Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,25

vines to France, Spain, and Germany. People had been trying to grow the grapes in New York State, but the plants were simply too fragile for the climate.

Vivian and Leonard were determined; Leonard to prove to his father that he could be a winemaker out on his own, and Vivian to follow her heart and show her parents that she was not throwing her life away.

That first season, they planted descendants of the grapes that had grown in Bordeaux—Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Sauvignon Blanc—and also the varietals planted in Burgundy: Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.

They did exhaustive research, and Leonard called on everything he’d learned at his father’s knee. There was no inherent problem with the land: the mix of sand and organic material made it loamy and drain well. The climate was variable but not unlike that of one of the world’s great wine regions, Bordeaux. Leonard was confident that the Napa Valley was not the only place in the country where great wines could be produced.

They used grafted vines and picked out the weak ones before planting. Leonard knew how to recognize the weeds early—dandelion, pepperweed, redweed—and to remove them quickly so they did not compete with the vines for moisture and nutrients. Eventually, Leonard’s father, impressed with their determination, came out to help with the delicate art of pruning. The plants took root, and so did their life together.

It was backbreaking work. Gone were weekends of horseback riding and brunch. Vivian fell into bed each night so exhausted she couldn’t bother to turn out the light. Her legs and arms were covered with bruises and insect bites. But progress was made.

And now this.

Vivian had meant what she’d said to Leonard the night before: Leah had a right to know that the winery was in trouble. And she wanted to tell her now, in person, not after Leah was back in New York City. Leah should know that this summer might be her last at the vineyard so that she could experience it accordingly.

Vivian walked over to the group standing among the blooming Cabernet Franc. Mateo noticed her first and greeted her with a hearty wave.

“Hey there, Mrs. Hollander,” he called out.

“Mateo, these plants are looking wonderful. I haven’t been out since you put up the catch wire.”

Mateo was a big improvement over their previous vineyard manager, Joe Gable. Joe had not only been drinking from the stockroom, he had failed to treat their entire Chardonnay crop for insect control and they’d lost it all. Still, Leonard waited weeks to give Mateo the position. It was as if he couldn’t believe the best candidate for the job was right there under his nose. Vivian had hoped he would hire him but didn’t push, knowing he would say something along the lines of “Do I need to remind you what happened the last time you told me to hire someone? And what happens if it doesn’t work out? I can’t fire Javier’s son. It would be a disaster.”

In the end, his need for a strong right hand in the field won out over his concerns. Now they had the best vineyard manager since the one who worked for them in the seventies and eighties. But apparently, that was not going to solve their problems.

“Hi, Gran,” Sadie said.

“Mom, I’m glad you’re here. I called but kept getting your voicemail,” Leah said.

Vivian barely heard her. Sadie, wearing gardening gloves and holding a pair of pruning shears, was a sight to behold. Her granddaughter’s dark hair and dark eyes resembled the Hollanders more than herself, yet seeing her stand in the same spot where she had stood at that age—a newlywed, a hopeful pioneer—brought the past rushing back. The thought of losing it all felt like a physical blow.

“Sadie, dear, you look very professional. I hope Mateo is teaching you all the tricks of the trade. And in the meantime, I must borrow your mother for a moment,” Vivian said.

Vivian motioned for Leah to follow her, and they walked to the lawn just beyond the veranda. She sat at a picnic bench under a patch of dogwood trees, surrounded by lush foliage: tall grassy stalks of saltmeadow rush, a blaze of orange-red trumpet vines, delicate wild geraniums in pink and white, and the New England asters that always reminded her of purple dandelions.

Leah slid onto the bench across from her, her back to the veranda. Vivian eyed the winery, making sure no one was close enough to overhear them.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

Vivian hesitated.