Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,132

crisp. Leah felt like she could crack the sky just by looking at it. It was the type of day that shamed her for missing fall on the North Fork for the past few decades.

She imagined what the day would be like in Manhattan, how the sidewalk along First Avenue would be filled with shoppers, the cheese shop bustling, maybe even a line at the counter. But the week before, as the first leaves fell from the trees, she and Steven began boxing up the store in preparation for their lease expiration. She was ready for it—had been ready, in a way, since the landlord gave her the news all those months earlier that he was selling the building. There had been two choices: find a new space, or move on. In her heart, she had known there was something else out there waiting for her.

They had already harvested the Malbec and the Syrah. That morning, she was tending to the Cabernet Sauvignon. The fruit color was peaking at vivid purple-blue. She pulled a berry and popped it into her mouth. She crunched into it and rolled the sweetness around on her tongue. She could pick the grapes today, or she could leave them on the vine and see if the sugar levels could get a little higher. Last year, after a rainy August, the grapes had only reached brix levels of 19. This year, she was picking at 23.

In the distance, her father approached. She waved. When he reached her, he pulled a grape from the vine and tasted it.

“I knew that this would be a banner crop,” he said wistfully.

“I’m sure you did,” Leah said. “Dad, I know you’re not happy about the rosé. But we’re doing what we have to do.”

He sighed, looking out into the distance. “I worked very hard to uphold that estates designation,” he said.

“I know. And I didn’t make the decision lightly.”

Part of leadership, of business, was making difficult decisions. Leonard recognized Leah was up to the task, because he’d appointed her CEO. He would cede the day-to-day business to her and focus on his true passion: winemaking. She hoped she could learn from watching him so that someday she would have his wide range of knowledge.

“So what will you be calling the vineyard?” he asked.

Leah swallowed hard. She’d considered this carefully, thinking not just about what the vineyard should be called for next year’s vintage, but about a name that would take it into the future. And who would carry them into that future.

“I’m calling it Hollander Bailey Cellars,” she said.

Steven was her partner. He was working by her side, helping her realize her dream. He deserved to have his name on the wine. And who knew—maybe someday Sadie might take the helm. A third-generation female winemaker.

Her father didn’t answer. He turned, instead, to the grapes. “So what are you hitting with this fruit? Twenty-three?”

She nodded.

“You could make an outstanding Cab Sauv,” he said.

“I know. It pains me, too.” And it did. She truly respected the grapes. The winemaker in her would love to see what they could achieve leaving the red in the barrel for a few years. But the businesswoman in her wanted it on the shelves in five months. The juice would go into steel tanks for a few months of élevage—the time wine spent in the cellar after fermentation but before bottling.

“Have you considered, since you’re bringing in fruit from the other vineyard, making a small batch of the Cab from these grapes? You have to do something with those oak barrels. Just to see what you get?”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Just a tiny batch, just for them. She thought about it: while it aged in the barrel, she would rebuild the winery. And one day, hopefully in a moment of success, she could open one of the bottles for a celebratory toast.

“It was only a thought,” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Leah, for the record, you’ve got nothing to prove to me. I know you’re a great winemaker. And it’s got nothing to do with the weather or the decisions you make about what to do with these grapes.” He pointed to her heart. “It’s in there. It’s always been in there.”

It was what she’d wanted to hear from him since standing in that very spot all those decades earlier. But maybe, if he’d told her then, she wouldn’t have believed it.

Maybe she had to figure it out for herself.

Epilogue

Cutchogue, New York

Bud