Epilogue

Cutchogue, New York

Bud Break

“Your middle button is undone,” Steven said. She didn’t have time to stop and look, instead keeping pace with him as they rushed from the house to the veranda. They were late.

After a day in the field, Leah showered and changed into a pinstriped shirtdress for dinner with the family, texting Steven, Where are you? Clearly, he’d lost track of time in his office at the winery—the space Asher used to occupy right next to Leonard’s. His days were filled managing sales operations, and that meant keeping up with demand for their rosé.

When he finally returned to the house to do a quick change of clothes before dinner, he told her she looked beautiful, kissed her, and then, well, her dress came off just as quickly as she’d put it on. Lately, it was like they were newlyweds again. Something about working outdoors, working together, had ignited a physical hunger between them that surpassed even the earliest days of their courtship.

But some things never changed, and that included Vivian’s intolerance for even a moment’s lateness at the dinner table. So Leah and Steven dashed through the pergola, its flowers just starting to bloom, even as she was still straightening her clothes and fixing her hair.

“We were going to start without you,” Leonard said from his spot at the head of the table, Vivian beside him. Everyone else was already seated: Asher and Bridget (her red hair now bleached a bohemian white-blond—she’d colored it just before her wedding to Asher, declaring that she wanted to be a blond bride for Instagram), Sadie (home for spring break), Mateo beside her, and Javier and Maria Eugenia. After the Harvest Circle last fall, Leah had urged her to consider moving back. “We don’t just want you here, we need you,” she said. And it was true. Maria Eugenia had left the vineyard because she didn’t feel useful after her child was grown, and she wanted to work. Leah made it clear there was a true place for her at the winery. Women were now not only welcome, they had moved front and center.

Leonard, however, was still patriarch of the family. To that end, he stood at the head of the table, raising his glass filled with their signature rosé, a gorgeous, translucent, petal-pink wine. The flavor was a perfect balance between fruity and sweet, with notes of green apple and hibiscus balanced with the hint of fig. The bottle itself was a small work of art; Leah had chosen to go with the Burgundy bottle shape for the slightly wider base. She wanted the bottle to look generous, maybe a little decadent. The neck of the bottle was lightly frosted, making the pink color of the wine really pop. The cork was wrapped in silver, and the label was white parchment with Hollander Bailey Cellars in dove gray block letters and in small silver embossed lettering, the name of the wine: Summer Blush.

It was their calling card, their announcement to the world that a new era of Hollander winemaking had begun. It was a wine that Bridget had launched through social media in the months leading to its arrival on shelves, a campaign successful in building brand awareness and anticipation. Customers who visited Hollander looking for Summer Blush found that Hollander Bailey Cellars also produced a deeper-colored rosé, a pale ruby shade with a velvety mouth feel. The flavor had notes of almond and rose hips. They also offered a sparkling rosé that popped with citrus—her mother’s favorite.

Leonard stood still for a moment, glancing out at the vineyard, then around the table. She knew what he was going to say: his traditional “To the start of the summer season.” She was more than ready to drink to that.

“A toast,” he said. “To my family.”


By nightfall, only the women were left on the veranda. The table was cleared except for the wine. Instead of plates in front of them, they each had a copy of the same book.

They were only able to meet every few months, with Sadie at school and Bridget and Asher away in the winter. After their honeymoon, they’d started a catamaran charter business in the Caribbean. Starting next month, they planned to expand their business to Sag Harbor. Asher had gotten his wish to sail off into the sunset with Bridget after all.

Leah opened her copy of that month’s book, Mistral’s Daughter by Judith Krantz. Since October, they had read The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough, Thurston House by Danielle Steel, and—in the rare entry of a male author—Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon (“He’s so good, he’s an honorary woman,” Vivian had declared).

It had been Sadie’s suggestion they return to Judith Krantz for their May book.

“I’ve been curious about it since I saw the title in your old journal, Gran,” she’d said.

Sadie had started her own journal about the book club, recording the novels they read and their thoughts on them all. She told Leah that when it was finished, she would put it in the library.

“Who knows who might discover it one day,” Sadie said.

“Yes. Your granddaughter will be scandalized,” Vivian had teased.

Mistral’s Daughter turned out to be Leah’s favorite pick so far, an epic saga about three generations of women—Maggy, Teddy, and Fauve—set against the backdrops of New York City and war-torn France. It was everything a novel should be.

“Okay, thoughts?” Leah said, opening to the notes she’d jotted in the inside flap of her paperback.

“That first description of Maggy is just lovely,” Vivian said. She opened her copy and began reading: “Certain great beauties age gracefully; others hang on relentlessly to a particular period in their past and try to maintain themselves there, withering, nonetheless, just a little every year; and still others lose their beauty quite suddenly, so that it can only be fleetingly reconstructed in the imagination of those who meet them. Maggy Lunel had aged agelessly . . .”

Leah listened, a movement out in the field catching her eye. It was hard to see, and she thought at first she had imagined it. But there was her father, wandering among the plants heavy with fruit, just on the cusp of ripeness, the second vintage of Summer Blush just waiting to be pressed. He stopped, as if sensing her gaze.

For a moment, they shared a smile.