Blush, p.8
Blush, page 8
“Something like that.”
“And what are you going to do for work?”
“Why will I have to worry about work? Do you think he’s selling the winery for peanuts?”
Leah thought about that for a minute. Was her father selling to cash out or selling because the winery was in trouble? If he was in trouble, there might not be money after the sale. Was Asher too dense to realize that?
She thought of the way her mother’s voice had broken when relaying the news. Vivian tried to put up a good front, but Leah knew better.
“Well then,” Leah said, standing up and heading for the door. “Sounds like you’ve got this under control.”
“Always,” he said, grinning. “Really, you should be thanking me.”
“Thanks, big brother.” She knew that her sarcasm was lost on him.
Like everything else she had just tried to say.
Thirteen
The swimming pool had been built during a burst of extravagance in the early 1980s, a time when Vivian and Leonard had remodeled their modest farmhouse home into one of the grandest homes on the North Fork. Vivian had been too busy to use it during those years, except as a backdrop to their famous parties, which were written about in newspapers and magazines.
She started swimming in her fifties, when her doctor advised her to start exercising. After a summer spent doing daily laps, she’d had an indoor pool installed in the lower level of the house to sustain herself during the winter months. As much of a luxury as the indoor pool was, Vivian always counted the days until she could return to the outdoor, Roman-end-shaped pool, with landscaped planters around the perimeter, the entire deck laid with hand-crafted limestone.
After her conversation with Leah, she’d needed the water as much for her mental state as her physical workout. She glided through it, arching her arms to be mindful of her form while going fast enough to clear her head. Her heart beat steadily, her eyes open behind her goggles. She felt herself grow tired and knew the timer on her waterproof watch would soon go off. When it didn’t, when she began to wonder if she could keep going, she swam over to the ladder in the deep end and grabbed hold of the rail. She checked her watch: she still had five minutes to go. Was the stress affecting her stamina?
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Leonard called from the opposite end of the pool, walking toward her.
“Well, you found me,” she said, climbing out and taking off her goggles and unstrapping her bathing cap.
“It’s late in the day for you to be taking your swim,” he said.
“Yes, well, it’s not the only thing that’s a bit off today.”
He ignored the pointed comment, as she knew he would.
“The veranda is full. People are asking for you.”
Vivian reached for the towel she’d left on one of the lounge chairs and wrapped it around her waist. She sat down.
“I’m in no mood to be the charming hostess today,” she said.
Leonard sat in the chair next to hers. His thick white hair was covered by a Hollander Estates baseball cap, and from underneath the brim his dark eyes focused on her. He was deeply tanned, and if she hadn’t been so upset she would have allowed herself to be softened by how handsome she still found him to be. Through all the ups and downs, no matter how difficult Leonard could be, Vivian had always been in love with her husband. And he had always been devoted to her. She knew those were the important things in life. And yet . . .
“Leonard, we cannot lose this home.”
“I know it’s difficult,” Leonard said, his eyes filled with empathy.
“Difficult? It’s unthinkable!”
She’d never imagined it would come to this, and that was perhaps no one’s fault but her own. Maybe it had always been inevitable that she would pay for the naive choice to walk away from the financial security of her family. It had been a decision one would make only when very young or madly in love, and she had been both.
She had met Leonard during her first year at Barnard. Her parents had only allowed her to apply to women’s colleges, and when she was accepted to Barnard, they insisted she live at home, not in the dorm. She was serious about her studies, and between her parents’ strictness and her desire to get high marks, she rarely socialized. The night she met Leonard, she’d been dining with her parents at a fancy steak house on Lexington Avenue just blocks from the family’s department store. She hadn’t wanted to go out that night, but her parents said she was “moping” and insisted. It was true that she’d been in a bit of a funk; when your entire life has been planned for you, when it seems clear that there will be no surprises, a numbing stillness sets in that is as terrifying as rootless uncertainty.
The maître d’ knew her family; he called her Miss Freudenberg. They were seated at a prime table near the window. While her parents sipped martinis, she stared dreamily out at the foot traffic on Lexington. A young man with dark good looks walked past, focused on a slip of paper. She wondered who he was, where he was going—and idly had the thought that it was sad she would never see him again. Minutes later, while she picked through the bread basket, he walked into the room. The paper he’d been staring at must have been the address; he’d been searching for the restaurant.
He was tall and lean, with dark hair. He had prominent brows, and his nose was slightly too wide to afford him a classically handsome face. But there was an energy about him, a surefooted confidence.
The man turned in her direction, catching her eye. She was embarrassed to have been caught staring but couldn’t look away. He smiled, and her insides fluttered. Those bedroom eyes! The sight of him was almost embarrassing. His date was a very lucky woman. But then, there didn’t seem to be any date; he sat at the long wooden bar and began animatedly chatting up the bartender until he was joined by the sharply dressed restaurant manager.
Midway through the meal, Vivian excused herself to go downstairs to the ladies’ lounge. The restroom was a large suite with its own coatroom, sitting area, and white-gloved attendants. Her father handed her a few bills for tips. When she crossed the room, she again made eye contact with the stranger. Closer now, she could see his eyes were as dark as his velvety hair.
Her heart pounded as she walked down the stairs. She said a silent thank-you to whatever god in heaven had given her the thrill of this man, a hint that maybe she would someday meet someone who changed things after all.
The ladies’ lounge had a counter filled with supplies: combs, hair spray, face powder, cotton balls, and breath mints. She spent some time fixing her already pristine ponytail, humming to herself. When she climbed the stairs to return to the table, feeling fortified to withstand the rest of the dull meal with her parents, she had to step aside to let someone else descend into the lounge.
It was him.
They faced each other in the dim light of the corridor, the music from upstairs providing a backdrop to the moment.
“I don’t make a habit of visiting the ladies’ lounge,” he said, smiling.
“I should hope not.” She could feel herself blushing.
“I’m Leonard Hollander,” he said, his expression changing to a more serious set of his jaw, his eyes bright with something that made her feel like she was glowing. He held out his hand, and without a moment’s hesitation, she placed hers in it. His touch was cool, and his fingers closed around hers firmly. She wanted to press herself against him, to breathe in the wool of his jacket, to reach her hand behind his neck and feel the feathery touch of his hair. It was overwhelming.
“I’m Vivian,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I should get back to my table.”
“Wait—before you go: I don’t live in the city, but I’m here for work a lot.”
“What do you do, Leonard Hollander?”
“I’m in the wine business,” he said. This sounded very glamorous to her. “The vineyard is on the West Coast, but all the important restaurants are here. Next time I’m in town I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
Vivian simply nodded, too thrilled to put energy into more banter. He wrote her phone number on a matchbook.
It would be a few months before they saw each other again, but after finally meeting for a first date, they were never apart. They married a year later.
Dropping out of school, losing the support of her parents, leaving Manhattan for life on a farm—she’d never second-guessed any of it. She still didn’t.
“You should have seen the look on Leah’s face when I told her what’s going on,” Vivian said.
“I asked you not to do that.”
“I didn’t admit how dire things are financially. But she had a right to know about the decision to sell.”
Leonard sighed, reaching for her hand. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard, but we need to stick together. Fighting with each other is not going to help. It’s you and me against the world. Remember?”
Yes, she remembered.
She remembered it all. That only made it harder.
Fourteen
Steven returned to the house just in time for dinner after taking Sadie scallop fishing late that afternoon in nearby Corey Creek. He kissed Leah on the forehead, and she inhaled the familiar scent of him, woodsy and male and, today, with a hint of saltwater. It was summertime Steven.
She patiently let him download all about the great time he had with Sadie—and she was happy to hear it. But really, all she could think about was the sale of the winery.
She didn’t know what she’d expected when she told him. Maybe some acknowledgment of the loss? Instead, he was maddeningly philosophical.
“Look, people sell businesses,” he said. “Or businesses close. We have our own business to worry about. Your parents will be fine.”
“I opened the cheese shop almost twenty years ago. The Hollanders have been vintners since my father’s grandfather began it in Argentina. Don’t you see the difference?”
“Of course. And one of the main differences is that the cheese shop is ours and Hollander Estates is not. Your father turned you away from the company. It was hard for you at the time, but now you’re in a position where the fate of the winery really has nothing to do with you. So be thankful for that.”
“I grew up here,” she reminded him.
“I understand that. Look, I loved the house in Maine where I grew up. But when my parents retired and sold it, I had to let them do what was best for themselves and move on.”
“But your parents decided together to sell that house. My mother doesn’t want this. She’s putting on a show of a united front, but I know she’s upset.”
“Vivian is a strong woman. She’ll be fine.”
Then he had to get in the shower. The conversation was over.
Steven emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He had some color from the past few days in the sun, though he had to be careful about that because he burned. The blue in his eyes was particularly vivid; he looked, in that moment, as he had the first time they visited her parents, six months after the night of the Cooler. They had already said “I love you.” And the sex—good lord, the sex.
They had been late for dinner that first visit, too—but for entirely different reasons. After an early-evening swim, she’d gone into the bathroom to shower, but before she could peel off her wet bikini, Steven followed her in and closed the door.
She smiled at him in the mirror. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer her, but stepped forward, kissing her neck. A shiver ran through her, a combination of her damp skin and the thrill of anticipation. She protested feebly, murmuring about her parents expecting them. But he slid her bathing suit bottom to the floor, along with his own. She didn’t move—barely breathed—still facing the mirror. She leaned forward just enough to reach out and brace herself against the vanity, and when he was inside her, their eyes met in the reflection. It was the most thrilling moment she’d ever experienced.
Now, standing in front of the full-length Chippendale mirror in the bedroom, she wondered if he was thinking about that first visit, too.
“Can you zip me up?” Leah asked. As his fingers brushed the bare skin of her back, she wondered if he would try to take her dress off instead of getting it on. And if so, would she be able to respond?
“There you go,” he said, closing the seam with one swift motion before crossing the room to retrieve his pants and shirt from the armoire. “I’ll be ready in five,” he added, his back to her.
Okay. It was just as well.
They wouldn’t be late to dinner after all.
* * *
Sadie looked around the dinner table. The tension was thicker than the humidity. No one except her uncle Asher and his girlfriend was talking. There were long silent gaps, the only sound the uncorking of more wine bottles.
The picnic table was set with a spread of farro salad, corn, roasted chicken, French bread, and tomato and mozzarella drizzled with olive oil. Sadie had worked up a huge appetite spending the entire day outdoors, but the introvert in her was screaming for relief. Not only that, it was clear that something was up.
She poured herself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Sadie had been sipping wine with her family since she was an older teenager. They were very European in that way. Still, she had always been careful to temper her consumption. But now she was twenty-one and no longer had to act like a kid invited to the grown-ups’ table. And so, after perhaps one glass too many, she blurted out, “Why is everyone so quiet?”
“Weelll,” her mother said, and Sadie could tell by the looseness with which she dragged out the word that she, too, was a little tipsy. “Since I know what it feels like to be left out of important family news, I’ll tell you.”
Vivian leaned forward. “Leah, please—”
“Your grandparents are selling the winery,” Leah blurted out.
Sadie’s jaw dropped. Selling the winery? What a buzzkill. She’d been busy the past few years and probably hadn’t visited as often as she should have. But she never even considered the thought that someday it would be gone. She hadn’t considered a lot of things: like the fact that Mateo Argueta was incredibly hot.
They’d never hung out that much before. Still, how had she not noticed? Maybe she hadn’t lifted her face out of her books long enough to take in his intense dark eyes and the five-o’clock shadow that made her want to run her fingers along his jaw. He had leading-man bone structure and lips that belonged on a Kardashian. Plus, he knew things.
“When grapevines flower it’s called an inflorescence,” he’d told Sadie. “Microscopically, it was formed the previous year in the bud.”
Inflorescence. Sadie loved the word. She would use it in her fiction writing someday.
“This type of trellising is VSP—vertical shoot positioning,” Mateo had added, adjusting the metal wire holding the vines in place. His hands moved with certainty, twisting the metal and adjusting the leaves, speaking the fluid and foreign language of the grapes. “We tie the plants down so that when the new shoots come up with fruit, the foliage is standing straight up. That way the fruit has optimal sun exposure.”
The previous vineyard manager, a grizzled old dude, had always seemed pestered by Sadie’s presence in the field. And while her mother told her stories about how her father, Grandpa Leonard, had taught her everything she knew, Sadie found that hard to reconcile with her aloof grandfather. So this tour with Mateo Argueta was, remarkably, her first real tour from a viticulture standpoint. Sadie was fascinated, though she didn’t know if it was the wonders of the grape growing that had her so captivated or the wonder of Mateo Argueta’s fine body poured into those jeans.
It was a nice distraction from the fact that Holden still hadn’t texted or messaged her. Breakup or not, she had been sure that time apart would show him how irrational he was being.
“But in happier news, we’re engaged,” Bridget said, beaming.
Sadie turned to her uncle. “Wow—congratulations.”
“So, Sadie, do you have a boyfriend?” Bridget asked as Asher murmured his thanks. “I still remember my college boyfriends.”
“Babe, please. You’re almost a married woman,” Asher teased.
“I would imagine you do remember,” Vivian said mildly. “That was just a few years ago.”
Meow, Sadie thought. “Um, no. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Wait—what happened with Holden?” her mother said.
“I bet it’s because of all those books,” Leonard said. “Men don’t like women who read too much. It gives them ideas.”
“What kind of ideas?” Leah said.
“Ideas about how terrible men are.”
“Dad, you don’t really believe that!” Leah said, aghast. But Sadie could tell by the faint smile on her grandfather’s face that he was just being provocative. Vivian clearly knew it, too, because she just shook her head and rolled her eyes. Still, for Sadie, it hit a nerve.
“Yeah, well, you’re right, Grandpa,” Sadie said. “My boyfriend broke up with me because I work too much.”
She downed her glass of wine and wondered how long before she could reasonably retreat to the library.
Fifteen
Midafternoon, the sound of merriment, of clinking glasses and champagne corks popping, reached Vivian before she climbed the stairs to the veranda. She felt, as she always did, the electric energy of people noticing her. Of people whispering, That’s Vivian Hollander.
After saying some hellos and agreeing to a few selfies—heavens, how she hated that cultural development—she noticed Asher and Bridget in the corner talking to a woman holding a clipboard. She had salt-and-pepper hair and was dressed in a pantsuit. Asher waved Vivian over.
