Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,43

noticed a pretty blonde, a Cheryl Ladd look-alike who stood out from the crowd in a ruby-red tunic dress that reached the ground.

“Vivian Hollander, meet Baroness de Villard. Baroness, this is the friend I was telling you about—with the winery.”

The woman stood from her seat and extended her hand. The name de Villard sounded familiar, but Vivian was certain she’d never met the woman before.

“Alors,” the woman said. “Please—call me Natasha.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Vivian said.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Hollander. I’ve heard so much about you.” The woman was clearly not French, but American. And not just American, but—judging from her accent—from Brooklyn or Queens.

“Natasha’s husband, the Baron de Villard, owns a winery in France,” their hostess said.

“Oh, lovely,” Vivian said, trying to get her bearings in the conversation as she realized why she recognized the name. The de Villard family was a famous name in wine. Their vineyard in Bordeaux was grand cru classé—the highest classification in France.

“I’m from New York,” Natasha said. “But I can’t imagine growing grapes here. I understand that you and your husband were the first.”

“That’s right,” Vivian said. “We came out here over a decade ago. It was just potato farms.”

“How impressive,” Natasha said. “I’d love to see your vineyard sometime. And of course, you must come to France and meet my husband. He doesn’t like visiting the States. The only thing he likes about America is that it produced me,” she added with a wink.

And then she drifted away. Vivian couldn’t recall if she’d spoken another word to her the entire evening. Certainly, by the end of the summer, the particulars of that party had faded to a dim memory. So she was surprised when, in September, she received an invitation to Château de Villard in the mail—along with two first-class plane tickets to France.

There had been no question that they would go. It was a decision they would both come to regret.

Vivian’s limbs became heavy with the last few strokes, and she swam to the side of the pool and grabbed hold of the ledge. How long had she been out there? She wasn’t ready to go inside, but then Leonard appeared. He was dressed in his robe and looked tired.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

“I’m trying to tire myself out so I can sleep.”

Leonard walked to the pool’s edge.

“Things went well with the buyers today,” he said. “They increased their offer.”

“Is that my cue to be happy?”

“We’re going to walk away with something. Not a lot, but something.”

Vivian had been sad when her parents sold Woodlawn and the Manhattan apartment she’d grown up in. But she had her own life by that time, and she knew that if she wanted a forever home, she’d have to create one with her husband.

“I know we built the house to advance socially—for the business. But deep down, I was doing it for our children. I imagined them bringing their children here, and their children’s children here. You know, Jews are a wandering people. To me, success meant not wandering anymore. I wanted to put down roots, literally and figuratively.”

“Vivian,” Leonard said, “we can’t indulge in sentimentality. This deal is going to save us. In the morning, I’m telling Asher I’ve accepted the offer.”

“How long will it take to close?”

“A few months.”

“So we’ll have the summer here. And then what? What about Peternelle? The Arguetas?”

Leonard walked toward the house, calling back to her, “It’s late, Vivian. Come to bed.”

She submerged herself underwater, swimming toward the fake stars.

* * *

The library felt different at night. It was as if the spirits of all the authors whose works were collected there were speaking to one another. Or maybe it was just the silence of the grand house at midnight. Or maybe, Leah thought, it was all the wine she’d had at dinner.

Her buzz had worn off, leaving her anxious. And the phone call with Steven after dinner hadn’t helped. He’d seemed eager to get off the call. Or maybe they just didn’t have that much to talk about aside from the cheese shop, and every mention of that included the unpleasant subtext that she was shirking her responsibilities.

She turned on one panel of lights, illuminating the middle section of the vast room while keeping the perimeter of shelves in shadow. She walked up to the second level, where she and Sadie had gathered up the photo albums, now packed away. Where Sadie