Thirty-six
Sadie was in a fever. She’d never experienced anything like the physical longing she felt for Mateo Argueta. She had no appetite, she couldn’t sleep. Her thesis work was nonexistent.
All she could think about was sex. Everything she looked at seemed erotic: the fruit on the vine, the flowers unfolding to the bees, even the shape of the wine bottles at dinner the night before was suggestive of the curve of a body.
It was Sadie’s nature to try to understand and master anything that was taking up space in her head, and this consuming lust was no exception. Why had she never felt this way before?
She theorized that the intensity of her attraction to Mateo was partly because they were strangers and partly because they were opposites. When you met someone at college, you had enough in common that you both chose the same school. With Holden, there was nothing unexpected or clandestine about their hooking up, and that precluded the dangerous, sharp-edged feeling that she got from Mateo.
The night before, she’d barely been able to function at dinner. It seemed incredible that no one noticed the change in her. She felt sure it showed on her face, in her voice. How could the molten lust she felt inside not reveal itself to the world? Fine, it was just one kiss. But it was something. It was an opening. It was the beginning of something—she could feel it. He might still have issues with getting involved with her, but she knew they could get over them. She was going to do her best to at least try. How could she not?
The novel she’d downloaded onto her phone didn’t help; Scruples was just as erotic as Lace and Chances. Maybe more so. How was she going to discuss them with her mother and grandmother?
“There you are,” her father said, appearing out of nowhere.
Sadie closed her reading app. “Oh, hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you before I left.”
“You’re leaving? I thought you were here for the weekend?”
He sat on the edge of her chair. “Yes, well, your mom is busy, and I don’t want to be in her way.”
Sadie felt a flicker of concern, but only briefly; it couldn’t compete with her own self-absorption.
“Do you want a ride back?” he said.
“Um, no thanks, Dad. I’m going to stay a little longer.”
“Sadie, you don’t have to babysit your mother.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“I don’t want you getting distracted from your own work. What happened to the research position with Dr. Moore? I thought that was going to be all summer.”
“Yeah, well . . .” She was surprised her mother hadn’t told him about her thesis problem. She’d asked her not to say anything, but her parents talked about everything. Or at least they usually did. “I’m taking a little break. What’s going on? Are you and Mom not getting along?”
“We’re fine,” he said in a way that told her they were anything but. “What do you mean, you’re taking a break? I’ve never seen you take a ‘break’ from writing since you were old enough to hold a pen.” He squeezed her arm.
She sighed. “I don’t know. I guess writer’s block isn’t a myth.”
“That doesn’t sound good. You are getting distracted. Come on—pack up. It’s time to get back to reality.”
“No, Dad. I was stalled on my thesis before I came out here. I missed deadlines, and now Dr. Moore won’t let me be her assistant because I have to be in good standing with my honors work for the research position. So honestly, I came out here to regroup. Dr. Moore told me I had to ‘get out of my comfort zone.’”
He rubbed the stubble around his jawline. “I’m sorry you’re having a rough time. I know it’s important to take a breather sometimes. I just want to make sure you’re out here for you and not because you feel like you can’t leave Mom.”
“You don’t have to worry.” She smiled to reassure him.
“What happens if you don’t get back on track with your deadlines?” As a lawyer, her father was a big proponent of deadlines. He felt meeting deadlines—like being on time in general—was not only a practical issue but also a reflection of character.
“I mean, worst-case scenario is I lose my spot in the honors program.”
His brow creased. “But that was the whole reason you chose that school. To study under those professors.”
“I know,” she said, trying to feel the urgency she was supposed to feel. “Dad, it’s going to be fine.”
He stood up. “I don’t want to push you. But think about coming back to the city.”
She nodded, knowing she had zero intention of leaving anytime soon. A month earlier, she woke up in the morning thinking only about Susan Sontag.
Now she woke up thinking only about Mateo Argueta.
The winery’s oak room was a place where Leah used to feel like she could get lost as a young girl. Filled with hundreds of oak barrels that her father imported from France, row after row, it was like a forest of aging wine. The smell of the room hadn’t changed a bit, the magical alchemy of sugar and yeast permeating the air. Beyond the oak room, the tanks where the wines fermented and processed. She tried to let herself feel lost in the room once again, to forget the way Steven had looked at her before driving away a few hours earlier.
Leah had some questions for Chris, the senior winemaker working under her father. The day before, while she was planning the wine and cheese pairings, the absence of rosé had been glaring. And it was going to be a big hole in her class. She knew if she brought it up with her father, he wouldn’t take it seriously. But surely, Chris had to realize it was long overdue to have a Hollander rosé. She just didn’t know if they had enough red grape crop to spare, and if so, when the decisions about what to do with the reds had to be finalized. Despite a common misconception, rosé was made completely from red grapes, not from red and white combined.
“Do we have enough reds for rosé?” Chris said. “And still produce our Malbec and Syrah, etcetera?” He looked around the room and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “It’s doubtful. But then, half these barrels are empty.”
“What? Why?”
“We only have a finite capacity to grow grapes. If we wanted more, we could buy them for production, but your father would never do that. We’d lose the estates designation.”
“But the winery would be able to increase revenue.”
“Red wine still requires at least a year in the barrel. If you want to increase revenue quickly, you need something you can bottle in a few months. Get it on the shelves. So that would mean bringing in white.”
Or making rosé, which could also be bottled and on the shelves in a matter of months. With red wine, you spent a lot of money and then had to wait for your return on that investment. Not so with rosé.
Chris excused himself and walked off to the loading dock. Leah stared after him, then looked back at the barrels. She was distracted by a noise coming from the tank area. Something that sounded like sobs.
She rounded the corner and found Bridget, who was perched on a small wooden bench, a loose hose and small puddle of water at her feet.
“Bridget? What are you doing in here?”
The woman practically jumped out of her skin. She quickly wiped her tear-streaked face.
“Oh. I was just . . . I wanted to be alone,” she said, standing and brushing off her denim skirt.
“Is everything okay?”
Bridget bit her lip. She looked so young, with her dyed red hair in a messy ponytail, her smeared mascara, her bra-strap tan lines. Leah felt oddly maternal. Yes, she was technically old enough to be the mother of the woman her big brother was marrying. Why didn’t he ever date women his own age? Was a mature woman that undesirable? Conversely, she never had to question why these young women dated Asher. At forty-eight, he was still an extremely handsome man. Men didn’t get old—they became distinguished-looking. And he was wealthy. Well, used to be wealthy. It wouldn’t be long before that little secret was public knowledge. She was surprised it had stayed out of the press this long. Her father’s controlling nature did have its upside.
“No, everything is not okay,” Bridget said. “And you know it’s not.”
Leah was confused. Had Asher told her what was going on? He’d sworn Leah to secrecy until after the wedding.
“Okay,” Leah said slowly.
“I went down to the kitchen after dinner last night,” Bridget said, pulling a clump of wet mascara from her lashes. “I overheard your parents arguing.”
“About what?”
“Your father doesn’t want you getting involved with the winery—the wine and cheese class. He hates the whole idea. And your mother said since they’re losing it all anyway, why not try something new for a change.” Bridget began sobbing again. “So I went back upstairs to tell Asher, and he told me how with the winery sale they’ll probably be lucky just to break even. How they’ve been operating at a loss for years.”
Leah nodded. So now Bridget knew she hadn’t struck gold.
“I’m sorry that you had to find out this way. But better to know now, right? I mean, before this whole wedding thing went any further.”
Bridget looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “What do you mean?”
“That it’s understandable if you don’t want to get married now. Considering . . .”
“Why wouldn’t I want to marry Asher? You mean, because of the money problems? I love him. I’m upset for him. Oh, forget it.”
“I’m sorry,” Leah said. “I just meant—”
“You know, Asher never wanted to work here. But he felt so much pressure. Your father forced him into this business, and now he’s going to be left with nothing. If they’d just let him choose his own path, he probably would have found something else to do a long time ago. He’s a Gemini, you know. What’s he supposed to do now?”
Leah blinked, stunned at the outburst.
For all these years, she’d resented Asher for being handed the job she’d wanted to have while he never seemed to care about it at all. Now, for the first time, she realized he was just as much a victim of their father’s stubborn, controlling ways as she was.
Her brother was suffering. Bridget was suffering. Her mother was suffering. And there was nothing Leah could do to change any of it. Well, maybe there was one thing she could do.
“Bridget,” she said, “would you like to join our book club?”