Eleven
Breakfasts were a big deal year-round at Hollander Estates, but the summers made for a particularly abundant first meal of the day. Peternelle set out bowls of fresh berries with cream straight from a local dairy farm, peach scones baked with fruit from their own trees, homemade granola, croissants, and custom omelets upon request. It always took Leah a day or two to adjust since her only breakfast in Manhattan was a quick cup of coffee on her way out the door. But now she was fully on winery time.
The kitchen invited a leisurely appreciation of food. With its open shelving, hanging copper pots, and large central island, it was warm and elegant. The island was made from a walnut English table that had been expanded and topped with green Connemara marble. Leah remembered when her mother had discovered the marble from the west coast of Ireland and became obsessed with its palette of hunter green, gray, and eggshell. Leonard had been appalled by the cost, but he’d been spared by the fact that the marble was a limited quantity. Vivian had only been able to acquire enough to use it for the island and the wall behind the stove.
Leah scooped some berries onto a plate and pulled a stool up to the island.
“You’re up early,” Asher said, strolling in, tapping away at his phone. He was dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt.
“Right back at you. And dressed up. What’s the occasion?”
“A meeting,” he said, opening the refrigerator. “What are all these flowers doing in here?”
“I told you before,” Peternelle said. “I put the hydrangeas in overnight to stay crisp and then by noon, voila, they open.”
Asher asked her to “whip me up a quick omelet” and slid onto the stool beside Leah.
“Missed you at dinner last night,” she said. “Did you two go out?”
He nodded. “We took the boat to Sag Harbor to celebrate,” he said.
“Celebrate what?” Leah said.
“Mom didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Her mother had been strangely quiet the past day.
“I proposed to Bridget. We’re engaged. I can’t believe Mom didn’t mention it.”
Leah smiled, trying not to look as surprised as she felt. She never thought she’d see her playboy brother settle down. She loved Asher, but she didn’t understand how he could be so infantile. He only dated much younger women, he lived in the house they grew up in, and he certainly did little to earn his position at Hollander. Maybe that was his response to their father’s overbearing personality. It was a form of retreat.
“Ash, congratulations. So . . . she’s the one.”
He nodded, grinning. “It seems that way.”
It was strange that her mother hadn’t mentioned it. She wasn’t happy with this turn of events, of that Leah was certain. But still. What was going on with her?
“Do you have a wedding date?”
“We’re working on it,” he said. His phone buzzed with a text. She looked over his shoulder and saw that it was from her father.
“Busy day in the winemaking world?” she asked lightly.
“Ah, yeah. You could say that.”
“Anything new?”
He slid his phone into his pants pocket. “Nothing worth talking about.”
In other words, none of her business. Leah sipped her coffee, trying to quell the prickly feeling rising inside of her. Some things never changed. Case in point: to this day, the only female employees at Hollander Estates were Peternelle and the housekeepers.
“I gotta run,” Asher said, even as Peternelle set a perfectly cooked omelet in front of him.
Leah slid the plate toward herself.
“Thanks, Peternelle,” she said. “This looks delicious.”
Sadie pulled open the heavy library curtains, sun streaking through the room. She could see dust motes in the air, and she felt a lusty romanticism toward her surroundings that filled her with curiosity about her grandmother’s journal.
She shouldn’t. And yet . . .
Sadie pushed her chair back. The journal was from thirty-five years ago—it wasn’t like Sadie was reading something out of her bedroom, something current. Her grandmother had probably forgotten it even existed.
She again climbed the narrow spiral stairs and headed right for the shelves of photo albums. This time, she pulled out just enough to give her access to the hidden compartment and she placed them neatly next to her in a pile. Her hands perspired as she pressed the pencil point into the lock. It took a few seconds to give, and she had a moment of panic that it had been a fluke that it had worked last time. Only then did she realize how badly she wanted to continue reading her grandmother’s words.
December 12, 1984
It was Delphine’s idea to start the book club. She is the only one who understands how frustrated I feel sometimes . . . so underutilized here in the vineyard I helped build. She said when women gather, there is power.
We’re meeting once a month—there’s eight of us, including Bess Winnel, even though she says she barely has time to think, let alone breathe, now that her twins are toddling around. I, on the other hand, have more time than I care to think about.
Friends have told me to try keeping a journal, but I always give up after a few weeks. Maybe writing about the book club will give me something to focus on, so I’ll stick with it.
Delphine chose the first book—Lace by Shirley Conran. She said it was an amazing miniseries earlier in the year, but I missed it. The book kept me turning the pages, but parts were shocking and I’m afraid I’ll blush talking about them tonight. At the same time, all of the mistakes and bad behavior of these characters make me feel better about my own.
What mistakes and bad behavior? Sadie flipped through the pages. It seemed the book club had lasted just half a year—ending in May of 1985. Out of just six books read, two were written by the same author, Judith Krantz. Sadie had never heard of her. She hadn’t heard of any of the writers except for Jackie Collins, although she might have been confusing her with an actress. All she knew was that the page of notes about the first book, Lace, included mention of a porn star, a secret adoption, and . . . sex with a goldfish.
Did her grandmother still have a copy of the book stashed away in the library? She must have saved it. Putting the journal aside, Sadie made her way back to the contemporary fiction section of the shelves.
“Conran . . . Conran,” she said, passing by the “B” last names and brushing her fingertips over the mid-alphabet “C” names.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother.
Mateo is going to give us a tour of the grapes planted for this season. Meet me on the veranda.
Mateo Argueta was a few years older. He’d grown up at the winery and started working with his father when he was a teenager. Sadie barely knew him; he always seemed quiet. Not just quiet, but like he was thinking something important and didn’t want to be disturbed.
She’d go on the tour. Better to risk being bored in the present than entertained by snooping around in the past.