Twenty-three
The bride posing for photos on the veranda steps reminded Vivian of her younger self, a hopeful, bright-eyed blonde adorned in lace and duchess satin.
“Can I get a photo with you, Mrs. Hollander?” the bride asked.
“Oh, I’m not dressed for the occasion,” Vivian demurred. The truth was, she happened to be wearing a fabulous lavender ribbon tweed knit dress by St. John. She always dressed for the weddings. She’d witnessed hundreds at the winery, and the power of them never faded. Two young people—or, in some cases, older people—beginning a life together. Optimistic. Passionate. Surrounded by loving friends and family.
Her own wedding had been a source of strain and anxiety. Her parents disapproved of her engagement—not because she was too young, or because she might not finish college, but because of Leonard. Her intended betrothed was not from a “good” family, meaning one of the several dozen highly affluent German-Jewish families on the East Coast. Vivian’s parents weren’t impressed that the Hollanders owned a successful vineyard in Napa; Samuel and Gelleh might as well have been field hands.
Vivian had considered eloping, but ultimately her parents threw them a lavish wedding with a ceremony at Temple Emanu-El on Fifth Avenue followed by a reception for four hundred at the Plaza. Vivian had worn a custom Yves Saint Laurent gown in white damask cotton and white elbow gloves, and the wedding photographer told her over and over that she was a more beautiful bride than Grace Kelly. Yes, she certainly looked the part. But inside, she was a wreck. If her parents were already unhappy about her marriage, they would have a fit when they learned of the couple’s plans for the future.
Leonard had no illusions about how challenging it would be to start the first winery on the North Fork of Long Island. He’d been prepared to work hard. And he had. They both had.
She watched the groom pull his bride into his arms, dancing her around the veranda to the song “Lady in Red.”
Vivian felt tears in her eyes and blinked them back. She couldn’t pretend any longer that it was the loss of the business, the loss of the fortune, that was what really devastated her. After all, she had married Leonard Hollander for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.
It was the creeping sense of guilt.
She rushed away from the veranda, under the shady pergola, to the house. She felt weak with the unshakable certainty that this was karma, that she herself was responsible for the vineyard’s ruin.
Leah turned the pages of Chances, settled in a lounge chair by the pool. In the distance, she heard the wedding band playing “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas. The sun moved directly overhead.
The book was sprawling, over eight hundred pages, moving back and forth in time between the present-day 1970s and the characters’ early lives in the 1920s through the 1960s. It was taking her longer to read than she’d anticipated even though the characters jumped off the page: Gino Santangelo, a gangster with a heart of gold but a happy trigger finger; an African-American prostitute-turned-socialite named Carrie; and Gino’s gorgeous and rebellious daughter, Lucky. The supporting characters were an assorted band of blackmailers, lovers, petty thieves, and social climbers. The sex scenes were graphic, the dialogue blunt and profane. Jackie Collins wrote with an energy that left Leah, as a reader, nearly breathless. But what really got to her was the relationship between Lucky and her father—the way she refused to let Gino’s limited view of her define her life: She had no intention of following the route he had planned for her. School. College. Marriage. No way. She wanted to be like him. Rich. Powerful. Respected. She wanted people to jump when she gave the orders—just the way she always had for him.
Leah put the book down with a sigh. Lucky was the ultimate heroine: beautiful, ballsy . . . and respected. When she was young and her father was teaching her the ins and outs of his empire, it came with the caveat: “Of course, you’re only a figurehead. You’ll never be called upon to get involved.” And then as soon as he was temporarily exiled from the country, running from legal problems, she seized the moment to take the helm. By the time he returned, Lucky was the boss.
She couldn’t help but think of how she’d handled her own difficult father: scuttling off like a scared little rabbit.
“Hey,” Asher said, appearing at the edge of her chair. He was dressed in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and powder blue pinstriped shorts. His thick head of Hollander hair, just starting to silver at the temples, was tucked under a winery baseball cap. His tan had deepened in the past few days. He was slightly stockier than their father, and moved without Leonard’s air of authority. Still, anyone looking at him would see success—a guy who didn’t have a care in the world. And, considering his attitude about the sale, maybe he didn’t.
Leah took off her reading glasses, shielded her eyes from the sun, and looked up at him. “Hey.”
The wedding band had shifted to a slower gear, now playing that eighties song “Lady in Red.” Leah remembered dancing to it at her senior prom. She also remembered sitting in this very spot a few days before her prom with her friends, all working on their tans. All her friends had had crushes on Asher, and Leah had looked up to him.
“I need to talk to you,” Asher said.
“What’s up?”
“Dad just told me he formally accepted the offer for the winery.”
Now, all of a sudden, Asher was confiding in her?
“Well, I guess we knew that was coming. Do you think the new owners will keep the staff?”
“I can’t worry about the staff right now,” Asher said. He sat down at the edge of her chair and lowered his voice. “Leah, there’s going to be very little money after the sale.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means we’ve been operating with huge losses for a long time. Losses I didn’t realize.”
“How could you not know? You’re a VP.”
“I’m not a finance guy . . .”
“You’re not a finance guy, you’re not a winemaker, you’re not a salesperson. What exactly do you do, Asher?”
He shook his head. “After all this time, you’re still jealous.”
“Jealous? Okay, Asher. Whatever. Sorry your plan to cash out isn’t looking so good.”
He took off his baseball cap and ran his hand through his hair, looking like a movie star. Leah felt so annoyed she wanted to slap some sense into him.
“I’ll deal with it. But I’m afraid Bridget is going to freak out.”
“Yeah. She might even have to sell her second engagement ring.”
“Low blow.”
“You’re right: I shouldn’t attack Bridget for your shortcomings.”
“Just . . . don’t say anything to her about all of this.”
“I think she’ll notice when the moving trucks arrive,” Leah said dryly.
“The sale will take months to close.”
And by then, they’d be married. Asher, like most people headed to the altar, thought the wedding was the finish line. They had to learn for themselves it was just the starting mark.
Keeping this secret was not a good way to start.
Leah stood at her bedroom window, watching the sky turn from gold to pink to purple. The natural beauty of the North Fork always astonished her. And tonight, it made her miss her husband. That, and some of the steamy love scenes in Chances.
As much as the book offered in action and plot twists, it had a surprisingly tender love story between Gino and his second wife. Reading the scene of them making love for the first time gave her an actual twinge deep inside, a flickering reminder that she was still a woman with her own desire, however latent it might be. And she knew that if her libido was showing signs of life, she should be at home with Steven. Maybe staying behind had been a mistake.
A knock at the door, and then Sadie poked her head in. “Do you have a sec?”
“Of course. What’s up?”
Sadie sat in the armchair. “So I don’t know if I should tell you this, but then I thought maybe I should: I found out that Mateo is interviewing for a new job.”
Leah sighed. “Not surprising. I would be doing the same thing. How did you hear?”
“I ran into him when I went to Southold for lunch. Has Grandpa announced the sale?”
“I think he’s going to this week.”
Sadie picked up the copy of Chances on Leah’s bed. “What’s this?”
“An old book of Gran’s. I’m rereading it—indulging in a little nostalgia. I was in eighth grade the first time I snuck this out of the library.”
Sadie opened the book, scanning a page. Her eyes widened. “Wow. Even as a member of the internet porn generation, I find this shocking. Is Dad aware of your precocious reading habits? It seems like something that should have been disclosed.”
“Very funny.”
“I just can’t believe Gran and her friends were into this stuff.”
“Okay, Ms. Literary Fiction. ‘Which one of you bitches is my mother?’”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “My reading is purely anthropological. I’m in college. It’s a time of experimentation. In fact, Dr. Moore told me to expand my horizons.”
“In Gran’s defense—and mine—these were very popular books at the time. The one you were reading was also a television miniseries. I’ll never forget watching it in my pajamas. The actress who played Lili—Phoebe Cates—seemed like the most beautiful woman in the world to me. Most of the actresses and models at the time—not to mention all the Barbie Dolls—were blond, wholesome, girl-next-door types. Phoebe Cates was the first actress I really noticed who looked a little different.”
“Did Gran know you watched that? Because you didn’t even want me watching Gossip Girl.”
“No. She definitely did not,” Leah said. “But I wished I could have talked to my mother about the books. I would watch the ladies on the veranda, drinking their wine, all dressed up. My mother loved the book club.” Leah took Chances from Sadie’s hands. “Maybe she’d enjoy rereading this as much as I am.”
“No offense, Mom, but I think it’s going to take more than a book to lift Gran’s spirits.”
“Sadie, I’m surprised at you. You love books. Books are your thing.”
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.