Chapter 17 Built on the Back of White Zin #3
Easing back into the seat with confidence, a smile on his face, he said, “I ever tell you about the time Carmine Coraggio dumped dirt into a glass of my first wine and then tossed it back without a care?”
Otis couldn’t believe how all eyes went to him as he spoke. Sometimes he forgot what he’d achieved. Not many winemakers would ever reach such a level of success. It felt so good that he sneaked back to the bathroom three more times.
The next morning he peeled himself from the bed of his suite at the St. Regis—still dressed from the night before—and realized he must have forgotten to set his alarm. He was first up presenting at the general sales meeting.
With his hair wet from a shower, he rushed out the door.
Bits and pieces of what had happened after dinner slowly came back to him in the taxi.
A late-night show at the Village Vanguard.
Or was it the Blue Note? Countless more cocktails.
Otis recalled slapping down his American Express card multiple times to cover the bill.
He dreaded looking through the receipts in his wallet to see the damage done.
Bec would certainly have something to say upon his return.
He had terribly vague memories of nearly getting into a bar brawl, and there was also a possibility that he’d thrown up into a trash can in Times Square, but maybe that had been a dream.
Twenty minutes later, Otis leaped up the stairs of an office building in SoHo, where everyone waited for him. He stood in front of forty sales reps and several managers and only then realized that his fingers were shaking. On the table beside him waited his wines.
“Well, here we are. I can’t lie. I had a late one last night. Le Bernardin and then who knows what.” He wiped his brow, capturing a layer of sweat. “Hair of the dog anyone?” He pulled the cork from the first wine and poured himself a glass, then tossed it back.
Once the liquid soothed him, he looked up. “Well, that did it. I’m back, folks. Back for more. Where are we having lunch?”
Everyone laughed, and Otis began to pass around his wine, so that each person could pour their own.
“I suppose there’s a reason that I’m best staying back home and working the fields.
In all honesty, I’ve been on the road too long, but it’s important.
I want to meet you guys, see who’s out there pushing my juice so that I can keep doing what I do.
I appreciate your help, and all that I can offer is to give my all every year in the vineyards .
.. and then climb out from my cave every once in a while for a visit. ”
He poured himself another glass. “My land, my farm ... I treat her like a princess. We’ve had our years, our challenges, but I’ve learned that the more love I give her, the more she responds.
The more these wines speak. We’ve been to hell and back, but I think she’s coming around now, giving us vintages that we’ll never forget. ”
Otis carried on for a long time, and when he finished, everyone gave him a standing ovation.
In the back of his mind, he knew it was all bullshit.
Just as he knew what people wanted to drink, what critics wanted to praise, he knew exactly how to spin his pitches.
In truth, if his land could talk, she’d berate him for what he was doing, what he’d become.
But it was too late now. Just too late.
By the time he returned to Glen Ellen, he was a wreck. Rebecca’s jaw fell open when he stumbled into the front door with his bags. Even his boys noticed.
He slept for two days, barely coming out of the room. Rebecca finally came in and peeled back the blinds. It was July; the last few months were a blur.
“Okay, that’s enough, Otis. Get out of bed and get back to reality.”
He wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Come climb in with me.”
She shook her head.
He realized then that he was in the guest bedroom. “Bec, we haven’t slept together in months.” He felt himself swelling under the sheets, his libido in desperate need.
“I wonder why.” Of course he knew why.
She opened the rest of the curtains and walked to the door. “Mike has trumpet lessons at eleven. You’re taking him. Later, we need to go into town for school supplies and some new clothes. Camden has nothing to wear.”
“Can you buy me a couple of more days?”
She didn’t even respond and turned to leave the room. Otis rolled over and closed his eyes again. He kept an eye on the clock, and at ten thirty he stepped into the shower, then found himself in the mirror.
It felt like the first time he’d seen himself that year. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. Black rings collected under his eyes. New wrinkles ran across his forehead. Damn, forty was coming on him quickly.
“Let’s go, Dad!” Otis heard from down the hall.
He slapped himself and then raced to the closet to find something to wear.
Once he and Mike were in the BMW, Otis asked, “Since when did you start playing trumpet?”
Mike was almost eleven now, almost a bloody teenager, and Otis had seen firsthand with Camden what it was like to raise a boy going through puberty.
Click the seat belt and close your eyes!
Michael’s voice hadn’t dropped, but pimples had collected on his brow.
He was a handsome little devil, thick dark hair and bright-blue eyes.
If only a shadow didn’t follow him around.
“I got tired of the trombone,” he said in a monotone voice.
“You look good, son. Tell me what else is new. I’m so sorry I’ve been gone, but I’m done for a while now.”
“You look strung out.”
Otis’s eyebrows curled. “Strung out? What do you know about strung out?”
His son shrugged. Kids knew way too much for their own good.
“Have you talked to Joe Montana lately?” he asked.
Otis was glad that Mike was willing to speak with him. It wasn’t always that way. “Not in a while.”
“I think they’re going to win it all this year.”
“Yeah, they’re looking good, aren’t they?
” Otis had no idea how they were looking, but he’d pretended that he knew when folks around the country had brought it up.
He’d caught himself more than once bragging about his budding friendship with Joe, even mentioning a time or two that they’d considered a project together.
Which was true. Nothing had been set in stone, but Joe kept pushing. Otis kind of liked stringing the quarterback along a little bit, staying on equal footing, as it were.
Otis spent the afternoon with his family in Santa Rosa.
They ate tacos at their favorite Mexican place, then dropped into the drugstore for school supplies and stepped into a couple of clothing shops for the boys.
Then, while the kids went into Sound Control, the CD store, Bec and Otis got a chance to talk.
Otis sat on a bench and motioned for her to join him.
She sat a good three feet away. She would turn forty in the next few years, but no one would have known it.
While Otis had been digging his grave with red meat and drugs, she’d been living off the land, meditating, and doing everything she could to take care of herself.
The only sign of her age and of her weariness with Otis and raising children and taking care of her extended family was in her eyes, in the way the bright light that had always glowed deep in the galaxies of her pupils had slightly dimmed.
Though she dressed with more sophistication, she was still a hippie at heart, still barefooted and braless most of the time, still listening to the latest music and insisting that vinyl was better than CDs, still fine with taking an evening toke—but only once the kids were asleep.
“I know you’re not happy with me.”
She let out a staccato laugh that she’d been holding back for years. “What makes you think that?”
“Hey, it’s not been easy. I’m coming back. I’m here.” He reached for her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She withdrew her hand and rested it on her lap. “Come November, right?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I don’t know what you’re doing on the road, and maybe I don’t want to know, but it’s gotta stop.”
Tired of having to defend himself, he said, “I’m doing what it takes to sell wine.”
She cut a quick look at him, then diverted her attention back to the storefront. “Mike said you didn’t even realize he played trumpet. Is there any wonder why he’s sad? He misses his dad.”
“I thought he was still playing the trombone. Come on, same thing. Trumpet, trombone. You can’t put what he’s been going through on me. That’s not fair.”
“Otis, he’s struggling. He needs his dad, right now. Maybe if my dad had been there for Jed, then ... then things would be different.”
Otis didn’t even touch that comment. “He has me. I’m giving him everything I can. I’m giving him security. Remember, that’s the thing you told me you wanted them to have above all else. I’ve made that happen.”
Michael and Camden and Rebecca needed more than that now. Otis knew it as well as anyone.
He sat back and crossed his legs, threw an arm up on the back of the bench. His fingers grazed her shoulder. “Believe me, I don’t want to travel anymore. I’m home.”
“Jed’s using again. I can’t have you getting lost in the same cave. You owe us more than that.”
“I’m not using.”
She stood. “You need to get your shit together, or we’re going to have a problem.”
“Don’t do this, Bec. Is that a threat?”
She didn’t turn back.
Damned if the 49ers didn’t make it to the Super Bowl, and damned if Joe Montana didn’t call Otis and offer him a ticket. “I wish I had one for each of the boys and for your wife, but I’m limited.”
“No, I understand. And thank you. You know I’ll be there.”
Otis should have anticipated Bec’s reaction. They were in their bathroom getting ready for the day. Otis wore a monogrammed twill robe with matching slippers, a gift he’d recently given himself. A man of his stature should look good in the morning.