone?
Hold on, that wasn’t a beer because no one was even drinking beer . It was a bloody soda!
“He’ll get to us eventually.”
Us? What in hell did Lloyd have to do with Lost Souls?
Addison finally turned to his son. “It could be the name. You see him mostly writing about more traditional-type wineries. Lost Souls has a sort of childish quality that could be turning him off.”
Otis’s blood simmered in his veins, nearly scorching his insides.
“Right, Dad. Maybe I should change the name of the winery so that Samuel Bedwetter can piss all over—” Otis stopped and turned to make sure the boys were out of earshot.
“So that I could get some miserable old man in Manhattan to mention me in his shit column.”
Addison groaned disappointment. “I don’t think it’s shit. In fact, I find it very useful to have a guide of what I might find at the local stores. The retailers don’t have a clue what they’re doing.”
Otis was ready for battle. “That statement couldn’t be further from the truth.
The people in retail stores are the ones who can get to know your palate and steer you in the right direction.
What do you think they do all day? They study wine, talk about it, meet with reps, taste wines. They know more than you’ll ...”
Hearing his tone, Otis stopped just as he was getting going and looked over at Rebecca. She was staring at her plate. Dammit, the doghouse was calling again.
Lloyd stood. “I’m going to toss the ol’ pigskin for the boys.”
Otis cut him a look. “Yeah, you do that.”
Silence fell over the entire table. Addison didn’t even clear his throat.
Otis wished to be anywhere. The jungles of Vietnam, front row at a heavy metal concert, supine position at the dentist office staring up at a power tool, prison.
Yes, prison. Hell, he’d rather be neck deep in a tank of white zin.
Jed broke the silence with a laugh that crescendoed like a Mahler symphony. When he garnered the attention of every single human present, he said, “For God’s sake, will everyone please get a drink? This is awful.”
Another beat of silence, this one more anticipatory.
Otis didn’t move a muscle, simply waited to hear Bec’s voice. She was the mayor of this town. He could almost feel her weighing the decision.
One.
Two.
Three seconds.
He counted to ten before an answer came.
“Fine. Otis, would you like to grab some—”
Before she’d finished the sentence, Otis was already in the cellar, gathering his largest formats, a three-liter of an ’81 Morgon Beaujolais and a five-liter of a ’79 Lost Souls. He’d never been so eager to have a drink in his life. No one has ever seen a man open two large formats faster.
Within five minutes of Rebecca’s surrendering her hope of a sober party, Otis had filled glasses for everyone in attendance sans Jed. Apparently it wasn’t only he who’d been desperate for a sip, as by the time he’d sat down, half the glasses were empty.
After the game, which was apparently a stunner—Otis hadn’t watched—he went back into the kitchen to do dishes and found Lloyd and Rebecca speaking in low whispers in the corner under a rack of copper pots.
Lloyd backed away quickly, almost too quickly, as if Otis had stumbled upon them on the edge of a kiss.
Rebecca’s eyes glowed with guilt. “We’re just catching up.”
Otis looked from one to the other. “Right.”
She likely understood what he might have assumed and cut it off at the pass. “I was asking Lloyd about potential numbers if we did the white zin.”
Otis smiled an unhappy smile. “I see. I thought we’d already discussed and closed this topic.”
“We’re just talking.”
“Just, just, just,” he muttered, then more loudly: “You mean going behind my back. I am the winemaker here. I’m telling you that we will become the laughingstock of California.
Again . First we succumb to an infestation, and now we’re discussing making a wine without even an ounce of terroir, a wine that isn’t art at all.
A wine that is no different from the damn sodas we tried to serve out there. ”
“People like it,” Bec said. “They’re demanding it. Not every bottle has to bleed terroir.”
Otis clutched his heart. “You sound like him now.” He refused to make eye contact with Lloyd and pointed at him instead.
“We’re not in this business to follow trends.
You always bring up Carmine. He’s not making white zin.
He wouldn’t make it if the lives of his children hung in the balance. This has to be a joke.”
Bec moved toward Otis, breaking away from her boyfriend. “We need the money. You can still make your terroir wine. Why not make a guzzler too?”
“Because we will never outlive it.”
Lloyd leaned against the wall. “Otis, I get you. You know I’m a terroir guy. I live for a wine that speaks of its place, but we’re just saying that—”
“We? So you are colluding? How many times have you two spoken without me there?”
“There’s no collusion, my man.”
“My man? I am not your man .”
Rebecca put a hand on Otis’s back, as if that might extinguish his rage.
Lloyd smiled a smile that could break clouds apart.
“We’re simply talking about taking advantage of a trend that’s not stopping anytime soon.
I worry that we’ll be scratching our heads in five years, wondering why we didn’t take the money.
Think about it. That kind of green can set you up to do whatever you like.
You’ll be able to make deals. ‘Take thirty cases of my terroir wine and you can have a pallet of my white zin.’”
Otis peered into the eyes of his lover. This must have been how Napoleon felt when he learned of Joséphine’s infidelities. “My heart is broken right now. Truly shattered.”
“Take a deep breath,” Rebecca said.
“I’m not taking a deep breath.” His voice escalated. Others had come into the kitchen. He could feel them watching like gawkers witnessing a bar fight.
“We’re not pushing it on you,” Lloyd said. “We want to reason with you.”
Otis pointed his finger at Lloyd and then at Rebecca. “I dare you to say we one more time. I know you have eyes on her. Or for her, whatever the hell. I know that you would love nothing more than for her to divorce me so you could have a chance with her.”
“That’s not tr—”
“I’m speaking.”
“Otis, stop.”
He lifted a hand. “Bec, I’ve had enough. Lloyd, I want you out. Of my house. My life. You are a silent investor that gets a check. Very soon, I will buy you out. Exactly what it says in the contract.”
Lloyd grew prickly. “I don’t want to be bought out.”
“Tough shit.”
Lloyd opened his hands. “Otis, you don’t want to go down this path. Be a good partner.”
That felt like a threat; Otis stepped forward. “You want me to be a good partner?”
“Otis, stop it,” Rebecca said.
“How about this for a good partner?” Otis timed the punch perfectly, and Lloyd was too clueless to know Otis had nothing left to lose.
The man’s head smacked against the back wall and blood dripped from his mouth.
Rebecca screamed, as did someone else from behind.
Otis reared up to hit him again, despite Lloyd not retaliating.
Then Rebecca’s pleas to stop filled the air, and he caught himself. He lowered his fist and dropped his head. His chest heaved.
“There is no we ,” Otis whispered.
He turned and started out of the kitchen, passing by Marshall and Olivia, and his own mother and father. His boys looked at him like he’d lost his mind. He touched their heads and whispered that he was sorry.
As he reached the front door, he turned back and screamed one last time, “There is no fucking we !”