Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,91

some video for social,” Bridget said. “I’m a brand ambassador for these amazing sunglasses.” She adjusted the pair of brightly colored frames on her face. “They’re super lightweight and totally waterproof.” She spoke like Leah had just walked into an infomercial. “Do you want to try a pair?”

“Would you be filming me?” Leah said.

“Is that okay?” Bridget said.

“Um, maybe another time?” Leah turned to Asher. “We need to talk. Can you come out to the field with me for a few minutes?”

He followed her with surprising willingness.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” he said, glancing back just once.

“Since when do you need rescuing from Bridget?”

“Since it became clear that I’m about to be unemployed and homeless.”

Sometimes she forgot that Asher was suffering through all of this, too. That they had roamed these fields together as children, that he would sneak wine from the bottle room. They were the only two people in the world with those specific shared memories. She might be resentful of her father’s favoritism, but it wasn’t Asher’s fault. The sale of the vineyard and the family home was a loss they shared equally.

“Asher, Bridget doesn’t care about the money.”

“But I do,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “I know you think I’m lazy, but I have my pride. This isn’t a situation I want to drag her into. And I certainly don’t want to be living off her Instagram money.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I think we need some time apart.”

“Asher, don’t push her away. Let’s focus on saving the winery, okay?”

“How?” His eyes were hidden behind those ridiculous sunglasses, but the break in his voice betrayed the extent of his worry.

“I’m not sure, exactly. But we’ve both, in one way or another, been controlled—or, in my case, sidelined—by Dad our entire lives. For once, we need to push back. And we’re going to start by talking to Mateo.”

They resumed walking, Asher muttering something under his breath. Outside the barn, Javier piled equipment on the back of a truck. Leah called out, asking if Mateo was inside.

“He’s in the reds,” Javier said, pointing to the farthest outskirts of the vineyard.

Leah and Asher continued walking under the high morning sun. As bad as things were at the moment, it was hard to lose hope surrounded by the lush new life, the sugar-rich grapes. Veraison—the process of the grapes turning colors—never failed to amaze her; the Malbec was changing from green to red, the white grapes from dark green to golden yellow.

She spotted Mateo among the Malbec vines.

“Hey there,” she said.

He looked up at the two of them and stopped what he was doing. The sun had burnished his complexion, making the chiseled angles of his face even more striking. She wondered what was going on between him and Sadie. She’d been waiting since the night of book club for another clue, or even for Sadie to confide in her. But nothing.

“Oh wow; this Merlot is still really green,” she said, looking at the fruit. Beside her, Asher shifted impatiently.

“It’s old,” Mateo said. “The older plants go through veraison more slowly.”

Leah knew that. She’d been thinking about it—and the fact that the older plants produced fewer fruit but the fruit they did produce was higher quality. Maybe she should take something from that. And so should her mother.

This was no time to give up.

“Mateo, I don’t mean to interrupt your work, but I have some questions I’m hoping you can help me with. Chris said if we wanted to produce rosé this year we have enough reds. Do you agree?”

“Oh, come on, Leah,” Asher said. Mateo looked at him, hesitating.

“Don’t pay attention to him,” Leah said with a wave.

“We have the grapes. The question is how your father allocates the use of the reds and the tank space.”

“When does that have to be decided?” Leah said.

“Before Labor Day.”

August was the calm before the harvest storm. It was a time of waiting, letting the vines do their work. It was also the window before decisions about production would be made, a window that would be closing quickly. In a month, her father would start pulling fruit to test sugar and pH to see when it was time to begin harvest. Leonard would be deciding what fruit was suitable for what wines.

As hard as she’d tried to leave the winery behind her, to start a new life in New York City, the rhythm of the vineyard was like muscle memory. It was a part of her. There was little Mateo could tell her