Chapter 23 The Elder Vine #2
It was the best gift Otis could have ever given his son, a far cry from the expectations Addison had held over him, and he knew bone deep that he’d done something good. As if getting confirmation from on high, the same coyote who’d been showing up appeared atop a rocky perch.
Otis pointed. “You see him, Mike? He’s part of the pack that howled with us that night we all howled together. He’s my good luck charm.”
Mike cracked a grin as they both looked to the curious desert dog. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
Otis turned to his son. “For better or worse. Don’t lose your connection to the magic out there, Mike. Whatever you do, open yourself up to the signs. Once you see them, you’ll find they’re enough to guide the way. Throughout your whole life. No matter where you go, what you do, find your coyote.”
“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll find it.”
He pulled him into a hug. “I know you will.”
Gifting Rebecca a break from her husband, Otis took his boys on a father-son trip to Germany, and they hit the sites of Munich, including a day trip to Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest, then shot up to Berlin to experience the amazing cultural renaissance that was washing away its ugly past. They’d ended the trip staying in Bernkastel-Kues on the Mosel River.
He’d never taken the boys, and as they sat in a German beer hall over grand steins of pilsner, he reminded them to find their compasses and not to compromise.
Cam was taller than Otis and had grown his shaggy blond hair long. Having spent the last four years skiing and hiking in Boulder, he was in the best shape of his life. He was currently waiting to hear about a job with the National Park Service.
Mike glowed when he spoke about his future in Seattle and figuring out law school. He’d always been the sheriff of the family, always stood up for what was right, and Otis knew he would one day make a great difference once he found a cause that struck his heart.
Then, just like that, Otis and Rebecca had an empty nest. You can prepare for it all you like, but you can’t know how it will feel until you’re in the thick of it.
Even though Mike wasn’t far away, his absence screamed into the quiet space of Rebecca’s and Otis’s lives. A few weeks after saying goodbye, Bec repeated something that she’d read: “By the time your kids leave for college, you will have spent 90 percent of your time with them.”
The idea crushed Otis, and he cried on and off for two days.
It was hard not to think about all the times he’d left Cam and Mike to go sell wine, all the times he’d been absent in mind even when his body was present.
He wished he could do it differently, that he could have learned his lessons earlier, but all he could do was promise that he would spend the rest of his life making up for it, living a life that would allow him to pursue his passion in a way that afforded him plenty of time for family and friends.
Of course, that was an easy promise to make before his new neighbors came to town.
Ninety-five was an exceptional vintage, nice and cool, making for grapes that weren’t ready to pick till well into October.
Otis made wines from several tons of purchased fruit and also picked what he could from their virgin vines and made twenty cases of a fruity Beaujolais-style quaffer, for fun.
He even bottled it before it had finished secondary, so that it had a bit of pétillance .
The new guard years later would tell him excitedly that he was one of the first to make natural wine.
He’d respond: “Natural wine was the original way, kids. Only in the last century did we muck up the tradition with our pesticides and insecticides and our homogeneous factory-farmed mentality.”
An early evening in November they cracked the first bottle of their sessionable field blend, the inaugural effort under the new label of Till Vineyards.
The nights had turned chilly, and Bec and Otis both wore sweaters as they enjoyed the warmth of the falling sun on the back deck overlooking Mount Adams, that dominant beast of a peak that watched over this side of the world.
A Stephen Stills solo record played on the turntable inside.
Down below, Rosco chased the sheep, making them scatter.
The baby vines had shed their leaves and started to move toward hibernation, preparing themselves for winter.
“You know, Bec, I suppose I might admit that life is not that bad.” He pulled out the cork and poured them each a glass. “How nice to have figured this thing out. We’re here. The vines are in the ground. The boys are taking over the world. You and me, we have a whole new journey ahead of us.”
Otis took in the woman who meant everything to him.
She’d entered her mid-forties with all the grace in the world.
A part of her was still that young hippie princess he’d met on the purple bus.
Certainly the same warm eyes, though more wisdom shone through them now.
Her jewelry was of a more sophisticated nature, as was her attire.
She smelled of the rosemary mint soap she’d recently made from their sheep’s milk.
Her curly hair was still the same sandy blond with golden hues.
He raised a glass. “I wouldn’t have made it without you, my love. Somehow you brought me back from the abyss. More than a time or two. I hope this next chapter is more about you than me.”
“About that,” she said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing—”
“Now hold on. Let’s not get carried away. I’m not saying that you’re not needed, or that I’m suddenly healed from my inner strife.” He almost said more but held back. “Sorry, okay. Finish, please. What is going on with you?”
She crossed one leg over the other and clasped her fingers atop a knee. Her wise eyes twinkled with excitement as she directed them toward the splash of colors melting into the horizon. “I want to travel.”
Otis seized up. One thing was true for farmers, especially those who had a new farm to tend: Travel is a recipe for disaster. She knew that as well as him.
“Don’t worry,” she said, throwing up a hand decorated with several rings. “I’m not going to pull you away from your new vines. I’m talking about just me. Maybe go to India, or even Bali. I’d love to do a yoga retreat. Or even a silent retreat.”
“A silent retreat?” He said it like she’d suggested they abstain from alcohol for the holidays.
“Where you don’t talk for a week or two.”
“Dear God.”
“It might be good for you, if you wanted to join?”
“You’re, ugh, I . . . that sounds like . . . um.”
She finally let him off the hook. “I’m joking. Of course you’re welcome, but I would assume it sounds like your version of hell.”
Otis breathed a sigh of relief. “Very close to it. All you’d have to do is invite Lloyd and restrict alcohol, and my hell it would be.”
She sat back up, reached for her glass, and took a sip. “You’ve traveled so much for work while I’ve been at home, focusing on the boys. I want to get out and see places. It’s my turn.”
The sheep baaed below; crickets chirped.
“I don’t love hearing that you feel like you’ve been trapped.”
“Not trapped. I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t trade what I’ve done for the world, but I do have things that I want to do. We’ve done Europe plenty, but I want to see more of this world. And not just vineyards, no offense.”
“No offense taken,” he said. “There’s no point in visiting anywhere in the world that doesn’t put wine in the highest regard, but I suppose you’ll have to learn that the hard way,” he said with an annoying grin.
“There is more to life than wine, Otis.”
“I know that,” he said defensively. “Cheese is nearly as paramount ... pork. Don’t get me started.”
She let out one of her famous ugh s but in a playful way. “Believe it or not, there is more to the world than things that you put into your mouth. What about a surf or ski trip, or even skydiving, something extreme to get the adrenaline going?”
“Deary, my idea of extreme is a seven-hour gastronomic tour through Bologna. Nothing gets the adrenaline going like an all-day culinary romp that starts with a bottle of Pignoletto paired with a chunk of forty-month-aged Parmigiano-Reggiano and a stack of finely shaved prosciutto di parma .” The hair on his arms stood up as he delighted in even the idea of such an adventure.
Bec rolled her eyes, but Otis fought back with an all-knowing chuckle.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree, dear one.
But again, just as the boys had to learn the hard way, so will you.
Go take your trek to Machu Picchu and sleep on the hard ground and eat goat arepas and drink Peruvian lagers.
Go sleep in a tent in the jungles of Zimbabwe whilst gurgling fermented elephant urine, then peer through your little binoculars for a leaping gazelle. Or—”
“Here we go,” she said.
“Fine, fine. Just know that while you’re sitting in a hut in Bali munching on bamboo during your silent retreat, you’ll recall our visits to Paris, the exquisite satin sheets of the Hotel d’Angleterre, the selection of Bordeaux at Le Grand Véfour.
Or you might recall setting our eyes on the vines of Romanée-Conti for the first time, quite surely our first brush with God.
You will know, my dear, that I am sometimes right. ”
“I should record you. People should hear your ridiculousness.”
“Isn’t this why you love me?”
She laughed.
He threw up his hands. “What?” With a sigh, he spun his glass. “Fine, let’s return to you. Tonight. No. This year is about you.”
She paused, likely gauging his sincerity. “It’s nice when your husband asks about you. Kind of rare. Has someone been coaching you?”
“Oh, dear. I feel like I’m teetering on being exiled to the doghouse. Believe it or not, I am capable of seeing outside of myself.”
She grinned at him, showing both surprise and appreciation. “I do feel forgotten sometimes, just another vine down a row.”
That one hurt. “You know that’s not how I feel.”