Thirty-two
Leonard’s desk was covered with spreadsheets and maps of the various crops throughout the vineyard. He was already thinking about the harvest coming in mid-September.
“I need you to stop shutting me out of the decision-making around here,” Vivian said. “There has to be something more we can do.”
He looked up at her. “Don’t you think I wish there was? All we can do is sell a lot of wine this month, pray for a dry August, and head into the fall strong. And if we do that, the next offer we get just might be enough for us to walk away with a little something to live on.”
Vivian swallowed hard. If it rained a lot in August, the grapes would not ripen very well. Their future was literally riding on which way the wind blew. Oh, how could this have happened?
Someone knocked. Before she could tell them to come back later, Leonard said, “Come in.” John Beaman, their head of wholesale operations, strode in and closed the door behind himself.
“Good morning. Leonard, I need to talk with you. If now isn’t a good time, let’s set a meeting—”
“Now’s fine,” Leonard assured him. “What’s on your mind?”
John glanced uneasily at Vivian. “My guys are having a tough time in Manhattan,” he said.
“Well, it’s a competitive market,” Leonard said. “If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“Yes. So competitive that even you’re having a rough time,” John said pointedly. “Maybe it’s time—past time—to consider the one thing I’ve been asking for.”
“Don’t start with this again,” Leonard said.
“With what?” Vivian said.
John turned to her. “Mrs. Hollander, we need a rosé.”
“Leave her out of it,” Leonard snapped.
Oh dear. This was a battle she was not going to get into. Not even if John Beaman was right. Not after the disaster in the 1980s, the last time Leonard had put his faith—and resources—into a trendy wine.
It had been at the bequest of Delphine.
“It’s all about blush right now,” she’d told Vivian, who relayed the input to Leonard. “Blush” was the name of the pale, peachy-pink red that had begun in California and was quickly becoming a phenomenon. Winemaker Bob Trinchero, of Sutter Home Winery in Napa, had been trying to improve his red Zinfandel. In the process, he pressed out some of the white juice and bottled it. This wine evolved, become increasingly sweet thanks to an accident caused by stuck fermentation leaving residual sugar. The wine took off, and other vineyards copied it. Because of the pink color, winemakers soon gave it the name “blush.”
Leonard ordered a case from Sutter and declared it “swill.”
“It’s swill that sells,” Vivian had said. “And we need revenue.”
Leonard resisted listening to them. What did they know about business? Yes, Delphine made inroads—because of her pretty face, not her business acumen.
Vivian agreed with the strategy and had asked Leonard to just humor her this one time. Marriage was about compromise, she said. “This is business,” he’d said.
“Well, when I left my home and followed you out here, it became about marriage, too,” she’d countered.
It was decided that in the fall, a portion of their red grapes would be devoted to producing their first vintage of blush.
The wine sold like crazy.
They amped up production. In three years’ time, ninety percent of their red grapes were devoted to the production of blush. The pale pink, sweet wine sold as fast as they could bottle it. They produced as many cases of blush as the vineyard was capable of producing. They considered buying grapes from other vineyards to increase production even more, but that would mean losing their “estates” winery designation, a line Leonard was not willing to cross. They would devote all of their reds to the production of blush, but no more than that. Everyone considered it a compromise.
That fateful little accident of a wine became their cash cow. Until the market bottomed out. In the summer of 1986, sweet wine fell out of favor for more sophisticated, dryer whites and full-bodied reds. They were left holding hundreds of unsold cases of blush. This, when they were still reeling from the failed partnership with the baron.
Now Leonard was stuck in old thinking because of that loss. But in reality, while rosé looked like blush, it was a different wine entirely. It was less sweet and more sophisticated. What Leah had said the first night at dinner was true: the Hamptons had sold out of rosé the previous season. Leonard saw this as a warning sign, not reason to change his stance: “They sold out because even the wineries that are producing it are being cautious. It’s musical chairs, Vivian. And the music is going to stop. I’m not going to be left without a seat this time. We started this vineyard with the mission statement of producing classic wine on the North Fork. We need to be faithful to that vision.”
John Beaman turned to Vivian. “If you want someone to buy this winery, they’re going to expect a rosé.”
Now John knew about the sale? So much for quietly shopping it.
Vivian’s phone buzzed with a text: Leah, asking her to meet in the library.
“When someone else hangs a sign with their name above the door, they can produce whatever they damn well please,” Leonard said. “But as long as it’s my name on this vineyard, we sell classic varietals. That’s what sets us apart. That’s worth investing in.”
John shook his head. “I need to assure our accounts that you’re committing some grapes for rosé for the next vintage or they’re going to stop taking my calls entirely.”
“I am giving you excellent wine to sell,” Leonard said. “If you can’t sell on quality, then that’s your failure, not mine.”
“Fine,” John said. “Then I quit.”
Leah arranged a collection of her mother’s old hardcovers on the library table. Many of them were familiar, especially the one with the black jacket featuring a photo of a woman with high cheekbones and long red nails, waring red lipstick and a black turban-like hat with face netting. The epitome of 1980s glamour. The title was emblazoned across the center in white script: Scruples.
She turned to the inside flap description: “The story of love, desire, and the triumph of one woman who dared to reach out for everything she needed.” Women in these books were always daring to do something. The least she could do was make one small suggestion to her own mother. So why did she feel so anxious?
“I hope this is important,” Vivian said, breezing into the room. “There’s a lot going on at the office . . .” Her mother’s diaphanous silk wrap trailed behind her. Her face was hidden behind her usual sunglasses, but there was a tension around her mouth that suggested her morning was off to less than a good start.
“I have an idea,” Leah said. “What if we reached out to book clubs to host them here? The groups could sit on the veranda, have bottles of wine—leave with a few cases if they’re so inclined—and have their book discussions overlooking the fields where the wine was grown. What could be better? You and your friends loved it. Other women will feel the same.”
Vivian sat at the table, picking up one of the novels. Closer now, Leah could see the sheen of sweat over her immaculate application of makeup.
“Why did you put all of these books out like this?” she asked.
“I wanted to remind you how much you enjoyed them.”
“Oh, Leah. I was reminded of that the other night at the pool, talking with you and Sadie about Chances.”
“So then you get my idea.”
Vivian took off her glasses. Her eyes were bloodshot, with either fatigue or distress. Maybe both. “John Beaman just quit,” she said.
“Why? What happened?”
“I don’t want to get into it,” Vivian said.
Their sales rep was gone. Their vineyard manager had one foot out the door. The buyer had pulled out.
“We need to do everything we can to make money,” Leah said. “I’ll help you with the marketing for book clubs. You just have to do your thing: charm them when they get here, make them fall in love with the place, sell the wine.”
Vivian reached for the copy of Scruples, flipping through the opening pages.
“I’ve lost the spark,” she said. “This whole situation is so disheartening.”
“I know, Mom. I get it. But we can’t give up.”
“Fine,” she said, looking at her. “I’ll back you on the book club idea. But there’s something I want in return.”
“Sure. Whatever you need.”
“I want to have our own book club: you, me, and Sadie. Reading this.” She handed her the copy of Scruples.
Leah felt a surge of satisfaction—she’d known it was a good idea to show her mother the copy of Chances! In the midst of all the turmoil, it gave Vivian something positive to focus on. She wished so much she could just shut out the demands of her own life and indulge in the idea of a multigenerational book club. There was nothing she’d rather do.
“Mom, it’s a great idea. But realistically, I can’t stay much longer. Steven is losing his patience. He’s coming this weekend, and I said I’d go back with him.”
The door opened, and Sadie walked in carrying her laptop and a book bag. She looked surprised to see them.
“Good morning,” Leah said, remembering that Sadie had left the house the night before and wondering, again, where she’d gone. She didn’t want to pry, and she definitely didn’t want to pry in front of Vivian.
“What are you two doing in here?” Sadie said, setting her bag on the table.
“Just chatting,” Leah said.
“Actually, I was telling your mother I want to start a book club with the three of us, but I’ve been informed you’re leaving after the weekend.”
“Leaving?” Sadie said, looking at Leah.
“Dad’s coming, and I’m going back with him.” Leah looked at the two disappointed faces staring blankly at her. Her mother’s, she understood. But what was going on with Sadie? “We’ve been here over a month. We can’t stay here forever. I have work, you have your thesis—”
“I like the idea of the book club,” Sadie said, turning to her grandmother as if Leah hadn’t said a word. “I’m in.”