Fifty-two

Vivian’s garden, like the vineyard, was in peak bloom. Leah and Steven sat on a stone bench among the giant purple Gladiator alliums. With their thick stalks and fluffy tops Leah always thought they looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. She had not chosen the spot by accident; surrounded by her favorite flowers and with the sight of her childhood home in the near distance, she felt buffered for the conversation.

My terroir, she thought.

Leah didn’t know if Steven had showed up because he missed her or because he was giving her an ultimatum to come home or because he wanted to end their marriage. The way things had been between them lately, any one of those scenarios was possible. Okay, maybe not the end of their marriage. But it seemed like at the very least a temporary separation might be on the table. Their child was grown and out of the nest, their physical relationship was lagging, and they didn’t agree about what their shared future should look like. Yes, they’d had a brief honeymoon moment when she showed up at the apartment that morning. But it had been more of a truce than a turning point: nothing fundamental had been solved.

She’d often wondered why marriages ended for people in their fifties. It had always seemed like things must get easier after child-rearing and careers. But now she saw the perilous, less-obvious pitfalls of midlife relationships.

“So I’m guessing you’re here to tell me that you’ve lost your patience with all of this. And I understand. I do. I love you, and at the same time I—”

Steven reached for her hand.

“I’m here to support you,” he said.

“You are?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

“Well, I mean, you haven’t been happy about this. We’ve been apart most of the summer. And I’m not blaming you—it’s just an observation.”

“I can’t say I haven’t felt a little pushed aside. And no, I don’t fully understand what you’re doing. But I understand why you’re doing it.”

She realized her hands had been clenched, and relaxed. “That means so much to me, Steven. I’m sorry if you felt . . . abandoned. But this place . . .” She looked around, searching for the words.

“I know,” he said. “You’ve always wanted to be part of the family business. I know that better than anyone. Maybe I should have told you to fight for this twenty years ago.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t ready.” But she was now, and she knew that her confidence came from all the years of running Bailey’s Blue. One of the most important decisions she’d made about the shop came early on: she specialized. “I was thinking about the shop, and what worked and what didn’t. One thing we did really right was the way we opened with just blue cheese.”

He nodded. “It was an instant brand identity. It even gave us direction for what the store should look like—those blue accents everywhere. And the hats and aprons . . .”

“Exactly. That’s what Hollander Estates needs: rebranding. We need to build our identity around something, and I think it should be rosé.”

He nodded in agreement but looked pensive. He rubbed his jaw for a minute.

“I hate to be a naysayer here, but how can you build around a type of wine Hollander doesn’t even produce?”

“We have to start. Remember that first night we were here at the beginning of the summer? My dad asked us what wine we wanted with dinner, and we both wanted rosé. Everyone wants rosé.”

“Except for Leonard.”

“Yes, well, he’s going to have to get used to the idea. For a long time, he stood out for being the first. But that doesn’t matter anymore. These days, people want what they want. Or they want the new, shiny thing.”

Steven seemed to consider this.

“I think you’re on to something,” he said. “And you know what? Your drive, your excitement over this, turns me on.”

He kissed her, and she felt butterflies in her stomach. Apparently, working on a plan for the vineyard turned her on, too. Or maybe it was just Steven—it had always been Steven. Their passion for each other had been dormant, waiting to rise back to the surface. They just needed to give it room to breathe, like a decanted wine.

Their kiss deepened, the distinct scent of her husband mingled with that of the nearby honeysuckle blossoms, a heady combination.

“Maybe we should take this inside,” Steven said.

He didn’t have to ask her twice. They dashed into the house holding hands, Steven making a “shh” gesture so they didn’t draw attention to themselves. She giggled, feeling like a teenager trying to evade her parents.

She locked the bedroom door, desire pulsing through her like adrenaline.

They fell onto the bed, their bodies entangled in a dance of touch and taste that was achingly familiar but at the same time edged with the thrill of discovery. For Leah, it was rediscovery—not just of her husband but of herself.

Steven paused for a moment, taking her face in his hands. They were both breathing fast, and she wondered why he’d slowed things down. But then he kissed her and said, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said.

He traced the arc of her neck down to her breasts with one finger, sending a shiver through body. Then, leaning back against the pillows, he pulled her on top of him. She guided him with her hand, her body swaying with the universal rhythm of couples throughout time.

Afterward, they lay side by side, breathless and not speaking. She reached for his hand, and he squeezed tight. She had herself. She had her husband.

Now she just needed to hold on to the winery.