Page 94 of Blush
“I’m going to stop the sale of thewinery.”
Part Four
Crush
Losing your innocence has very little to do with virginity, you know. Loss of innocence comes when you have to deal with the real world by yourself, when you learn that the first rule of life is kill or be killed.
—Shirley Conran,Lace
Forty-six
The book club from Sag Harbor arrived in the late morning as scheduled. What had not been scheduled, however, was Leah’s absence. Three days earlier, Vivian had awakened to a text from Leah reading:Sorry—had to run back to the city.
Vivian called her immediately, concerned, but all Leah said was something vague about the shop and Steven and needing to be more available—that she would try to make it out again soon. Vivian could hardly complain: Leah had done so much for them that summer; the group of over a dozen women arriving was just one example of the difference Leah made with her effort to breathe some life into Hollander Estates. And really, greeting the ladies, wearing her hostess hat, was something Vivian would have relished just weeks earlier. But now her days revolved around avoiding the baron.
He was getting more and more brazen with his advances and innuendo. It was just a matter of time before someone noticed, and if that someone was Leonard, she would be confronted with her secret of thirty-five years. If Leonard asked her point-blank what was going on, she’d lie. She would say she didn’t know. She would say it was nothing. The alternative—confessing what happened that day in the barn—was unthinkable. For all of his faults, Leonard had cherished her since the day they met. She couldn’t imagine looking into his eyes and not seeingthat unconditional love. Worse, she couldn’t stand the thought of him thinking that she didn’t love him—that there had ever been a minute when she didn’t love him. She just wanted it all to go away.
And so, she dressed the part of the carefree winery doyenne, in a yellow silk Chanel knit dress with a scoop neck, three-quarter sleeves, and Gripoix buttons. She layered ropes of costume pearls around her neck—real pearls did not like the heat—and a spritz of Bond No. 9 perfume. She applied red lipstick, covered her eyes with her sunglasses, and headed out to greet her guests.
The group’s reservation had been made by a woman named Augustine Lout. Leah knew Augustine’s daughter Roya, a regular at her cheese shop. Vivian greeted the small caravan in front of the winery. Augustine was a diminutive African-American woman who could have been fifty or seventy.
“I’m so sorry Leah couldn’t be here today,” Vivian said. “She had to run back to the city unexpectedly.”
Augustine introduced Vivian to Roya, who in turn introduced every member of the flock. They all carried copies of the novelLaRoseby Louise Erdrich. Vivian led them around to the veranda, asking how their book group came together.
“Our families all spent summers together at Ninevah Beach,” Roya said, mentioning a spot in Sag Harbor just off Gardiners Bay. “It started with an annual reunion, and a few years ago we started talking about a book—what was it, Mom?”
“Rubyby Cynthia Bond.”
“Right. So a lot of us happened to be reading that book—maybe it was an Oprah pick at the time—and we decided to start a club.”
“How delightful,” Vivian said. “Leah and I started our own club this summer. Just the two of us and Leah’s daughter.” Well, and Bridget.
“What book did you read?” Roya said.
Vivian hesitated for only a second. “The Goldfinchby Donna Tartt. Now, let’s get you ladies settled in.”
The group oohed and aahed their delight as the vineyard came intoview. Vivian showed them up the veranda steps to the two long tables set with reservation placards and bottles of sparkling white wine on ice. The smaller surrounding tables were starting to fill up, and all around the sound of corks popping filled the air along with the chatter of birds and the music over the sound system, the gentle whir of standing fans to stave off the heat. Vivian inhaled, the air fresh with the scent of the jasmine and rose tabletop floral arrangements.
It was the idyll the winery promised in its brochures and newsletter, the time of year when nature shined above and beyond Vivian and Leonard’s loftiest dreams for the place.
The ladies took their seats. Vivian launched into her standard brief introduction of the history of Hollander Estates—people were always surprised to learn there hadn’t been a winery on the North Fork until 1971—but was distracted by the sight of a suit-clad figure cutting across the veranda toward them.
“Excuse me, everyone.” She made a beeline for the steps back down to the lawn, but not quickly enough to escape the baron’s notice. She could feel him behind her but didn’t look back until he called out “Vivian!” so sharply she was certain they could hear it all the way in Mattituck.
“What?” she said, whirling around to face him. “What do you want from me?”
“I’d like to not be standing in the direct sun, for one thing. Let’s find some shade.”
“Absolutely not.” She looked around, wondering where Leonard was. Or Javier. Or anyone. At least the lawn was in full view of the veranda—not that anyone was paying them any attention. Everyone was too busy enjoying themselves, as they should be. Vivian, alone, was suffering on the picture-perfect day. “We can talk here—or not at all, preferably.”
“Take off your sunglasses,” he said. “I hate that you hide your beautiful eyes.”
She began walking away, and he grabbed hold of her arm. She shook off his hand.
“What’s this about? Surely you can’t be angry that I refused to be your mistress all those years ago. You can’t possibly care after all this time.”
“Successful people—truly successful—always care about the one that got away: The deal. The woman. Whatever it may be. That’s what separates winners from losers.”
