Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,55

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