Four

Leah spotted the distinctive turrets of her childhood home rising in the distance and felt a flutter of excitement. As Steven navigated the road, she opened the passenger window, inhaling the briny air as though it were the first time she’d breathed in months.

The winding drive leading to the house was lined with towering, densely leafed European hornbeam trees. The surrounding acreage was abundant with wild lavender, an apple orchard, and formal English flower gardens. Vivian, with her affinity for English gardens, spent years planting flower beds and trees to cultivate a showcase garden. The apple trees had also been a pet project; it had taken six years for the first Cortland apple tree to bear fruit, and that first apple was treated like gold.

A familiar face greeted them inside the house. Leah embraced the family chef, Peternelle, hugging her fiercely.

“Dinner’s on the veranda—you’re late. Hurry, hurry . . .”

Peternelle had been with the family for as long as Leah could remember. She was British, round-faced, with pink skin that barely seemed to age and pale blue eyes. The only sign that Peternelle was older now than she was in Leah’s memory was her hair, which was white instead of its former brown. Some of Leah’s most vivid memories were of Peternelle cooking her breakfast, a special concoction she’d called “eggy toast”—French bread with a hole torn in the middle, an egg cracked in the center and cooked in a frying pan.

By the next day, they would be on winery time: awake with the chirping of the birds, early-morning strolls out in the fields, late-afternoon Chardonnay in the tasting room, followed by dinner on the veranda. Only eighty miles from Manhattan, but a world away.

“We’re barely ten minutes later than we told them we’d be. I built in time,” Steven said.

Still, they rushed to the winery’s back deck, which overlooked the vineyard. During the day, it served as an extension of the tasting room. On weekends, it was often reserved for weddings. At night, it was one of the family’s favorite spots for dinner, overlooking the endless greenery of the vineyard.

“There she is!” her mother called out, standing from her seat at one end of the table long enough to seat twenty. It was their “picnic” table, made of plank cherrywood. Tonight, it was set for six, with a crisp white runner down the center, cobalt blue wine goblets, and bunches of blue hydrangeas and coral tea roses in short Murano glass vases. Leah knew that inside the house she would find every room filled with flowers.

As a girl, Leah had taken the simple elegance of life at the estate for granted. During the week, there were three formal meals a day. Vivian maintained a chef’s garden, and every morning after breakfast Peternelle would pick vegetables and thyme, basil, rosemary, or mint for that evening’s dinner preparation.

Her parents had hosted lavish parties nearly every weekend. She would watch them plunk fresh strawberries from the garden into flutes of sparkling white wine, her mother dressed in Halston or Ungaro, with a wildflower tucked behind one ear.

Tonight, her mother looked beautiful as always, her carefully maintained silver-blond hair coiffed and just reaching her shoulders. She wore a white linen dress and ropes of black pearls around her neck. Her manicured nails, kept short enough to be functional, were a glossy coral that matched her lipstick.

Beside her, her father poured a glass of red wine. He wore a powder blue polo shirt and his usual khakis, his white hair striking against his tan. While he had once been handsome in a young-Marlon-Brando sort of way, now his features appeared blunt and almost brutish in his creased face. But his intense dark eyes flashed with brilliant intensity, and when he gave a rare smile of approval, it had the force of a stadium light.

He waved them over, and Leah could tell by the set of his jaw that he was annoyed by their late arrival. Leah had learned, by following her mother’s example, not to get caught up in her father’s moods.

Across from them, on the opposite side of the table, was her brother, Asher. Looking at Asher was like looking at a male version of herself; she and Asher had their father’s dark coloring. In the summer, they tanned no matter how much they hid under hats and used sunblock. It was their Sephardic roots—Argentina via Ukraine via someplace long forgotten. Now in his late forties, Asher still had the youthful appearance of a much younger man. They had their shared forebears to thank for good skin and thick hair.

Next to him, a pretty redhead wearing a low-cut halter top. Ah, yes—the girlfriend du jour, Bridget.

“I’m so sorry we’re late. The traffic . . . ,” Leah said, kissing her mother and father and taking a seat next to her brother. Asher raised his hand for her to high-five him hello.

Steven shook her father’s hand and kissed her mother on the cheek, gestures that reflected relationships that had mellowed into mutual respect after some rocky early years.

“I was just telling your mother to start without you, but she wouldn’t hear of it,” her father said, summoning one of the food servers, who appeared with trays of cucumber cups stuffed with crab meat and seared scallops.

“Do we have salad? Bridget’s not eating fish,” Asher said.

“I thought you’re pescatarian,” Vivian said. Then, to Leah, “Have you met Bridget?”

“No, I haven’t.” Leah smiled at the young woman. The very young woman. When would her brother grow up?

Her father stood and uncorked a fresh bottle of wine. “We’re having steak for the main course, so I’m going to recommend the Cabernet.” Cabernet Sauvignon was one of the grapes her parents had their earliest success growing. The fruit had thick skins and the vines were hardy, so the climate was not an issue. It was one of the first grapes her father taught her about when she was a girl. It was the world’s most widely planted grape, but it hadn’t even existed before the 1600s, when it was produced by a cross between Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc.

“Nothing against the Cabernet, Dad, but a glass of rosé would be perfect right now,” Leah said. Like a lot of their friends, she and Steven had fallen into the habit of drinking the crisp, pale wine all summer.

“This winery will make rosé over my dead body,” her father said. “You know how I feel about trendy wine. Fads come and fads go, but quality is forever.”

She knew, and yet she couldn’t help but prod him to change his mind. “Dad, come on. Rosé isn’t a fad. Last summer the Hamptons literally ran out of it, people were drinking so much.”

“That’s a red flag. One year the vineyards can’t produce enough, then the next year you get stuck with stock you can’t move. I’ve seen it happen.”

She let the subject drop. It wasn’t her business. It wasn’t her problem. He’d made that clear a long time ago.

Growing up, she believed the winery would be her life’s work. After graduating Barnard with a business degree, she’d been prepared to return to Hollander Estates and work alongside her father. With her brother disinterested in the winery, she was the heir apparent.

Apparent, that was, to everyone but Leonard. The wine industry was rife with sexism. Her father, a vintner who learned how to cultivate grapes from his immigrant father, believed that a winery was a man’s world. When Leah realized the full implications of this, it had been painful—so painful it had taken her a few years before she could visit the vineyard. By that time, she had met Steven and had a demanding job in Manhattan working for the legendary cheese purveyor Murray’s. She rationalized that things had happened for a reason: if she had stayed on the North Fork, she wouldn’t have met Steven.

“Fine. I’ll have the Viognier,” she said.

She would never understand her father. He refused to produce rosé, and yet he devoted time and energy to Viognier, a very old, difficult varietal to grow. He’d told her once that the rough translation of Viognier was “the road to hell.” But oh, how it paid off. Every season, Hollander’s light white wine, with its notes of jasmine and white peach, was her favorite. When the vintage was most fresh, it was so clear it almost looked like water. As the months passed, the color deepened and the flavor changed. That was the amazing thing about wine: It was never one thing. It had a life cycle.

“The Viognier is too light to pair with the meat,” her father said.

“Leonard, indulge us. We’re philistines,” Steven said. There was the slightest edge to his voice—just enough for Leah to notice. To be fair, she had no one to blame but herself for his cynicism about her parents. When she and Steven first met, her feeling of betrayal at being turned away from the family business had still been fresh. As they began dating, the portrait she’d painted of her family over long walks and dinners had not been flattering. Stung by her father’s refusal to bring her into the family business, she told Steven how she had been turned away unfairly—disregarded because she was a woman.

By the time Steven finally got to know her parents, it was too late for him to form objective opinions about them. He saw them as selfish people who had turned away the woman he loved from her birthright. When they married, one of his vows had been “I promise to put you first. To create a family where you never feel shut out or second place. You will always be my priority, Leah.”

When the wine was poured, Leonard stood and raised his glass. “A toast: to the start of the summer season.”

It was his traditional toast every year at that time. “To the start of the summer season,” everyone echoed. Leah sipped her wine, relishing the familiar notes. She might have left the wine business, but, as she often told the customers who crowded in the back room of Bailey’s Blue for her classes, cheese and wine had one very important thing in common: both were made with the philosophy of terroir, or the taste of a place. And this wine tasted like home.

Vivian launched into an anecdote from the previous weekend about a limo full of bachelorettes who showed up for a wine-tasting already drunk.

“We need to ban limos,” her father said.

“Aww, that’s no fun,” said Bridget. Leah looked at her and smiled. She had a vivacious energy about her, and it was clear she wasn’t at all intimidated by Leonard and Vivian.

“It’s getting out of control,” said Vivian, ignoring her. “These young kids. Speaking of kids—where is my granddaughter?”

“Mom, I told you. She has a job at school. As a research assistant.”

“She couldn’t take a few days off?”

“It’s a prestigious position,” Leah said. “You know how seriously she takes everything.”

“Her grandparents would like a visit. That’s something to take seriously,” Leonard said.

Leah and Steven exchanged a glance. Her father had always been gruff, and he certainly wasn’t mellowing with age. But Leonard, like a lot of brilliant, successful men, was given a lot of latitude. He commanded respect. Even when she was irritated by him, she had to admit she also worshipped him. He had been her first teacher in life, and her most important one. Nothing she learned in college or in running her own business could overshadow the lessons learned growing up with Leonard Hollander.

“So how’s the cheese biz?” Asher said.

“Business is booming,” Steven said.

“Oh, yeah—you two are working together now,” Asher said. “I forgot.”

“How wonderful,” Vivian said, smiling first at Leah and Steven and then at her husband. “Working together has been such a rewarding part of our life together.”

Leah shifted uncomfortably. She turned to her brother.

“So—how did you two meet?”

Asher and Bridget exchanged a look, that intimate look between a new couple, as if they were the only two people in the world who had ever met and fallen in love. Leah remembered bringing Steven to the estate for the first time, sitting in that very spot.

“I was sailing with my buddies out of Sag Harbor,” Asher said.

“I was working on the boat,” Bridget added, smiling at him.

“It was this epic, sixty-three-foot catamaran. My friends and I were kicking back, having some drinks. I asked for a bottle of champagne. And then this vision appears holding an ice bucket. I said to myself, Before we reach dry land, I’m getting her number.”

“Before we reached land? You got my number before I even uncorked the bottle.”

Someone’s phone beeped, then beeped again.

“Whose phone is that? No phones at the table,” Leonard said. It was a policy he adhered to himself, even though running the winery was a twenty-four/seven job.

“Sorry. My bad,” Bridget said. Then, to Asher, “I posted that thing, and my phone is, like, blowing up.”

Leah glanced across the table at her mother, her face framed by the verdant greenery in the background. But Vivian was distracted, looking in the direction of the house. Her face broke into a smile.

“Oh, Leah. You fooled me. Sadie is here after all!”