Too Close to the Sun (8 page)

Gabby stowed the Jeep in the employee lot to
the rear of the winery. It was quite possible that Will Henley was
just very polite and gentlemanly, and that she'd been wrong to read
a more personal interest into his behavior. He'd described himself
as a Boy Scout, hadn't he? Maybe her family's medical crisis was
just the emergency equivalent of helping an old lady across a
street or coaxing a cat down from a tree.

And the kiss? Well, maybe it was just
lust—hot and fleeting—getting the better of him. Or maybe he'd been
so exhausted he wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe he'd liked her
that night but had already thought better of it. Any of the above
multiple-choice answers could well be correct.

She entered the main winery building through
the rear door, next to the barrels of vineyard nutrients and weed
killer. She planned to make a pit stop to wash up but was accosted
by Mrs. W, who naturally looked stunning in sleek black pants and
soft white sweater. Gabby sported shorts, dirt-caked running shoes,
a baseball cap, and a polo shirt under a fleece vest. With streaks
of dust on her legs from the vineyard.

Gabby watched Mrs. W take in her smeared
condition in a glance. "With no one around today," the older woman
suggested, "let's talk in the break room."

She doesn't want me to get her upholstery
dirty
. But really, who could blame her? Mrs. W worked out of
her husband's old office, the most elegant room in the winery.

They arranged themselves on bright orange
plastic chairs around a scratched Formica table. Fluorescent lights
buzzed overhead, while the concession machines made their usual low
chugging sounds. The whole room gave off a strong Lysol smell, like
the cleaning crew had gone haywire the night before.

"I spoke with your mother this morning and
she told me your father continues to improve," Mrs. W said. "I am
so glad to hear that."

"He gave us all quite a scare."

"He certainly did. And I imagine his
recuperation will take some time."

Now was the moment to sound as reassuring as
possible. The last thing Gabby wanted was for Mrs. W to bring in a
winemaker on top of her, or to hire consultants who might muck up
the process she and her father had created.

"The doctors say he'll have to take it easy
for six weeks or so, but after that I'm sure he'll be back to
normal. And in the meanwhile, I will be more than happy to take up
the slack, Mrs. Winsted. I've worked at my father's side for years
and completely understand how he does things. You don't have a
thing to worry about."

Mrs. W gave Gabby one of her trademark
penetrating stares. "Do you enjoy the work, Gabriella? Are you sure
it's what you want to do?"

"I love it! I love everything about it."
Gabby thought Mrs. W didn't look entirely convinced, though she
found it easy to imagine that the former actress would find the
often hot, dusty, grubby labor of winemaking unappealing. "I
studied enology in college—it's what I've wanted to do all my life.
I love the farming aspect, too, and the science—I studied
chemistry, too—and of course there's art in winemaking as
well."

"Yes, there is, isn't there?" Mrs. W
continued to eye her narrowly. Gabby found herself wondering why
Max wasn't participating in this little tete-a-tete. If he was
taking over, wouldn't he have something to say about Suncrest's
lead winemaker, arguably its most important position?

But Mrs. W broke into her thoughts by
clearing her throat suddenly, as if she'd made a decision. "Well,
Gabriella, I do believe you can handle the extra load. So I will
leave it to you to oversee the winemaking during your father's
convalescence. But"—and she raised a warning finger—"if he is not
able to come back to work by harvest, I will need to make other
arrangements."

That gives me two months
. The rush of
relief Gabby felt was tinged by anxiety. It was all up to her now
and it never had been before. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Winsted. I
appreciate your confidence."
I hope some of it rubs off on
me
.

Mrs. W stood up. "Certainly," she said, then
bestowed a cool smile and sailed off, her business done.

Gabby's was just beginning.

*

Ava had one last hill to climb to finish her
four-mile run. She consulted her sport watch, squared her
shoulders, and forced her Nike-shod feet to keep pounding the
narrow dirt road that wound through Suncrest's vineyards. Napa's
withering midday sun beat on her fair skin, taunting her resolve. A
less willful woman might have judged this final incline
insurmountable and taken an easier route home, but Ava was enough
of a headbanger to keep going.

Running was one of the few things she did
without an audience, never straying from her own property. She
didn't care for panting and sweating in public, or for showing off
the cherry-red flush that blotched her cheeks when she exerted
herself. True, she sometimes ran across field workers, all Hispanic
men, only a few whose names she knew. She didn't enjoy their
watchful eyes, but with them she didn't feel much need to maintain
appearances. She might pretend to share the bold earthiness of Ava
Gardner—whose name the teenaged Anna Schroeder appropriated when
she first arrived in Hollywood—but in truth she was shy and a
little prissy and cared a great deal about the opinion of
others.

At length she crested the hill, her chest
heaving in a delicious agony of pain and triumph, and was rewarded
with a mind-boggling view of vineyards falling away from her in
every direction, a thick canopy of dark green leaves hiding the
grape clusters that dangled beneath. By late June the vines had
stopped their frenetic growing and were turning their energy into
ripening the fruit. In two months, harvest would begin.

Ava caught her breath and scanned her acres,
and wondered whether she would be present to see the grapes cut
from the vines.

Just that morning, Jean-Luc had bounded out
of the guest room to tell her that his screenplay had sold. His
agent had called his mobile, he told her, his face flushed with
excitement. This was the very screenplay that boasted a role for
her, a comeback role, an I'll-show-you-I've-still-got-it role. She
knew she did, Jean-Luc believed it, and he would return to Paris to
find out if France's film moguls agreed and would give her the
part.

If only it were that easy.

She began the downhill trot, keeping an eye
out for ankle-spraining rocks. She wanted to go to Paris. She
wanted to leave Suncrest in Max's hands. But how could she without
some confidence that he wouldn't destroy it while she wasn't
looking?

Yet a scheme had begun to take shape in her
mind. Will Henley played a part in it, and he would come onstage
that very afternoon.

She picked up her pace, both anticipating
that scene and eager to reach her home, which she now spied a
quarter-mile ahead, nestled among olive trees and grapevines. It
was a 1960s ranch house just east of the winery proper that could
not have been more plebeian until she and Porter took it over. They
transformed it into a light-filled oasis, airy and elegant and yet
supremely comfortable. And it was very California, with skylights
and huge windows and French doors in nearly every room, so the
gardens and terraces were always mere steps away.

She was just loping around the side of the
house toward the pool and the pergola—where Mrs. Finchley always
had waiting for her a chilled post-run sport drink—when a shiny red
Mercedes convertible careened noisily onto the driveway behind her
and sent up a spray of pebbles, several of which struck her naked
legs.

Max beamed at her from the driver's seat.
"Like it?"

She was so taken aback, it took her a moment
to approach the car. It was a sleek conveyance, indeed. She eyed
her son. "Did you purchase this vehicle?"

His face was aglow. "I most certainly
did."

"Is buying this supposed to convince me
you're ready to run Suncrest?"

"What does this have to do with Suncrest?" He
laughed, his smile open and wide, his dark eyes dancing, and for a
moment her heart clenched. She remembered the little boy he had
been—cheerful, rambunctious, and unscathed. Nothing had ever gone
wrong and it seemed that nothing ever could.

In those golden years, she believed she'd
been a good mother. It hadn't been so much of a burden then, like
it was when he was a baby and it was again when he was a teenager.
During those tumultuous phases it was either more drudgery than she
could take, or more angst—more fights, more disappointments, more
sulks.

She hadn't enjoyed it. She got into a cycle
she wasn't proud of. Pushing Max onto nannies and into boarding
schools, then feeling guilty and going hugely overboard in the
opposite direction, buying him extravagances, taking him on trips.
When he behaved like any spoiled boy would, how could she be
surprised or angry?

It was what she had trained him to be.

She shook her head, suddenly bone tired. "I
just want to know what spending an exorbitant amount of money on a
sports car has to do with Suncrest."

He shook his head, still smiling, then got
out of the car and approached her across the pebbled drive. "It
doesn't have anything to do with Suncrest." Then he held out the
key. "It has to do with you."

She frowned. "What?"

"I bought the car for you." He came closer
and pressed the key into her hand. "Come on, give her a spin."

It was as though the synapses weren't firing
in her brain. "Max … "

"Mom." His gaze was steady. "I noticed when I
was driving your car the other night that it's getting old. I
wanted to do something to make up a little bit for the other night,
and I thought of this."

"But it's too much! It's . . ." Her voice
failed her.
It misses the point
, she wanted to say,
it's
too much, it's not what I need. It's not what I need to see
from
you
.

But he wouldn't be dissuaded. "Look, now that
I'm back, we need a second set of wheels anyway. I thought I'd use
your car and you can tool around in this. Don't look so stunned!"
He laughed again and lowered his voice. "It's just you and me now,
Mom. I want us to stick together—I want us to be on the same page.
I know I've screwed up a lot in the past, but I want you to believe
that I'm going to try harder. Say you'll take it, as a token of
goodwill if nothing else."

She looked for deception in his eyes and
found none. She wanted to believe him. Nothing would give her more
relief or satisfaction.

Ava eyed the car warily, like it might
explode or take off suddenly on its own. It was beautiful—sleek and
sexy and cherry red, much flashier than anything she'd pick out for
herself. But who wouldn't agree that Ava Winsted was due for a bit
of fun?

"Come on." Max cocked his head at the car,
grinning.

"But I'm so dirty, I'll make a mess."

"You won't make a mess," and he nudged her
toward the driver's door.

It drove like a dream. She loved the wind
blowing through her hair, and it was such fun to blare the radio
while screaming down the Trail, feeling 21 again and like a
Hollywood starlet, racing around L.A.'s canyons dreaming of how
rich and famous she would someday be. She and Max even raced up an
isolated mountain road to Max's favorite overlook, then barreled
back down again at a marvelously insane speed.

She had such a good time, she forgot to tell
Max who was coming to visit them at Suncrest that very
afternoon.

*

Will arrived at the winery for his meeting
smack on time at 4 o'clock, dressed for the occasion in khakis,
dress shirt, and navy sport coat. He didn't mind working on a
Saturday—his wasn't the sort of job that hewed to 9 to 5—and
besides, he was damn curious why Ava had scheduled this little
get-together.

It seemed too much to hope for that she'd
done an about-face and was now considering selling Suncrest to GPG.
But what else could it be? Their other meetings had all been at his
behest, Will Henley a flannel-suited beggar offering her millions
on bended knee. Was it possible that her son's absence at his own
homecoming party was less noble than Ava had made it out to be?
Maybe now she didn't want to hand him control of the winery? That
was plausible.

It would save his own ass nicely, too. For
Will had pinned all his hopes on Suncrest. He knew that if he could
get his hands on that winery, with its unique attributes of brand
name and prime vineyard property, he could expand it and earn GPG's
investors the millions they were expecting from a Napa Valley
acquisition. Suncrest was such an attractive prospect that Will had
cast his net no wider—a risky strategy if ever there was one.

If it paid off, LaRue and everybody else at
GPG would brand him a hero. But if not …

Will refused even to consider that
possibility. He cooled his heels on the curvy path in front of the
winery. The building was locked, and he saw no one around, though
on this sunny June weekend many of Napa's other wineries were
buzzing with tourists. Suncrest was elite enough that it didn't do
visitor tours except by appointment.

Gabby might be around though, right?
he wondered. No doubt she was putting in extra hours filling in for
her father. Then again, she could just as easily be at the
hospital. The idea of running into her—here, now—made him jittery.
He was eager to see her— beyond eager, really—but didn't want to
have to explain his business at Suncrest. In fact, his professional
code barred him from doing so. Loose lips killed deals. But if he
wanted to get to know this woman, as he most assuredly did, the
nature of his employment at least couldn't remain a mystery for
long. He found, though, he wasn't looking forward to getting into
that, either.