Fifty-three
Vivian watched her husband take his traditional spot at the front of the tasting room with their son by his side. It was the place where Leonard always held the first production meeting of the season. It was at this meeting every year, in a room where the very air molecules seemed permeated with wine, where thousands of guests flowed in and out, where the bar was as much a source of information as it was for recreation—it was here that Leonard announced his plans for the grapes as they headed into harvest.
All around her, their employees sat with their morning coffee. It was a familiar sight with one big difference: this time, Leah and Steven were in the group.
“As I say every year, this is as much a celebration as it is a meeting,” Leonard said, looking around the room. “You’ve done your work this summer, and now we wait, the sugar accumulating in the grapes as we speak. Pretty soon we’ll be tasting the literal fruit of our labor, and I think the exceptional weather this summer will result in one of the best vintages in Hollander Estates’ long, esteemed history.”
The room burst into applause. It was unthinkable that—if not for her confession—the baron would have been there to impose himself on the proceedings, contradicting Leonard’s plans or, worse, not letting Leonard lead the meeting at all. Despite the fact that her husband was still being frosty and distant with her, she knew she’d done the right thing. Maybe things did happen for a reason. Maybe her transgression three decades earlier had planted the seed that would save the winery in the end. It was almost worth it—except for her growing fear that her marriage wasn’t going to recover.
Leah caught her eye and gave a wink. Vivian nodded at her. Oh, how she wanted to believe that Leonard had invited their daughter because he was truly open to what she had to say. The production meeting wasn’t just Leonard’s opportunity to share his plans for the grapes; it was also the chance for everyone to take a breath before they dove into the busiest months of the year. It was the one time when Leonard at least made the pretense of being open to suggestions. It was at a production meeting one year that someone had suggested switching to screw-on caps instead of cork. (“Blasphemy!” Leonard had said.) Javier had suggested a more modern method of bird netting. (“Put a pin in that one,” Leonard had said.) Even though he shut down ninety-nine percent of all new ideas, she at least gave him credit for trying to create a forum for discussion. She just hoped Leah didn’t have high expectations for how this would play out. She might get her say, but that would be the end of it. She’d tried to warn her when Leah told her that Leonard invited her to the meeting.
“I’m glad he made the gesture,” Vivian had said, cautious not to get Leah’s hopes up.
“No, Mom,” she had said, shaking her head, her eyes bright. “It’s different this time.”
Leonard tested his pen on the whiteboard set at the front of the room.
“If the weather holds, we’ll have plenty of time to reach ideal ripeness. Isn’t that right, Javier?” he said.
“Last year we picked at nineteen brix. This year I think we can get to twenty-two or twenty-three,” Javier said, referring to the sugar levels of the grapes.
“We’ll be able to hang our hat on some top-quality reds,” Leonard said.
Leah stood, and Vivian knew what was coming. She just hoped Leonard wasn’t too brutal in shutting her down.
“I’d like to designate some of the reds for rosé production,” Leah said.
All eyes in the room turned to Leonard. Asher was already shaking his head like, What a glutton for punishment.
“A Hollander rosé,” Leonard said, as if considering it. “What do you think of that, Chris?”
Chris glanced at Vivian, and she shrugged.
“We could do a combination of the Merlot and Cab Sauv . . . it will really depend on the actual ripeness levels.”
Vivian couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Leah beamed, triumphant.
“Great. I have some more ideas in this direction, but we can talk about that later,” Leah said. Yes, Vivian thought. Quit while you’re ahead. She looked at Leonard, a small smile forming on her lips. Change was possible; from near disaster to a new dawn.
Their eyes met, and what she saw gave her a chill: Leonard was checked out. His gaze was vacant. He might have the entire room fooled, but not her. She knew her husband: he wasn’t really agreeing to a rosé, he was just going through the motions.
She wondered if they were going to have any harvest at all.
Leah followed Mateo back to his office, along with Javier. She was on a high from her father’s receptivity to the rosé idea, but she also knew this battle was far from won.
She closed the door, and Javier pulled out folding chairs.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head. “Leonard swore off those blush wines in the eighties. We made too much, people stopped buying . . .”
“We can’t get bogged down in the past,” she said, and this went for herself, too. She thought of Billy Ikehorn Orsini. It was something the character grappled with towards the end of Scruples: Nothing heals old wounds. They were waiting there, inside, ready to incapacitate her, each and every time a situation came up that thrust her back into the emotional atmosphere of the past.
Leah was not an eight-year-old girl learning about plants at her father’s knee. She was not a twenty-two-year-old woman being turned away from the family business. She was a wife, a mother, a businesswoman—and the possessor of a birthright that needed saving.
She had to remember, because today’s meeting was just the first small piece of a complicated puzzle. It would only get harder from that point on. “My father being open to a rosé is a step in the right direction. But to save this vineyard we have to go further.”
“Like doing what?” Mateo said.
“I want to produce only rosé,” she said.
Javier shook his head and muttered, “Loca . . .”
“What about all of our whites?” Mateo said.
It was the obvious issue, and she’d thought it through. The solution came from what Sadie mentioned the night before she left for school.
“Sadie mentioned you have a contact who’s looking to buy.” At the mention of Sadie’s name, Mateo averted his eyes. He probably wondered if she knew about their little summer romance. Poor Sadie. Every time she called or texted, she couldn’t help but ask if Leah had “seen” Mateo, which was really just fishing to see if Mateo had asked about her. He had not. And, despite this obvious opening to do so, clearly he would not.
“My buddy at a vineyard down the road wants whites. But Leonard’s always made it clear that’s not the business he’s in,” Mateo said.
“A week ago you would have sworn he’d never do a rosé,” Leah said. “So humor me: check in with your friend and see if he’s still in the market.” She paused, wondering how best to deliver the kicker. “And I need to know who you both think would be best to approach about buying reds.”
Javier said something in rapid-fire Spanish.
“We can’t bring in reds without losing the estates designation,” Mateo said.
“I know.” But what good was a point-of-pride designation if they were out of business? She didn’t say that, though. It was understood.
Again, father and son consulted in Spanish. Her high school knowledge of the language was failing her; she’d fully intended to be fluent when she planned on working at the vineyard, but over the decades she’d lost most of her vocabulary.
She looked around the office, admiring the framed photographs on the wall. It took her a minute to realize that one was a close-up of the glass container used during their annual Harvest Circle. The photo on the wall was visually stunning in its close-up capture of the colors: yellow and pink and deep violet. But the real beauty was in the sentiment behind the image.
“Javier, what gave you the idea to use the natural flora for fermentation?”
“That came from my wife. Her family is agricultura, too.”
Leah thought how lucky she was that Steven was willing to be by her side when Javier’s wife had left the vineyard years earlier. It wasn’t for everyone, and even those who understood its rhythms and demands didn’t necessarily want to make the compromises.
The ones who remained, the one who believed—they were worth fighting for.