Chapter 29 Specks of Hope #3
After people started to leave, Jed wheeled outside to speak with Otis and Rebecca.
He wore a Vietnam War Veteran hat over his graying hair.
“I know apologies only go so far, so I won’t drown you in them, but I’m sorry.
To both of you. Otis, I never gave you a chance.
Bec, you have nothing to do with what happened.
” He gestured to his legs. “I’m sorry I ever said that.
Maybe it’s what was supposed to happen. Maybe it was the kick in the ass I needed.
You were right—right about a lot of things.
I should have gotten into computers way back when.
” He smiled warmly. “It’s never too late, though.
The VA is going to help me get into school, hopefully Sonoma State.
I’m going to major in computer science, if this old brain can do it. ”
Bec’s mouth fell open; her eyes reddened. “Really?”
Jed set his hands on the wheels of his chair. “I gotta do something. Just to get out of the house. Dad’s driving me crazy, and now that Mom’s gone ... I don’t want to abandon him, but I have to start looking out for myself.”
Lowering, Bec put her hands on Jed’s temples, and peered into his eyes. “I love you, brother.”
“I love you, too, sis.”
Brooks settled in and proved to be a hell of a hard worker.
After dabbling for a month with the fermenting wines, Otis let Chaco teach Brooks how to prune and drive a tractor.
Otis would often grab him for lunch, though, and they’d eat tacos on the back of the truck and talk about what makes a great wine, about permaculture, and how the sacred soil must be treated with reverence.
At night he’d take Brooks down into the cellar and open bottles of wine, sometimes spitting, sometimes not, but they’d always pay the wines respect.
Otis could see the glimmer in Brooks’s eyes, and though the young man didn’t speak much, certainly not about inner feelings, he showed an enthusiasm that Otis recognized from his own experience.
They took a glass out into the vines one night.
Rosco walked alongside them. Otis could feel Carmine in the chilly air.
A full moon cast a warm glow over the land.
Recalling his most valuable lesson, Otis reached for a handful of soil and dropped it into his glass, then knocked it back. “That’s what we’re doing here.”
Brooks smiled, but not like he thought Otis was crazy. More like he got it; he understood.
Then Otis spoke of balance. “That’s the key, Brooks.
Not only in wine, but in life. You might have to learn the hard way like I did.
Maybe you already have. This life, this wine life, can consume you.
Just as the wines must strike the balance of its constituents, including the acidity, the alcohol, and the tannins, we must find our own.
We must be at harmony with ourselves, with those around us, and the ones we’ve lost and found. Only then will our wines sing.”
Otis sipped his wine and ran a hand through Rosco’s thick coat of fur.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever made the wine I want to make, but I’ve tried.
Sometimes tried too hard. I’m finally on the right path.
I have found the terroir that sings to my soul, and I have come to peace with so much of the pain inside.
Now, all I can do is wait for the vintage like a surfer waits for a wave.
They always come, but not always when you need them to. Do I make sense?”
“You do.”
Otis collected the glasses and stood. “On that note, I’m cooking my wife dinner tonight.”
“How’s she doing?” Brooks asked. “Since her mother ...”
“She’s working her way through it, as best she can.
If I could take away her pain, I would, but I know she has what it takes to pull through.
All I can do is be there for her, hold her when she wants holding, listen when she needs to talk.
” He sighed. “What I hope for you is that you find a woman like I have, and when you do, Brooks, you give her more than you give anything. Because she matters most. Don’t ever forget that. ”
Brooks nodded and stood. “I want to thank you. For everything. I feel ... I’ve been running all my life, and, maybe for the first time, I don’t feel like running anymore.”
Otis’s chest filled. “I’ll tell you what my father never told me. You have nothing to prove, Brooks Baker. Just chase your passions and love your people like you might never see them again. The rest will all work out.”
Never had Otis left his land days before harvest, but things had changed.
He’d corrected his overcorrection. Naturally, he planned on returning with plenty of time left to harvest grapes, but it was the right time to take Brooks to the Mosel in Germany.
He asked Michael to go too. It took some arm twisting due to his son’s tendency to lose himself in work, but he finally caved.
Otis flew them first class. Brooks had never been to Europe and stumbled around in wide-eyed awe at everything. When they started taking their appointments to taste, Brooks visibly became emotional. Otis could see that the wine bug had him, the toothy bastards sinking in their fangs.
The only thing he worried about was Michael. He hoped there wasn’t any jealousy.
Brooks explored on his own one day, and Otis and Michael went for a long walk along the river. Two hours in, they got hungry and found a traditional restaurant for lunch.
Over sausage and potatoes and cabbage, Otis said, “I’m going to ask Brooks to become my assistant winemaker, but I wanted to run it by you first.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Michael tapped his foot under the table, always on the go. He looked the part, a pressed shirt and chinos. A tight hairdo. On his wrist he wore Addison’s Rolex. Otis had given it to him shortly after Camden had died.
“I know,” Otis said, talking with his fork in his hand, “but I want to. I don’t want you to think I’m leaving you out.
I know you don’t want to be a part of the business, but you’re always welcome.
You know I’ll leave it to you. Maybe you’ll sell.
Hopefully to the right person. But I’d like you to be involved with the big decisions.
More importantly, I don’t want you to think Brooks matters more to me than you. ”
Michael slid his stein of beer closer to him. “Oh, c’mon.”
“I’m serious. He does feel like a son to me, but—”
“Dad, stop. I think you have enough love to go around. It’s amazing that you’re mentoring him. Look at him. He’s doing great, working hard. Keep doing that for him. You’ve done that for me all my life.”
“I’ve tried.”
“And succeeded. Look at what you did for Vance too. He never had that. I’m happy to share my dad with good men who didn’t have a father.”
Chills rose up Otis’s back. He leaned forward, waiting for Michael to lock eyes with him. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Upon their return, Otis took Brooks to meet Mitch Green, the hermit.
Brooks ate warm cheese from Mitch’s pocket, cut from a dirty knife, and they drank several efforts from the previous vintage, all of them heavy with Brettanomyces, a yeast that makes a wine smell like the underside of a horse saddle.
“I hear the Round Table is becoming formalized,” Mitch said.
“That’s right,” Otis said. “We’re changing the name to the Red Mountain AVA Alliance, turning it into a nonprofit trade association, with a board of directors, the whole thing.”
“Good God,” Mitch said.
“I know. We’re growing up.”
Mitch led them to the vine that was the heartbeat of their land, and Otis could see that whatever road had led Brooks to Red Mountain, it might be that he would never leave.
He burst with life out here and being around that vine seemed to heal him even more.
Maybe he would one day take the helm of Till Vineyards, possibly even steer the ship that was Red Mountain.
In the months to come, Otis taught Brooks everything he could in the cellar, and when they were done, he said, “Take a couple of weeks off. Then we’ll do it all over again. We put one vintage in front of the other—that’s how you build a life in wine. That is, if you’re hooked.”
Brooks had turned less timid. He held Otis’s gaze. “I think I’ve found my calling.”
Otis’s cheeks swelled. “I think you have too.”