Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,57

page or two after you practically forced the book on me. Okay, maybe more than a page,” she added primly at Leah’s knowing look. “And the sweeping nature of it . . . it’s like that Donna Tartt novel. The one with the bird painting.”

“The Goldfinch? Gran, you’re comparing Chances to the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel The Goldfinch?” Leah could practically see her high-minded daughter’s head exploding.

“I’m just saying, it’s epic in its own right.”

“It’s long, but I don’t know if I’d call it epic. And I have no empathy for Gino, and so much of the book is from his point of view,” Sadie said.

“He’s an antihero. But he means well,” Leah said. Except when his son was born, a year after his daughter, and he thought, A son was a direct extension of himself. A daughter could never be that. It was just a novel, but the words stung.

“I love the flashbacks to the 1920s and the 1970s. She really brings the drama of those eras to life,” Vivian said, abandoning all pretense of disinterest. “And as for violence against women . . . that’s a reflection of the world, my dear.”

“But I think this book glorifies it, in a way. Especially the sex scenes. A lot of it’s nonconsensual,” Sadie said.

“There is a lot of sex,” Vivian conceded. “I didn’t remember so much of it being nonconsensual. Or so graphic.”

Neither had Leah.

Ironically, now that she was apart from her husband, she found herself thinking about sex. Maybe even wanting sex. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she was also now reading these books. Still, she was afraid that the minute she returned to the city, she’d go right back to forgetting all about it.

“The thing that strikes me about the sex scenes is that sometimes they don’t seem written by a woman,” Sadie said. “It’s more like female sexuality as written by a man’s fantasy. And all the gay characters are villains. Or at least devious. Did you talk about that at your book club?”

“I can’t recall it coming up for discussion. Readers weren’t as sensitive back in the day,” Vivian said.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of sensitivity.” Sadie crossed her arms. “It’s just common decency.”

“Okay, I think we can all agree the book wouldn’t be written that way today,” Leah said to defuse the tension. Talk about a generation gap . . .

Vivian looked at Sadie. “So you don’t like the book?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sadie said. “But it’s not exactly great writing.”

“Isn’t it, though? Look at how all the plotlines came together. The way Leonora’s daughter came back into the story? Brilliant,” Leah said.

“That was amazing,” Sadie conceded.

“I will admit the author went a little far with all the abuse on poor Carrie,” Vivian said. “That final turn as a prostitute was perhaps too much.”

“Oh, my god, that scene where Whitejack pimps her out again? My heart just broke.” Leah paged through the book to find the scene and read aloud.

“I gasped at that,” Sadie said. “Like, I literally gasped. But that’s what I mean. So much of this book is just abuse heaped on women.”

“Well, not all the women. Clementine Duke is sexually powerful—maybe even sexually predatory,” Leah said.

“But as soon as she sleeps with Gino, he has the power. He always has the power,” Sadie said.

“Except when it comes to his daughter,” Vivian pointed out.

“Lucky doesn’t always challenge his power. What about the scene where he’s forcing her into an arranged marriage? And then he hits her.”

“It’s terrible, of course,” Vivian said. “Inexcusable. But for the whole book, she’s the one person who makes him feel completely out of control. And it’s also fear—the fear all parents feel for their children.”

It was also, Leah realized, the fear all children eventually had for their parents. She’d long heard about the role reversal that took place later in life, when the children became the caretakers. Her parents, thankfully, still had their health. But they were losing their life’s work, and that was going to be a tough transition. It was for her, too.

She’d suggested the book to distract her mother from the impending sale of the winery. And maybe it was helping. But reading it herself was making her own powerlessness that much more apparent.

* * *

Sadie. With those questions about her old journal! As if Vivian would ever admit to her feminist granddaughter that she’d been so desperate to feel productive, to have something of her own to manage and perfect, that she’d turned