Chapter 19 Welcome to the Nineties #2
Lloyd lowered his hand. “I’m tired of him, Bec.
Your husband is losing his damn mind. Last time I talked to you, you wanted more money.
You wanted your boys to have an inheritance.
You wanted to know that you guys won’t starve.
Growing production is a must. We have the network, the name. We’re totally set up.”
“You just want people to talk about you,” Otis said, finally having swallowed one spoonful of bullshit too much. “You want people to know that you’re a part of this thing.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“Not anymore.” Otis sipped a breath; his heart rate lowered. “I’m done. At least for a while.”
Lloyd took a repositioning breath of his own.
“What I know is that we have built something that’s worth a lot of money, and we have to ride that wave.
” He paused. “Take some time. You’re exhausted.
It’s been a hard run. We’ll hire a sales team.
You don’t have to go on the road. Just build the goddamn facility, and let’s move on. ”
“I’m not building anything. There’s nothing in our contract that says I have to grow at a certain pace every year. You’re along for the ride.”
“We’ll see what my lawyers say. You don’t want to make me an enemy, Otis.” Lloyd looked to Rebecca.
“Nope, don’t look at her,” Otis said. “I think we’re done here. Pack your briefcase and hit the road.”
Lloyd shoved his papers into his case and stomped out the door.
“That went well,” Otis said to Bec, as they heard Captain Dirtbag descend the steps.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to make him an enemy, Otis.”
Standing, Otis drew her in and kissed her mouth. “He’s been an enemy for a long time. Don’t underestimate me, my dear. He can bring his lawyers if he wants. He will not take advantage of us any longer. I need a break, and I’m drawing that line in the sand right now. Isn’t that what you want?”
She gave him a smile and pressed her body into his. “I know that you’re a man of extremes. Find the middle ground. Don’t upset him. Yes, take care of yourself, but don’t start a war.”
Just then, the Ferrari puttered to life, and Lloyd tore out of the driveway.
“Wah, wah,” Otis said in a baby’s voice. “My name’s Lloyd, and I’m not getting what I want. Wah, wah, wah.”
Bec shook her head sternly.
Otis kept going, determined to get a laugh out of her. “Wah, wah, Bec. Your husband won’t listen to me. He doesn’t want to work anymore, and now I’m—”
She finally smiled, and Otis said, “Ahhhh. That’s all I needed, my love.” Then he went in for another kiss.
“That’s what he told me,” Bec said, shining with delight in a way that only she could. “He said he was going to jump out the window if I left the seat.”
“So he blackmailed you on that bus,” Cam said with a charming grin, drawing smiles from the rest of their little family, all sitting together around the kitchen table. With every passing month, he grew more into his body, filling out and growing stouter.
On a butcher block rested Marcona almonds, cornichon, Castelvetrano olives, cherry tomatoes from the garden, walnuts from their trees, one of Bec’s lovely baguettes, and two cheeses: an English cheddar and Humboldt Fog.
It would be the perfect meal if it were accompanied by a few fine shavings of an acorn-fed jámon Ibérico or even prosciutto di parma , but Bec was on another vegetarian kick, God bless her.
Though Otis smelled bacon in his dreams, he was determined to ride out this rabbit-food diet, if only to prove his discipline.
“That’s why we were eventually conceived?” Cam asked. “The reason we’re all here? Because he threatened to jump out the window if you left his seat.”
“This is the grossest discussion on earth,” Mike said, putting his head in his hands. He’d taken to wearing black jeans and white T-shirts every day, and they hung loosely on his skinny frame.
Otis cleared his throat. “If you say it like that, I guess so.” He held a glass of an exquisite Bernkasteler Ring Riesling that he and Bec had picked up at auction in Germany.
“I was going to Berkeley to major in journalism, as you know, to follow in my father’s footsteps.
She had just pointed out—rightly so—that maybe I should do something I actually wanted to do.
Kind of like the stand Cam has made. The same one that is welcome by Mikey, if he chooses not to take over the farm.
Of course, I’ll jump out the window if he bails on me, too, but hopefully I’ll survive.
” He winked to make sure they knew he was being playful.
Their laughs filled Otis’s heart.
“For the record,” Bec said, “I was mesmerized by his ambition, but he needed to point it in the right direction. Same goes for you two. That’s why we want you to chase your own dreams. You’re the one who has to live them. Not us. We understand if you don’t want to be a part of the farm.”
Otis swirled the nectar in his glass. “I can’t imagine you’ll find anything more noble than making wine, but ...”
Bec eyed him.
Otis broke off a chunk of bread; crumbs spilled onto the table.
“I’m kidding. Your mother’s right. You can’t live our dream.
It has to be yours. That was the first of a million lessons your mother taught me over the years.
No matter what you do, find a partner like her, someone who can see past your flaws and find the good in you and lift you up. You understand?”
Both boys nodded.
“Make sure you find someone who knows how to make bread like this too.” He moaned with delight as he dipped a piece in a bright-green olive oil made down the road.
“I’m just trying to figure out what Dad brought to the table,” Cam said. “I’ve seen the pictures. He was funny looking.”
“Funny looking?” Otis said, scrunching his face and flaring out his nose. “What’s funny looking about this?”
More laughter filled the air, and Otis felt at ease.
September was here. Harvest was here, starting tomorrow morning with the chardonnay.
It had been a hell of a vintage: easy temperatures, the perfect amount of rain, manageable pest pressure.
Otis had been completely hands off. They’d barely pruned, let alone applied treatments for pests or weeds.
What he’d been working for since he took over the farm had finally happened.
He’d created such a happy environment that it had thrived on its own.
Which was all to say that Rebecca—and Carmine, for that matter—were right once again.
Otis didn’t need to work himself to the bone to make good wine.
He needed to stand back and let nature do the hard work.
Why had it taken him this long to understand?
Rebecca reached for his hand. “We pick on our dear Otis, but he had so much going for him back then. I was the lucky one. In this house, we talk about achieving our dreams, creating our own reality. I didn’t understand these concepts growing up.
My mom and dad had a far bleaker outlook. When I met this handsome devil—”
“Handsome, charming, brilliant,” Otis said.
“All of the above, that’s right. He blew the doors off my vision of what my life could be.
Are you kidding me? I never imagined any of this: the farm, you two, the wines we’ve made, the experiences.
The traveling around the world. That’s your dad orchestrating it all.
He’s the one with the powers, the vision.
He might look a little funny, but he’s my hero. ”
Otis’s eyes watered with delight. Damn it felt good to be back.
Puberty had hit Mike’s body, and his voice cracked when he said, “That’s what Dad always says, that he’s going to jump out the window. He never will.”
“Don’t test me,” Otis said, wagging a finger. “One day it might happen.”
“I doubt it.”
“You don’t think so. Hey, I’m a man of my word. Don’t make me do it right now.”
“So stupid,” Cam said. “You’re all talk.”
“Please don’t encourage him, boys.”
“Nope,” Otis said. “It’s too late. I see how I’m looked at around here. A funny-looking man who doesn’t stick to his word.”
He approached the closest window, the one looking over Bec’s herb garden, and slid open the latch. “It was nice knowing you. Never forget, I was always a man of my word.”
“This is so dumb!” Cam said.
“Do it, do it, do it!” Mike chanted.
Bec looked at him like, Did I really marry this ... this being?
“Yes, honey,” Otis said in answer to the question she didn’t actually ask. “You did marry this.”
With that, he lifted up the window. Peeking back at his family, he said, “I hope they serve riesling in heaven. I’ll say hi to Bubbles. Bon voyage.”
Then he went headfirst out the window and tumbled smack into the basil. It hurt far more than he’d considered possible, and he felt his shoulder tear. Nevertheless, looking up and seeing the three heads of his favorite humans poked out the window in rib-rattling laughter made it all worth it.
He’d found his family again, and that was what mattered.
In the morning Otis pulled on his Carhartt pants and button-down shirt and sneaked down the stairs. The sun’s early-morning rays splintered through the windows. A peace had come over him in the last few days, and today it felt even more pronounced.
He decided to take his cup out into the vines.
Mug in hand, barely having wiped the sleep from his eyes, he meandered into the chardonnay block they’d planted.
Steam rose from his mug as he enjoyed a long sip.
He spun around, looking at all the vines with their ripe grapes dangling in wonderfully imperfect clusters. It was time to pick.
But . . .
It didn’t feel right.
He thought of what Carmine had always said, how you can’t keep taking and taking and taking from your vines, taking from your land. You have to give back more than you take. Sometimes you must make sacrifices.
With his free hand, Otis walked through one of the rows, tickling the clusters and leaves with his fingers. “Talk to me. Tell me I’m not crazy.”