Page 38 of Blush
“We’re going to walk away with something. Not a lot, but something.”
Vivian had been sad when her parents sold Woodlawn and the Manhattan apartment she’d grown up in. But she had her own life by that time, and she knew that if she wanted a forever home, she’d have to create one with her husband.
“I know we built the house to advance socially—for the business. But deep down, I was doing it for our children. I imagined them bringing their children here, and their children’s children here. You know, Jews are a wandering people. To me, success meant not wandering anymore. I wanted to put down roots, literally and figuratively.”
“Vivian,” Leonard said, “we can’t indulge in sentimentality. This deal is going to save us. In the morning, I’m telling Asher I’ve accepted the offer.”
“How long will it take to close?”
“A few months.”
“So we’ll have the summer here. And then what? What about Peternelle? The Arguetas?”
Leonard walked toward the house, calling back to her, “It’s late, Vivian. Come to bed.”
She submerged herself underwater, swimming toward the fake stars.
The library felt different at night. It was as if the spirits of all the authors whose works were collected there were speaking to one another. Or maybe it was just the silence of the grand house at midnight. Or maybe, Leah thought, it was all the wine she’d had at dinner.
Her buzz had worn off, leaving her anxious. And the phone call with Steven after dinner hadn’t helped. He’d seemed eager to get off the call. Or maybe they just didn’t have that much to talk about aside from the cheese shop, and every mention of that included the unpleasant subtext that she was shirking her responsibilities.
She turned on one panel of lights, illuminating the middle section of the vast room while keeping the perimeter of shelves in shadow. She walked up to the second level, where she and Sadie had gathered up the photo albums, now packed away. Where Sadie had discovered her mother’s old book club journal.
She remembered those racy books with the glamorous women on the covers, with their big eighties hair and bright makeup. But more, she remembered Vivian in her prime, holding court on the veranda, surrounded by her friends, delighting in the fictional misadventures in the pages of the novels.
“Mom?”
Leah looked over the ledge of the landing to see Sadie.
“What are you doing here so late?” Leah said.
“What areyoudoing here so late?” Sadie closed the door behind her.
“I can’t sleep,” Leah said. “I need something to read.”
Sadie climbed the stairs, holding a copy ofLace. She slipped it back onto the “C” shelf.
“You finished it?” Leah said.
Sadie smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. All six hundred pages. I wish I could read what Gran wrote about it. Did she ever mention the book club journal to you? She must have it. It couldn’t have just disappeared.”
“She didn’t mention it to me,” Leah said. “It’s possible Peternelle just packed it up along with your book. You could just ask her what she thought about it.”
“Um, no. The last thing I want is to talk about Gran’s hot take on all the sex. I just thoughtreadingthe discussion notes might be interesting. From a sociological perspective, of course.”
“Of course,” Leah said, smiling. “You should get some sleep, sweetheart.”
“Yeah. I’m going to try.” She kissed Leah on the cheek. “‘Night, Mom.”
Leah waited until her daughter left, then turned back to the shelf where she’d placedLace. She thought she’d spotted something.
She pulled out another thick novel, the cover featuring a beautiful brunette, dressed in a black evening gown, her dark eyes staring directly into the camera lens. Above her head, in big gold embossed letters, the title:Chances.
With a thrilling sense of anticipation, Leah tucked the Jackie Collins novel under her arm and headed back to her bedroom.
Twenty-two
The vintage black Jaguar was arguably a ridiculous car. It was not something Sadie would ever dream of driving in New York City or even up at school. But it was what she found available in her grandparents’ garage. And it made her feel like one of the characters inLace.
