Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,6

customers—not all, but enough—knew that a conversation with Vivian Hollander was worth every penny they paid for their glass of Chardonnay or case of Cabernet Franc. Vivian made daily appearances in the tasting room and on the veranda. Her primary role had become that of the winery’s glamorous figurehead.

But she still had opinions, and that was why, when one of their employees made a beeline for her, explaining that, “There was no one in the office to sign for the new labels,” she was disconcerted. New labels?

“I tried to find Mr. Hollander,” the employee said. “But he’s not answering his phone.”

Vivian didn’t bother asking why he didn’t try to find Asher. No doubt their son—the vice president of Hollander Estates—was on one of his endless lunch breaks.

She looked out at the vineyard and spotted her husband walking among the vines in the distance.

“If there’s no one to sign for the labels, just let them be returned,” she said. The employee shuffled back to the office, and she made her way down the veranda steps to the grass. Shielding her face from the sun with her hand, she walked through the rows and rows of leafy plants tied with trellis wire, just the smallest green berries beginning to appear.

Leonard, as always, was lost in his own world. His love of the vines perhaps rivaled even his love for her.

When he finally noticed her, his hooded dark eyes lit up. Okay, so maybe his love of the vines didn’t compare to his feelings for her. No, she could never stay angry for long.

And yet.

“Leonard, you aren’t changing the labels on any of the bottles, are you?”

Vivian hadn’t been involved with the day-to-day running of the business for many years now. In the early days, she’d done everything from weeding the crops to knocking on restaurant doors to, yes, designing the labels. They were eggshell colored with a parchment edge and midnight blue lettering—elegant and timeless. Why mess with them? It had to be their son’s misguided idea.

“Asher suggested it was time for a change. I’m giving it a try,” Leonard said.

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“To encourage his involvement, Vivian. You know I’ve been asking him to contribute more.”

“Well, let him contribute in some other way,” Vivian said, distracted by a text from her head of housekeeping: There’s a problem with one of the guest suites.

Vivian could not imagine what that problem might be, but with her daughter arriving in two days for a long-overdue visit, she couldn’t take any chances. Every summer, she counted the days until her daughter arrived with her family. She wished Leah visited more often—really, she wished she’d never left. But she couldn’t blame her for creating a new life for herself in Manhattan. Not after the way Leonard had handled things.

“I need to get back to the house. Leonard, promise me—don’t change the labels.”

He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. He smelled like fresh-cut grass and the sweet apple shampoo he used of hers while complaining it was too “girly.”

The trellised stone path from the winery to the main house was worn and familiar to Vivian. She had walked back and forth under the pergola, with its winding vines of roses and wisteria, for nearly fifty years.

The sight of the mansion still surprised her sometimes. When she had first set eyes on the house as a young newlywed, it had been a humble, rambling three-hundred-year-old farmhouse befitting the potato fields it had once stood upon. Over the decades, as the winery flourished, the house had evolved to the châteauesque wonder that had landed it on the cover of more than one architectural magazine. But in her mind’s eye, it was still the home of her early marriage, the days when she woke at six in the morning to start pruning vines. It was the land that had created their fortune, but lately, it was the house that made her feel rooted in her own life.

Vivian took a shortcut to one of the side entrances. The red Italian slate was hot under her feet; she could feel it through the thin soles of her ballerina slippers. She still wasn’t used to wearing flats, but she had finally made peace with the fact that at her age, she could no longer spend every day in heels. It didn’t matter that some customers somehow felt no hesitation in showing up to the tasting room wearing shorts and sneakers; Vivian still valued decorum.

As soon as the house