Chapter 19 Welcome to the Nineties #3
He listened with his entire being, wanting to hear the whispers that often came singing from the vines.
A swoosh of energy passed by in the morning breeze.
“Would it be so bad if we took a year off? I need it. I’ve lost my edge.
Lost the fun, even. I’m tired. Perhaps we both are. What if we take time to heal together?”
Several rows later, once he’d emptied his mug, Otis knelt in the middle of another row. The sweet smell of chardonnay grapes teased the air. The sun rose over the horizon and splashed the fall leaves with light, causing the dew to sparkle.
He closed his eyes and listened. The vines didn’t speak with words. It wasn’t like that. They spoke in a way that could only be felt, like an electric current running right through his heart.
What he heard the vines say was that this vintage should be one of rest. A reset for the vines and the wines and for Otis Till, who had spelunked so deeply into the caves of his own demons that he best return to solid ground before it was too late.
Just as Otis left the row and reached the gravel road that led to the cellar, Scooter pulled up in one of the farm trucks. He rolled down the window. Old country music played in the background. “Good morning. You ready to pick some chardonnay?”
Otis shook his head; his empty coffee cup dangled from his finger. “We’re going to let the fruit hang this year.”
Scooter grabbed one of the suspenders of his overalls. “What?”
Otis put a hand on the window frame. “I’ve been going at it too long. We’ve been taking too much from this land. Let’s take some time off. We’ll still pay everyone, but we’re not making wine this year. I want the grapes to shrivel on the vine.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
It didn’t take long for word to spread. One of the vineyard guys must have said something, because in the next few weeks, Otis got calls from distributors all over the country, asking for an update.
When he went to town, all the winemakers and other farmers asked too.
“I heard you were dialing back Heartbreak, but now you’re not even picking fruit? ”
Otis smiled every time, knowing he’d made the ultimate sacrifice. It didn’t matter if no one else understood.
Though he hadn’t intended it, his choice threw gasoline on the fire of his celebrity.
Joe Montana and Tchelistcheff heard about it.
Hugh Johnson wrote about his “brazen decision” in Decanter .
Even Bedwetter jumped into the melee, writing: Otis Till and his renegade ways have only exacerbated the rabid desperation for his wines from drinkers across the globe.
He is to wine what Folkwhore is to music .
Otis knew Folkwhore well, as they were one of Camden’s favorite bands, one of the groups that had come up in the Seattle grunge scene with Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Soundgarden. Otis might have preferred that Bedwetter compare him to Yo-Yo Ma, but he didn’t mind being called a renegade.
Considering Otis had deleted a year of profits from the books with his decision to skip a vintage, it was inevitable that Lloyd would strike again.
Otis had felt him silently stewing. He and Bec hosted him for another formal meeting at the dining room table of Lost Souls Ranch.
The boys were at school. Lloyd pulled in in his weathered Ferrari.
He’d aged even more since they’d last seen each other, gray hairs sprouting on his sideburns.
Wrinkles had found him too. His shoes weren’t even polished.
He came at Otis hard as they met at the door. “You know what you’re doing, right? You’re sabotaging our brand. Premeditated murder.”
“Premeditated murder?” Otis asked. “That’s rich.”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing the same with the reds.”
“It’s true. We’re taking a year off.”
“We? So you’re in collusion with the vines?”
“Of course we are, you bumbling fool.” Otis cackled with all the griminess of a seasoned wine rep talking about how “smooth” the wines in his bag were.
“You know, I used to look up to you. I used to think we saw eye to eye. So much so that I ignored your obsession with Bec, but you can’t see past the dollar signs, and that’s a tragedy.
It might be wise for you to take a year off as well; you’re looking a bit ragged.
” Otis looked down. “Growing a belly too. Go spend some time in the fields. I’ll give you a shovel.
You remember how to work one, don’t you? ”
Bec came from inside, saying, “Otis, please try to be civil. Welcome, Lloyd.”
“Yes. Welcome , Lloyd,” Otis said. “Please come in and poison our house with your toxicity.”
“Otis, seriously,” Bec said.
“Sorry.”
Lloyd stood there like a statue, clearly trying to decide his next move.
Otis pulled open the door and turned back. “Well, are you coming in?”
“Don’t start throwing insults,” Lloyd said. “I told you. Things will get ugly if you don’t get back to the plan. Pick the red grapes and make some wine. We can put off building the new facility for a year, but you can’t skip a vintage. I need you to make forty thousand cases of Heartbreak.”
Otis let the door swing shut and squared up to Lloyd. “I’m not making an eyedropper full.”
Lloyd crumbled before them. His exquisite jawline splintered. Words he shouldn’t say likely lined up on his tongue. Once he’d calmed himself, he said, “I have a buyer. More money than we’ve ever been offered.” He started to say the number, but Otis stopped him with a raised hand.
“Don’t say it. We’ve been down this road before.”
Lloyd went incandescent, as if he were plugged into a socket.
“Otis, don’t make me force you to sell. Because I can.
I want to do this in a friendly way, but I don’t have to.
I own almost half of this winery, and I can make you buy me out.
At a number you won’t like. Or we can sell and walk away from each other. ”
Bec finally hit her limit and sharply clapped her hands at Lloyd. “Is this really who you are? It was never about the terroir, was it? Don’t you see what Otis has done for this place? For our wines? He needs a break and yet you don’t care. Maybe he was always right about you.”
Otis gleamed with delight. As much as he wanted peace among all men, he couldn’t help but relish in the idea of the epic collapse of Lloyd Bramhall.
“Bec, your husband lost control of the ship. I’m trying to right it.”
Otis soaked it up, watching Lloyd dry up like a salted slug.
“We have an incredible offer. You sign the papers and walk away with stupid money. Go buy the land of your dreams.”
Otis spoke with the confidence of a poker player sitting on a royal flush. “We’ve been down this road. This is the land of our dreams. I wouldn’t sell for all the money in the world.”
Sir Shitbag slid his snake eyes from Otis to Bec and back. “Here’s the thing, guys. I can force you to sell, and you’re not going to like it.”
“Thanks for coming by, Lloyd,” Otis said as patronizingly and rudely as possible. “You are not welcome here again.”
“That’s how you want to play it?”
Otis held his hands before his chest like a yoga master. “May you find peace and happiness.”
“Don’t placate me.”
“ Arrivederci , Lloyd Bramhall. Bon voyage. Sayonara . Ciao! ”
“You’ve picked the wrong guy.”
Otis rang an imaginary bell, going, “Ding, ding! That is the truest statement you’ve ever made.
May the wheels of your Ferrari all find nails and may your swimming pool be filled with white zin, and may your life be spent drinking sulfurous boxed wine made from inorganic grapes grown in a swamp of glyphosate. Cheerio, ol’ fellow!”
For a moment Otis thought Lloyd would come after him, but the man seemed to find a last foothold of self-control and backed away like the cockwomble he was.
Once Lloyd was halfway to his car, Otis turned to Bec and found her smiling. He’d finally won.
“You’re gonna get it,” she said.
“No, you’re gonna get it.”
“Did you hear yourself?”
“I’m having fun.” He took her hand and pulled her toward him, then propped her up into dancing position. “I’m a new man, deary. Better get used to it.”
“The many faces of my Otis Till.”
Otis spun her round, dancing to the sweet song of Lloyd’s departure. “You’ll never grow weary of me, that’s for sure.”