Forty-five

“This could be the one,” Steven said on their way to look at the space Anouk Jansen had shown him. It was exceedingly hot, even for mid-August in Manhattan. The two months on the North Fork had left her unprepared for the dog days of summer in the city.

In the forty-eight hours since she’d been home, they’d talked about what an expansion of Bailey’s Blue would look like. They worked on their budget, their mailing list, ways to expand their offerings if they found a space.

All she could think about was the winery.

“Come on in, you two,” Anouk said, unlocking the door to the vacant storefront on Lexington.

The woman who had sparked Leah’s marital panic was, in reality, a warm and focused professional.

Inside, the air was stale, and Anouk propped the door open. In the heat and humidity it only made things worse. She pointed out the tin ceilings, the well-preserved moldings, and a rear area that was approved for commercial kitchen use.

“Look, Leah, a counter could go here, and all of this could be display space,” Steven said. He seemed genuinely excited, and she wished she could muster a fraction of his enthusiasm.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Anouk consulted her phone. “There’s a spot ten blocks south that I think you’ll both fall in love with,” she said. “But it’s a bit pricier.”

“Let’s see it,” Steven said, squeezing Leah’s shoulder.

They hailed a cab to a pristine limestone building on the corner of Sixty-Fourth Street. Anouk unlocked an iron gate and then a glass door. Inside, the space had wide windows and filigree ceilings and charming exposed copper pipes. Leah could not deny its appeal, and Steven, sensing her approval, reached for her hand.

“This area here can be used for café tables,” Anouk said, stopping in front of a space that dropped down a small step and leveled off in front of one of the windows. “I know you said you aren’t planning on a dine-in area, but it’s just too perfect not to consider here. Of course, if you’re completely against it, this could all be for display.”

Leah could see the shop come to life in her mind’s eye: the countertops refinished in white marble, a wide refrigerated case alongside one wall, and, yes, a few small wooden tables near that window, maybe with a distressed paint that made them look like they’d been there forever. Upstairs, they could hold cheese tastings for up to twenty-five people.

It was the type of space she’d thought about over the years in the tight quarters of Bailey’s Blue.

“Can we afford this?” she said to Steven.

“I’m going to run the numbers.”

She felt a small bubble of optimism, of the sense that things might be back on track after all. Maybe she wouldn’t feel relaxed until the winery was sold, and her parents resettled into whatever form their lives took next. But she was on solid footing with her husband. Sadie was back in school. It was time to move forward.

And yet after dinner, she felt herself mentally checking out again. She sat in bed and swirled a spoon in her cup of chamomile tea, wondering what was going on at the winery.

“Hello—earth to Leah,” Steven said, putting down the TV remote and looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, placing her tea on the nightstand. “I missed that last part.”

“I said, I don’t want to lose the space. I’ve been looking for weeks now, and I’m telling you it’s special.”

“I know it’s special,” she said. “I just can’t focus.”

“You can’t focus because you’re only half here.” He looked pointedly at her open suitcase in the corner of the room. “You haven’t even fully unpacked.”

“I have unpacked. That’s just my dad’s old wine journals in there. I’m not sure where to put them.” She bent down and lifted the books out of the bag. A beetle scuttled from the edges. “A stowaway,” she murmured, brushing out the bottom of the suitcase with her hand. She carried the notebooks to the window and opened them, looking for any other creatures who might have crawled between the pages. She pulled out the hardback of Mistral’s Daughter and shook that out just to be sure. An envelope wafted to the floor.

The handwritten address was to her mother. The seal was broken, the postmark international. Curious, she reached into it and pulled out the thin slip of paper.

Mon chère Vivian, it read.

Leah looked up to find Steven, but he’d left the room.

She tucked the letter back inside the pages of the book and stood up. Some intuition deep inside of her told her she needed privacy. With the book in her hands, she headed to the bathroom and locked herself inside.

Leah leaned against the vanity and pulled the letter out from the book.

Mon chère Vivian:

I cannot rest with our affaire inachevée. One afternoon of passion is not enough. It is, as you Americans would say, a tease. If you will not take my calls, at least respond via post. As I’ve said in my phone messages, I will meet you anywhere in the world. I hope you will consider this. If not, I’m afraid I will have to reconsider my considerable investment in the joint winery.

Yours, Henri

Henri? Who was Henri? Leah checked the front of the envelope; it was postmarked December 1985. It was international, from France. Who did they know from France?

Henri de Villard. The letter had been written by the baron?

She reread the letter with growing disbelief. What on earth was he saying? Had her mother had an affair? She envisioned the bully of a man she had just recently met and tried to comprehend how beautiful, vivacious young Vivian could possibly have found him attractive. Worse, how could she have betrayed her father?

The bathroom felt airless, and she fumbled with the doorknob. Somehow, the bedroom was unchanged even though her entire world was upended. Steven sat on the bed eating ice cream from a takeout container, watching a ball game. The minutes still clicked forward on the cable box. Her cup of tea was cooling on the nightstand where she had left it.

She stepped in front of the television and turned it off.

“Are you okay?” Steven said.

She handed him the letter, trembling with anger. As infuriating as her father could be sometimes—a lot of the time—she never doubted his devotion to her mother. He didn’t deserve this.

All summer, she’d viewed her mother as the victim of circumstance. Now it was clear that her father was the one with the most to lose: his vineyard, and also his pride. He couldn’t possibly know about the affair if he’d agreed to sell to the baron. Leonard would sooner go down with the proverbial ship.

Was there any possibility they were still involved? No, absolutely not. Her mother could be dramatic at times, but she wasn’t an actress. She was miserable about the sale, and miserable about who they were selling to. Her distress at the dinner table the other night had been genuine. And the night they’d talked in the kitchen after the book club. Leah could still imagine the tormented look on her face when she told Leah the news.

No. Regardless of what happened in the past, her mother did not want that man in her life now.

Leah started throwing clothes back in her suitcase.

“What are you doing?” Steven said, looking up from the piece of paper.

“I’m going to stop the sale of the winery.”