Page 43 of Blush
It didn’t matter what Sadie thought. Leah remembered her mother’s book club, she remembered a time when the vineyard was thriving, her mother was in her prime, and anything seemed possible. It wasn’t just the rosy hue of her memory: the Vivian of her childhood would not give up on the winery. Leah was certain of that.
Maybe the book would help her mother remember, too.
Twenty-four
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vivian said. “I have no interest in reading this.”
She’d been watching the sunset on the veranda when Leah appeared and handed over the old book. Leah, dressed in leggings and a T-shirt with long sleeves that almost covered her hands, looked like a teenager.
“Why not? Don’t you remember it?”
Of course she remembered it. The sight of the cover, the woman in the black evening dress, with big hair and heavy brows like Brooke Shields, brought her right back to the eighties. One thing she loved the most about books was that they never changed, and when you picked one off the shelf after years, it brought you back to the moment you first held it. Vivian cracked it open, inhaling that old-book smell.
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it in the library. You know, I used to sneak these books when you weren’t around. All I wanted was to be part of that book club.”
The book club had been, in the words of Virginia Woolf, a room of her own. It didn’t matter how big and luxurious the house was because that house was an extension of her marriage to Leonard. And she treasured their partnership. But the assembly of women who gathered oncea month on the veranda? That was hers. There was a special joy in dressing up when it wasn’t to impress anyone, when it wasn’t for work or any special occasion but her own mood. And there was a catharsis in discussing love and life—and, yes, sex—through the lens of a novel. It was one part of her life that was lived completely on her own terms.
Until Leonard fired Delphine and any illusion of control—even over the book club—was shattered.
“Of course I remember it,” she said. “I’m surprised you do.”
“Are you kidding? You and your friends looked so glamorous to me. All I wanted was to be part of the conversation, but you never let me stay.”
“Oh, Leah. The books weren’t appropriate for you.” They had been, however, perfect for her. The stories of outrageous love affairs and kinky sex and beautiful people had been just what she and her circle of friends needed. She’d even started a journal, chronicling their get-togethers and the books that kept them entertained.
“Yeah, I’m realizing that. I’m an adult, and this one is making me blush.”
Vivian hadn’t thought about the book club and her journal in years. But then the other day, packing up the family albums to protect them from the prying eyes of the new buyers, the journal appeared. She moved it to the back of her bedroom closet without reading it. Looking back was painful.
But how had it gotten mixed up with the stack of photo albums and books?
Had Leah been snooping?
She handed the copy ofChancesback to Leah. “Well, you can put this back where you found it. Since you clearly know your way around the library.”
Leah averted her eyes. So she was snooping!
Decades earlier, when Vivian oversaw the expansion and renovation of their house, she asked their architect to model library shelves after the walls in a celebrated French estate. He had taken her directionliterally, down to every last design quirk, including hidden locked compartments. This was where she’d hidden the journal. She couldn’t imagine how Leah had found it. If she’d found it.
“Mom, it might be fun if we read it together. I just started it and, I don’t know, it brings me back to a simpler time.”
“I have no interest in old books. There’s too much going on right now.”
But Leah wasn’t listening. The sight of something in the distance distracted her.
“That’s Javier. I need to talk to him.” She kissed her on the cheek. “Think about what I said.”
Leah rushed off. Only after she disappeared into the darkness did Vivian realize she’d left behind the copy ofChances. She reached for it, opening to the first page.
Bitch. Child. Liberated lady. Temptress. Costa knew her as all of those things.
“So you see”—she fumbled in an oversized Gucci bag and produced a pack of cigarettes—“no way is it the right time for my father to come back into the country.No way.You must stop him.”
A simpler time, Leah had said. Well, simpler for her. She had just been a young girl. Vivian, however, had been an adult. An adult making adult mistakes.
She stood and began to pace in the darkness. The mention of cigarettes on the page made her yearn for one now. Decades after quitting, she still dreamed of smoking.
