Blush, p.15
Blush, page 15
“You must fix that. Come.” He beckoned her toward the palomino. “He’s a very gentle soul.”
She approached the horse’s left side, patting his neck. She looked around for a mounting block, and the baron said, “I’ll help you up.”
“Oh no—that’s fine. I’ve got it,” she said. But he moved close to her as if she hadn’t said anything. His eyes, which had seemed gray the night before, were now the same blue as the sky. He smelled faintly of tobacco and something she couldn’t identify, but the combination made her feel weak in her riding boots. In his nearness, she realized why he made her so uncomfortable: she was desperately attracted to him.
He bent down, linking his gloved hands together to offer her a platform for mounting the horse. Only when she was firmly in the saddle, the reins in her hand, did her breathing steady. She knew that no matter how fast she galloped, it wouldn’t be nearly as fast as her racing heart.
It was the only time they were alone together that trip. And for the remainder of their stay at Château de Villard, she found herself mentally returning to that moment again and again.
She eagerly anticipated dinner, longing for him from across the table. Every time she looked at him, especially on the rare occasion when their eyes met, she felt a shameful heat deep inside. She was a married woman, a mother of two, and yet she was experiencing the first true “crush” of her life. With Leonard, there had been no painful yearning, no wondering if he thought about her. They’d met, and he’d made his interest instantly clear. His courtship of her had been immediate and dogged. She wanted him, but at the same time she felt their union was an inevitability. With the baron, she looked at him and thought, I will never know the feeling of his touch.
Except, one day, she did.
Vivian set the brochure back down on the desk and looked around for the invoices. There was no sense being angry at Leonard about losing the winery. There was plenty of blame to go around.
* * *
Leah found her father wandering among the Syrah grapes. She made her way out toward him, following the dirt path carved between the rows of plants, adjusting her hat against the bright midday sun.
She experienced a moment of déjà vu, of being a young girl in that very spot, of her father teaching her about bud break, about veraison, about canopy maintenance. How he had always loved his vineyard. And he had seemed to love sharing all his wisdom and experience with her.
He looked so entirely at peace, so utterly at home among the flourishing vines, she almost didn’t want to disturb him.
Almost.
“Dad,” she called out, drawing closer to him.
He looked up in surprise. “I’m thinking we need to drop more fruit.” He glanced at her. “What do you think?”
“Maybe just from the short shoots,” she said.
He looked back at the plant, kneeling down and touching the soil. “It’s been dry and sunny so far. We’ll see what happens next month. We had a wet August last year and Botrytis was a problem with the whites.” He pulled off some fruit. “These grapes will turn in a few weeks.”
Oh, she knew the rhythm of the vineyard. She had tried to forget, but it was a part of her, just like the breath of her own body.
Her father busied himself clipping away at the plants. She stood, the sun hot on her back, summoning the nerve to say what she had to say. Her father did not take kindly to “suggestions,” but he had at least listened to her about telling Javier. Or maybe he would have done it anyway. But she couldn’t stop with that conversation, as much as she hated being the object of his wrath.
“Dad,” she said. “I understand you have to sell. I know you wouldn’t do it except as a last resort. But you need to do something to protect your employees. Can you make it part of the deal that the buyers keep them on? At least for a few years?”
He stood, dropping the clippers to the ground. “You’re a lawyer now? You want to negotiate the contract for me?”
“No, I’m just saying . . .”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Leah, I know your heart is in the right place. But you need to let me handle my business. I want things to work out—for everyone involved.”
“What if you’re handling it wrong?” she said, her heart pounding.
“You would do things differently?”
He seemed more amused than angry, and that made her furious. She looked up at the sky, a bird circling overhead. In a few weeks, the fruit would be ripe enough to attract them.
Her father was waiting for a response. His question hadn’t been rhetorical. She said the first thing that came to mind.
“Well, for one thing, I would have produced a rosé,” she said. “Not that that solves the problem at hand. But it might have bolstered sales over the past few years.”
He nodded, rubbing his chin as if contemplating this. When he spoke, it was very slowly. “Do you know what the French do with their rosé?”
“Um, no. Not exactly.”
“I didn’t think so. We are in a global market. Rosé is the only wine with an annual expiration date.”
“Rosé doesn’t go bad in one year.”
“No, of course, the wine itself can last a long time. But the French, the Provençal rosé people, flood the American market every February with that year’s vintage of rosé. They buy back old vintages of rosé from Manhattan restaurants because they only want the current rosé available. And because they are so powerful and because they control the market around the world, every other winery now does that.”
“Okay, so—”
“So if you have leftover rosé, restaurants won’t buy it. You’re stuck holding the bag. I’m not playing that game. You hear me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I hear you.”
How could she not? His voice was raised. But she would not be shouted down. She would not be shut out.
Not this time.
Twenty-seven
Leah tried to luxuriate in the natural beauty of her surroundings, to find peace in the moment. Sitting poolside, she turned the pages of the paperback copy of Chances she’d bought to replace the copy she couldn’t find. Up above, the evening sky was streaked with pink and gold. It looked like a painting, like something Leah had conjured by sheer force of longing. Next to her, Sadie curled up in a chair, staring at her phone.
As much as the book kept her turning the pages, she found herself underlining passages that got under her skin.
Gino was just going to have to realize the fact that he was no longer boss. No sirree. She wasn’t about to give it all up. Power—the ultimate aphrodisiac. She was in control. She planned to stay in control. And he was just going to have to accept that fact.
Reading this, Leah couldn’t help but think that she was no Lucky Santangelo. She wasn’t going to usurp her father. She couldn’t even get him to take her seriously in a conversation. She should just go home to her husband. Her husband, who was freezing her out. Or maybe he was just busy. Either way, it had been almost twenty-four hours since she and Steven had talked.
“I was wondering where you two were.” Vivian walked out carrying a glass of wine and . . . the copy of Chances that Leah had been looking for.
“Mom, is that my book?”
“No. It’s my book,” Vivian said.
“Yeah, but I asked you if you’d seen it . . . Oh, never mind.” She was just happy her mother took her suggestion to heart. “Mom, I forgot to ask you before: Was the book club your idea?”
“No,” Vivian said. “If you must know, it was Delphine’s.”
Leah hadn’t heard that name in a long time. Delphine Fabron was the niece of her father’s former business partner. She’d come from France to live with them for a while when Leah was in middle school. She’d worshipped the woman—it was like having a beautiful and slightly naughty big sister. Now that she thought about it, she did remember Delphine at the book club. But then her father fired Delphine. Her parents argued about it. And it was around that time that the book club seemed to end.
“Did you stop hosting the book club because she left?” Leah said.
“Oh, who remembers,” Vivian said, suddenly very busy examining the book cover.
“That’s what the journal was for—to keep track of things,” Sadie said. “Right?”
Leah shot her a warning look. Vivian turned to them both.
“Okay, you two: Who went through my things? You had no business invading my privacy like that!”
Sadie bit her lip. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I was just looking for more photo albums.”
“How did you even get the compartment open?”
“I picked the lock with a mechanical pencil,” Sadie said, glancing at her.
Vivian glared in her direction.
Leah held up her hands. “Yes, I knew about it. Guilty as charged. But in my defense, I only read a few lines of the journal. In fact, we lost track of it. I only saw it once.”
“And that’s the last you will see of it; I have it now, safe from you savages,” Vivian said. Leah could tell from the relaxed set of her mouth that she wasn’t truly angry—just mildly annoyed.
“Gran, I’m sorry for going through your stuff. But the truth is I’m really interested in your thoughts on the books,” Sadie said.
“Whatever I thought of the books was a lifetime ago. It hardly matters.”
“Well, there’s just a lot of stuff in here that’s sketchy to me,” Sadie pressed. “All that violence against women . . .”
Leah leaned forward. “You’re reading Chances, too?”
“Sort of. On my phone. I was curious about what had you so excited,” she said sheepishly. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Bad? The story is ambitious—Gino’s entire life,” Vivian said.
“I thought you said you didn’t remember what you thought,” Leah said.
“Well,” Vivian said, “I might have reread a page or two after you practically forced the book on me. Okay, maybe more than a page,” she added primly at Leah’s knowing look. “And the sweeping nature of it . . . it’s like that Donna Tartt novel. The one with the bird painting.”
“The Goldfinch? Gran, you’re comparing Chances to the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel The Goldfinch?” Leah could practically see her high-minded daughter’s head exploding.
“I’m just saying, it’s epic in its own right.”
“It’s long, but I don’t know if I’d call it epic. And I have no empathy for Gino, and so much of the book is from his point of view,” Sadie said.
“He’s an antihero. But he means well,” Leah said. Except when his son was born, a year after his daughter, and he thought, A son was a direct extension of himself. A daughter could never be that. It was just a novel, but the words stung.
“I love the flashbacks to the 1920s and the 1970s. She really brings the drama of those eras to life,” Vivian said, abandoning all pretense of disinterest. “And as for violence against women . . . that’s a reflection of the world, my dear.”
“But I think this book glorifies it, in a way. Especially the sex scenes. A lot of it’s nonconsensual,” Sadie said.
“There is a lot of sex,” Vivian conceded. “I didn’t remember so much of it being nonconsensual. Or so graphic.”
Neither had Leah.
Ironically, now that she was apart from her husband, she found herself thinking about sex. Maybe even wanting sex. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she was also now reading these books. Still, she was afraid that the minute she returned to the city, she’d go right back to forgetting all about it.
“The thing that strikes me about the sex scenes is that sometimes they don’t seem written by a woman,” Sadie said. “It’s more like female sexuality as written by a man’s fantasy. And all the gay characters are villains. Or at least devious. Did you talk about that at your book club?”
“I can’t recall it coming up for discussion. Readers weren’t as sensitive back in the day,” Vivian said.
“I don’t think it’s a matter of sensitivity.” Sadie crossed her arms. “It’s just common decency.”
“Okay, I think we can all agree the book wouldn’t be written that way today,” Leah said to defuse the tension. Talk about a generation gap . . .
Vivian looked at Sadie. “So you don’t like the book?”
“I didn’t say that,” Sadie said. “But it’s not exactly great writing.”
“Isn’t it, though? Look at how all the plotlines came together. The way Leonora’s daughter came back into the story? Brilliant,” Leah said.
“That was amazing,” Sadie conceded.
“I will admit the author went a little far with all the abuse on poor Carrie,” Vivian said. “That final turn as a prostitute was perhaps too much.”
“Oh, my god, that scene where Whitejack pimps her out again? My heart just broke.” Leah paged through the book to find the scene and read aloud.
“I gasped at that,” Sadie said. “Like, I literally gasped. But that’s what I mean. So much of this book is just abuse heaped on women.”
“Well, not all the women. Clementine Duke is sexually powerful—maybe even sexually predatory,” Leah said.
“But as soon as she sleeps with Gino, he has the power. He always has the power,” Sadie said.
“Except when it comes to his daughter,” Vivian pointed out.
“Lucky doesn’t always challenge his power. What about the scene where he’s forcing her into an arranged marriage? And then he hits her.”
“It’s terrible, of course,” Vivian said. “Inexcusable. But for the whole book, she’s the one person who makes him feel completely out of control. And it’s also fear—the fear all parents feel for their children.”
It was also, Leah realized, the fear all children eventually had for their parents. She’d long heard about the role reversal that took place later in life, when the children became the caretakers. Her parents, thankfully, still had their health. But they were losing their life’s work, and that was going to be a tough transition. It was for her, too.
She’d suggested the book to distract her mother from the impending sale of the winery. And maybe it was helping. But reading it herself was making her own powerlessness that much more apparent.
* * *
Sadie. With those questions about her old journal! As if Vivian would ever admit to her feminist granddaughter that she’d been so desperate to feel productive, to have something of her own to manage and perfect, that she’d turned the casual book club into a project.
There had been years when she’d forgotten how to have something of her own—something that wasn’t about pleasing someone else. And then Delphine reminded her.
Delphine had been grateful that Vivian believed in her enough to give her an important job within Hollander. She said it changed her entire outlook and that she wished she could return the favor.
“I have everything I need,” Vivian had said.
“You need to have more fun,” Delphine had said. “It’s work and kids, work and kids. Where I grew up, women know how to play.” Her own mother, she said, spent weeks and weeks every year island-hopping. Delphine knew that Vivian didn’t want to actually get away from her family or the vineyard. But she needed to do something.
“What do you do just for yourself?” she’d asked her.
“I like taking the kids to the beach. I love harvest, when it’s so busy everyone is included in the work. Making apple cider in the fall . . .”
“Vivian, something aside from all that.”
“I like to shop. And I like to read.” She especially liked to read books about women who did a lot of shopping.
And so the book club was born.
Ultimately, it had all been short-lived. She didn’t have the heart to continue the book club after Leonard fired Delphine. And the journal languished, locked away where she didn’t have to think about it and no one would discover it. Or so she believed.
“Mom, are you still with us?” Leah said. She and Sadie looked at her expectantly.
“Sorry. I was just thinking,” Vivian said.
“I asked who your favorite character is,” Leah said. “Mine is Lucky. Since I’m also a woman whose father never saw her as an equal—who was marginalized from the family business.”
“Is that true?” Sadie said, snapping to attention.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Leah,” Vivian said. It hurt to hear her daughter express the sentiment. Even if it was the truth.
“What happened? You wanted to work here?” Sadie said.
“I think this is a conversation for another time,” Vivian said, shooting Leah a look. The last thing she wanted was the conversation to devolve into a prolonged attack on Leonard. Even if he deserved it. She still felt protective of him. And, perhaps, she felt her own sense of culpability in letting Leah be pushed aside.
“Well, I didn’t identify with anyone in this book,” said Sadie. “And honestly, I find it shocking that this book was a New York Times bestseller.”
Vivian sipped her wine. “Why wouldn’t this book be a bestseller? It has it all: passion, a business empire, love. This is what storytelling should be. Personally, I liked Clementine Duke. She had fabulous parties.”
Clementine Duke, a high-society dame who had a penchant for lovers of a different class, summoned Gino Santangelo to her mansion. Vivian couldn’t help but think about the summons to a mansion that had completely altered the course of her own life.
For weeks after their trip to Château de Villard, she’d thought about the baron. Ironically, once she wanted to be around him, he all but disappeared. The remainder of the weekend was segregated, with Leonard and the baron walking the fields and discussing their new business venture while Vivian and Natasha lounged around the estate, drinking wine and talking about the royal wedding. They both had been obsessively following every bit of news about Princess Diana (whom they both still called “Lady Di”) and both agreed her wedding gown was a bit busy. Vivian felt they might very well become friends. By the time the chauffeured Mercedes whisked them back to the airport, she could almost pretend the surge of nearly violent desire for the baron had never happened.
