Page 63 of Blush
“Good morning. Leonard, I need to talk with you. If now isn’t a good time, let’s set a meeting—”
“Now’s fine,” Leonard assured him. “What’s on your mind?”
John glanced uneasily at Vivian. “My guys are having a tough time in Manhattan,” he said.
“Well, it’s a competitive market,” Leonard said. “If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“Yes. So competitive that even you’re having a rough time,” John said pointedly. “Maybe it’s time—past time—to consider the one thing I’ve been asking for.”
“Don’t start with this again,” Leonard said.
“With what?” Vivian said.
John turned to her. “Mrs. Hollander, we need a rosé.”
“Leave her out of it,” Leonard snapped.
Oh dear. This was a battle she was not going to get into. Not even if John Beaman was right. Not after the disaster in the 1980s, the last time Leonard had put his faith—and resources—into a trendy wine.
It had been at the bequest of Delphine.
“It’s all about blush right now,” she’d told Vivian, who relayed the input to Leonard. “Blush” was the name of the pale, peachy-pink red that had begun in California and was quickly becoming a phenomenon. Winemaker Bob Trinchero, of Sutter Home Winery in Napa, had been trying to improve his red Zinfandel. In the process, he pressed out some of the white juice and bottled it. This wine evolved, become increasingly sweet thanks to an accident caused by stuck fermentation leaving residual sugar. The wine took off, and other vineyards copied it. Because of the pink color, winemakers soon gave it the name “blush.”
Leonard ordered a case from Sutter and declared it “swill.”
“It’s swill that sells,” Vivian had said. “And we need revenue.”
Leonard resisted listening to them. What did they know about business? Yes, Delphine made inroads—because of her pretty face, not her business acumen.
Vivian agreed with the strategy and had asked Leonard to just humor her this one time. Marriage was about compromise, she said. “This is business,” he’d said.
“Well, when I left my home and followed you out here, it became about marriage, too,” she’d countered.
It was decided that in the fall, a portion of their red grapes would be devoted to producing their first vintage of blush.
The wine sold like crazy.
They amped up production. In three years’ time, ninety percent of their red grapes were devoted to the production of blush. The pale pink, sweet wine sold as fast as they could bottle it. They produced as many cases of blush as the vineyard was capable of producing. They considered buying grapes from other vineyards to increase production even more, but that would mean losing their “estates” winery designation, a line Leonard was not willing to cross. They would devote all of their reds to the production of blush, but no more than that. Everyone considered it a compromise.
That fateful little accident of a wine became their cash cow. Until the market bottomed out. In the summer of 1986, sweet wine fell out of favor for more sophisticated, dryer whites and full-bodied reds. They were left holding hundreds of unsold cases of blush. This, when they were still reeling from the failed partnership with the baron.
Now Leonard was stuck in old thinking because of that loss. But in reality, while rosé looked like blush, it was a different wine entirely. It was less sweet and more sophisticated. What Leah had said the first night at dinner was true: the Hamptons had sold out of rosé the previous season. Leonard saw this as a warning sign, not reason to change his stance: “They sold out because even the wineries that are producing it are being cautious. It’s musical chairs, Vivian. And the music is going to stop. I’m not going to be left without a seat this time. We started this vineyard with the mission statement of producing classic wine on the North Fork. We need to be faithful to that vision.”
John Beaman turned to Vivian. “If you want someone to buy this winery, they’re going to expect a rosé.”
Now John knew about the sale? So much for quietly shopping it.
Vivian’s phone buzzed with a text: Leah, asking her to meet in the library.
“When someone else hangs a sign with their name above the door, they can produce whatever they damn well please,” Leonard said. “But as long as it’s my name on this vineyard, we sell classic varietals. That’s what sets us apart. That’s worth investing in.”
John shook his head. “I need to assure our accounts that you’re committing some grapes for rosé for the next vintage or they’re going to stop taking my calls entirely.”
“I am giving you excellent wine to sell,” Leonard said. “If you can’t sell on quality, then that’s your failure, not mine.”
“Fine,” John said. “Then I quit.”
Leah arranged a collection of her mother’s old hardcovers on the library table. Many of them were familiar, especially the one with the black jacket featuring a photo of a woman with high cheekbones and long red nails, waring red lipstick and a black turban-like hat with face netting. The epitome of 1980s glamour. The title was emblazoned across the center in white script:Scruples.
