Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,60

my way.”

But the more time Vivian spent with Delphine, the more she realized the girl had a surprisingly deep knowledge of wine. Her mother, the baron’s sister, Marie-Élise, had married into another wine family, and Delphine had been raised at her knee, walking the fields and hanging around the tasting room, absorbing every nuance of the art and science of producing great wine.

When she confided in Delphine about the problem with the New York wine market, Delphine said, “The wine managers at these places are all men, right?”

“Of course,” Vivian said.

“Let me try to sell your wine. In my experience, men have a very difficult time saying no to me.”

Delphine had made good on her promise that men could not say no to her; she began visiting Manhattan’s top restaurants in the spring of 1982. With her pedigree and beauty, there were few doors that would not open for her. Within a month she had landed accounts with the Four Seasons, the 21 Club, the Rainbow Room, and Delmonico’s. Only Lutèce said no.

With each Manhattan restaurant account she landed, Delphine’s ethereal glow radiated more strongly, her blue eyes bright and jewel-like in her porcelain face. She always wore her thick curtain of dark hair loose, and she never cut it.

Even Leonard, who had balked at the imposition of the baron’s niece, who had resisted letting her work in sales, was impressed with their rising star. Leah, an impressionable preteen, followed her around like a puppy, insisting on growing out her hair, asking to straighten her curls. She gave up her brightly colored Ocean Pacific shorts and tube socks in favor of pale linen dresses. While most girls her age were tying bandanas around their heads, trying to look like Madonna, Leah was trying to look like a sophisticated French girl. Vivian had found it adorable.

By the spring of 1985, the girl the baron had sent to them as a depressed wallflower had blossomed into a confident, vivacious young woman.

But then, the evening when all hell broke loose. Vivian had been on the veranda with her friends for their book club discussion. It was a night eagerly anticipated all month long. She’d just been about to begin when Leonard came running out of the winery in a tizzy after finding a slew of messages from their restaurant reps. Apparently, Delphine had not only been knocking on doors in Manhattan, she’d been breaking hearts. She’d slept with several wine buyers, and with the New York City restaurant world being small, word got out. The bruised egos got together and called Leonard, canceling their orders.

“I always told you women don’t belong in the business,” he said to Vivian. “This is what happens!”

Vivian made the point that their restaurant accounts were up ninety percent since Delphine started working for them. Fine, the accounts were dropping them—but she was the one who’d brought them on in the first place. Leonard could not be reasoned with. He felt she had brought shame upon Hollander Estates and couldn’t be trusted to work for them any longer.

Leonard fired her, and that triggered a visit from the baron.

Vivian moved Chances off her lap, onto the table and facedown. It had been a bad idea to revisit the old book. She didn’t want those memories. Not now.

The door to the house slid open, and Bridget emerged, her wild auburn hair loose around her shoulders, the strap of her tank top falling off one shoulder. She carried a glass of white wine in one hand and a vape pen in the other.

“Oh!” she said. “I didn’t know you were all out here.” Her expression shifted, as if she realized she had been excluded from something.

“Where’s Asher?” said Vivian.

“He’s in Amagansett. But he’s coming back soon. I was just going for a swim.” She looked around the table. “You’re all reading the same book?”

“Sort of,” Leah said.

An awkward silence fell over the group.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” Vivian said, standing up and tucking her copy of Chances under her arm.

She’d had enough togetherness for one evening.

Twenty-eight

The library was bright with sunshine. Sadie blamed the brightness, the reminder of the beautiful day outside, for distracting her. An hour at the library table, immersed in Susan Sontag essays, and no progress on her thesis.

She stood up, crossed the room, and closed the heavy curtains, knowing all the while the light had nothing to do with it. It was that damn book.

No matter how much her mother tried to frame Chances as a story about