Too Close to the Sun Page 3

  Stella gazed out the window, twisting an auburn lock around her index finger. Round and round and round. "My father says he'll support whatever I do."

  That's handy, Will thought, but merely made an approving noise and nosed his car around a parallel-parking Jeep which clearly belonged to a local. LIFE IS A CABERNET declared its license-plate frame, and for the valley's moneyed residents, it certainly was.

  Stella twisted toward him suddenly. "Do you want to buy my dad's winery?"

  That question was a surprise. "Hadn't really thought about it," he said carefully. In truth, he hadn't. Robert Monaco was a canny businessman and already ran his operation at full throttle. That wasn't what GPG was looking for.

  "Because he won't sell, you know." Stella turned back toward the passenger-side window. "He's had offers but he always says no. Gallo offered him forty-five million."

  Will accelerated as they cleared St. Helena's downtown. "That's a nice chunk of change."

  Stella shrugged, clearly unimpressed by eight-digit numbers. "Maybe. But what would he do if he sold?" She sounded baffled again. "He's sick of owning hotels. Plus he loves the lifestyle here. So does my mom. It's so much more"—she groped for the word—"natural."

  That was it in a nutshell for the newbie vintners whose previous lives had had nothing to do with winemaking. Will made a left onto Zinfandel Lane, a narrow, tree-lined road that would shoot them to the Silverado Trail and Suncrest, confident he understood men like Robert Monaco.

  They'd already done the grubby, unglamorous work of amassing piles of money. They'd done it in hotels and commercial real estate and oil and technology and consulting. Now they wanted the natural work of winemaking, living among rolling vineyards near towns with romantic names like Rutherford and Yountville. And if they lost money, as so many did, so what? There was more where that came from.

  Another turn and they were on the Trail, heading south. Valuable as Napa Valley farmland was—in fact, the most valuable in the nation—this so-called Rutherford Bench was the primest cut of all. Somehow the mix of soil, rainfall, fog, and sunshine combined to create a veritable Eden for grape-growing, particularly of the cabernet sauvignon variety for which the valley was most famous.

  And in the midst of those blessed acres lay Suncrest. Will drove through its stately bronze gates onto the long, imposing drive that led to the winery, a pile of roughhewn wheat-colored stones shimmering in the sun's waning light. Stella reached down into the footwell to strap up her sandals.

  "Napa is getting a little small-town for me," she declared, which seemed to Will an odd observation when here they were in one of the most affluent, glamorous, self-indulgent spots the world had to offer. He rolled the car to a stop behind another guest's navy Mercedes sedan, a white-jacketed valet scampering toward him to relieve him of the burden of parking.

  Stella, now shod, stepped out of the car and tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder. "I'm ready for L.A. or New York or London," she announced, and apparently so dazzled the valet that he promptly dropped Will's car keys in the dust. She giggled and sashayed toward the party, clearly conscious of both men's attention and ready to have a good time, small town or not.

  Will followed, grimly determined to mimic her enthusiasm.

  *

  Ava was just wondering how to escape a particularly long-winded foursome—all of whom were making good use of the open bar—when she felt a gentle touch on her left arm. Her savior was Mrs. Finchley, her longtime English housekeeper, who wore a meaningful expression in her light blue eyes.

  "Excuse me," Ava murmured, and let herself be led to the edge of the festivities. She and Mrs. Finchley leaned their heads in close.

  "It's Maximilian, madam," the older woman said.

  Before she caught herself, Ava's hand flew to her throat in a rush of relief. But all she said was, "Good, he's arrived. He's changing?"

  "No, actually—" The older woman paused, her expression pained. "He's not here just yet. He phoned to say he's on his way."

  Ava was silent for a moment, conscious of trying very hard not to become very angry. "On his way from where, exactly?"

  "From a hotel near the airport."

  The revelation hit Ava like a slap. Knowing her son, it was pointless wondering why Max was in such a place, and whether he had been for the entire nine hours since his flight landed, and why he'd waited until now to inform his mother that he would be seriously late for the gala party she was throwing in his honor. He was simply doing what he wanted to do—what else was new?—without thinking about anybody else.

  It was quite clear that after eighteen months of supposed apprenticeship in France, her son was as cavalier and self-absorbed as ever.

  She gathered herself, acutely conscious of the vulturelike eyes of her guests and of the much more kind and sympathetic gaze of Mrs. Finchley. Ava knew her housekeeper truly felt for her employer being burdened with such an incorrigible son. Whom she still loved, and always would. A fact Ava feared Max made good use of.

  She fixed her eyes on Mrs. Finchley. "How soon did he say he would get here?"

  "About an hour and a half, madam."

  Meaning he had just left that damned airport hotel. Fine. "I don't care to hold dinner," Ava said.

  "Very good."

  Ava consulted the diamond-encircled face of her watch. "Let's serve as planned in fifteen minutes." Max would miss his own welcome-home meal. Fine. He could stop at McDonald's or some such place on the drive up. "Please rearrange the seating cards so Max is not at my left hand." Where—she did not spell it out—his absence would be screamingly obvious throughout the entire five-course meal.

  "Very good, madam," and Mrs. Finchley moved off to make everything right, the stalwart, capable soul that she had always been.

  Jean-Luc materialized at Ava's side. He wore his tuxedo Hollywood-style, his dress shirt open at the neck and not a stud or cummerbund in sight. "Max has arrived?"

  Ava forced a smile onto her face. "Not yet. His meeting in the city ran long," she heard herself say, "and he lost track of the time." Jean-Luc's eyebrows shot up as if to say Max lost track of nine hours? but Ava scanned the crowd behind him for a distraction and just kept talking. "See that pretty brunette? Stella Monaco. Let's go say hello," and she took hold of Jean-Luc's arm to steer him toward the new arrival.

  Then she saw the man in Stella's wake and stopped cold.

  "Ava, what is it?" Jean-Luc laid a hand over Ava's fingers, which, she realized, were clenching his arm.

  I cannot believe that man had the gall to come here tonight. Though no one would believe him an interloper. Will Henley looked more CEO than pariah. In black tie, with his blond all-American looks, he looked like a top get for any A-list party.

  But Ava knew better. He was persona non grata here. He was the one celebrant at this fete who wanted Maximilian Winsted not to inherit his legacy but to have it sold out from underneath him. So that he and his partners could profit from Porter's decades of hard work.

  How many times had she told him that no, she would not sell? Two? Three? Yet here he was, yet again, and with Stella Monaco—of all people!—whom clearly he had used to gain entree. This posed a serious danger, for the last thing Ava wanted was for this gossipy young girl to spread the rumor that Suncrest was on the block. It didn't matter that it wasn't true; any hint that Ava would consider selling just as Max was taking over would undermine him from the first.

  A mother's love, she thought. It's almost idiotic. Despite how dismissive her son was of her that night, she was still hell-bent on shoring him up. Of course, she wanted him to succeed for her own reasons, as well—to free her to begin a new life, away from the burden of the winery.

  "Is it him?" Apparently Jean-Luc had followed the line of Ava's eyes, for now he was staring at Will Henley, too. "Should I ask him to leave?"

  Ava merely shook her head and resumed walking, her equilibrium partly restored as a plan brewed in her mind. Jean-Luc fell into step beside her.

 
If Will Henley wanted to sniff around Max to see what he could find out, let him sniff away. It wouldn't do him a damn bit of good anyway, unless his nostrils could pick up a scent from sixty miles downwind.

  Ava released Jean-Luc and held out both hands to Stella. "You look lovely, dear," she murmured, which prompted the obligatory round of air kisses and returned compliments. Maintaining her brilliant smile, Ava extended her right hand to Will. "And who is your handsome friend?"

  The girl's eyes danced. Ava knew there were few bigger feathers in a twenty-year-old female's cap than dating a good-looking, wealthy man ten years her senior. "Ava, this is Will Henley, from San Francisco. And Will, this is Ava Winsted, the—"

  "Esteemed owner of Suncrest," Will cut in. He grasped her hand. "Congratulations on your son completing his apprenticeship in France. You must be very proud."

  Ava eyed this dashing interloper and found herself admiring him. To please her, he would maintain the pretense that they didn't know one another. Surely he didn't want to rile her up any more than he already had by crashing her party. After all, he wanted her to sell him her winery.

  "I am very proud," she told him, each word a stone forced between her smiling lips. Then she spied Gabby DeLuca a few yards away and decided she would suit Ava's scheme just fine. "May I borrow your Mr. Henley?" she asked Stella sweetly, a rhetorical question if ever there was one, because she immediately took hold of Will's arm and steered him away from Stella before the younger woman could utter a word.

  "Gabby," Ava said, and deposited Will Henley in front of her, "I'd like you to meet this interesting fellow. I'm sure you'll enjoy chatting with him." Then she moved off to locate Mrs. Finchley, her mind on damage control. Her first task was to redo the seating arrangements at dinner so that Mr. Will Henley would find himself quite surrounded by loyal Suncrest employees and hence properly contained.

  *

  This guy is not from the valley, Gabby thought, her breath catching in her throat. There is no way he could live here without me noticing.

  He towered over her, six feet who-knew-how-many inches of blond, broad-shouldered American male. He had the look of success about him, and it wasn't just from the tux. It was the fighter-pilot square jaw, the no-nonsense directness of the gaze, the confidence of the smile, the powerful aura he emanated without saying a word.

  She found her voice and extended her hand. "Gabby DeLuca."

  "Will Henley." His fingers closed around hers, his hand big and warm and enveloping. All too soon he released her and looked off into the distance, squinting his blue, blue eyes, which produced a fan of tiny lines on his lightly tanned skin. "DeLuca. Isn't Cosimo DeLuca the winemaker here?"

  "That's my father." Who had disappeared in the last few seconds, and taken Cam with him. "Are you in the wine business?"

  He skated past that. "Wasn't he just named one of the top five Napa winemakers by the Chronicle?"

  "He was. But he should've been number one on the list."

  "Spoken like a loyal daughter."

  "No, I just know good winemaking when I see it."

  He chuckled. "You must see it pretty often here in Napa Valley."

  "Well, I see it in my father." She trotted out a rusty old flirtatious glance then and it seemed to still work, because something in Will Henley's keen gaze told her she had his full attention. "And I see it in me."

  He laughed out loud. "Plenty of self-confidence you've got there. I like it! And where do you make your wine?"

  "Here." I like it! rattled in her brain. "I'm my father's assistant."

  "Ah. I'm a fan of Suncrest wines myself. So you are good at what you do," and he cocked his head as he looked at her, as if he were trying to puzzle something out.

  They lapsed into silence while the party pulsed on around them. Now what? She was flustered. She used to be a good flirt—a natural, in fact. Her parents laughed to this day over the smiles and winks and sideways glances she'd perfected by age four. They got pretty worried about it when she hit fourteen. But now she was so out of practice, she could barely get past the introductions.

  At least not with this heartthrob. Out of the social black hole of Max's homecoming fete—where she knew everyone and everyone knew her and there wasn't a romantic possibility in the bunch—had emerged this guy, a rare specimen indeed. Almost the last of a dying breed, as far as she could tell. Will Henley was the diametric opposite of grunge, which was so popular among the women she knew but which had never appealed to her. This guy looked traditional in the best, most gracious all-American way—like Cary Grant come back to life blond and young.

  But not too young. That was another good thing, too.

  "So you read the Chronicle," she said. "Does that mean you live in San Francisco?"

  "Pacific Heights."

  "Do you work in the city?"

  "I do."

  Silence. She watched his gaze skitter away. This might be the first guy she'd ever met who didn't want to talk about his job. Could he be unemployed? That didn't seem possible. Yet lots of brainiac tech types in the city were out of jobs since the Internet bubble burst. "Do you work for the CIA or something? You don't seem to like to talk about it."

  He shook his head, smiling. "Nothing so mysterious. Or glamorous. I'm in finance."

  "What area of finance?"

  "Investments. So tell me, Gabby," and his eyes came back to her face, "do you ever give personal wine-country tours?"

  She felt a little flutter of excitement. Is he asking what I think he's asking? "Do you mean, for example, to men who work in investments and live in Pacific Heights?"

  "I have to say that's a category I'm particularly interested in."

  "Well, you know, it's funny you should ask. Because just this morning I was thinking of having business cards printed up that say 'Gabby DeLuca, winemaker and part-time investment-guy tour guide.' "

  He threw back his head and laughed. She watched him, grinning herself. Maybe the exorcism that morning had actually worked, because here she was with the incipient hots for a man other than Vittorio. Will didn't even look like Vittorio, which seemed a victory of sorts, too. But he did have that same straightforward quality, like he was somebody with backbone.

  Of course, look at all the backbone Vittorio had. He went spineless when his parents told him to dump me for the vintner's daughter next door.

  A waiter swept past with a tray full of fresh wineglasses. Will swiped two, handed one to Gabby, and raised his as if in toast. "To your tour business," he said, "and its first, very lucky, customer."

  They touched their glasses together, their gazes locked. Gabby sipped, a giddy feeling washing over her, as if her sauvignon blanc were really sparkling wine and its bubbles were flooding her veins with good feeling. Then the bubbles crashed together and exploded, for who sashayed up and wrapped her arms around Will Henley's waist but that party-girl bombshell, Stella Monaco.

  "Having a good time chatting up the cellar workers?" she asked him. Then she turned to Gabby, her lips smiling but her eyes stone cold. "Thanks so much, Gabby, for keeping my date amused."

  Ouch. But then Will Henley made Gabby like him even more than she already did.

  "Yes, thank you, Gabby." He gave her a smile that somehow made the girl clinging to his waist fade right into the background. "You can be sure I'll book that tour."

  *

  When Gabby tried later to reconstruct the rest of the evening, she found that she could summon few of the details. Stella succeeded in spiriting Will away, but not for long; because once all the guests were funneled into dinner, Gabby noticed that he had been seated between her father and Cam and Stella was way at the other end of the room, squeezed between Felix Rodriguez and Bucky Forrester, a high-school friend of Max's.

  Who was still nowhere to be seen. The second great astonishment of the evening.

  Gabby thought that Ava—always an inventive hostess—had been truly inspired when she decided to serve dinner in the tiny building that housed the French oak barrel
s where Suncrest's famed vintages of cabernet sauvignon were aged. Built in the nineteenth century of the same hand-cut sandstone as the landmark winery building, it nestled in its shadow—a cozy refuge that smelled of old wood and fermenting wine and the dust of two centuries. The forty diners found themselves seated at a long, narrow table draped with white Egyptian cotton, wine barrels stacked ceiling-high all around them. Flickering candlelight from eight wrought-iron candelabra provided the room's only illumination, while baskets of white, yellow, and pink roses were a gorgeous complement to Ava's delicate Worcester china and glittering Venetian crystal. Three violinists at one end of the room sprang into musical action once everyone was seated, a welcome distraction for those awkward silences that invariably descended from time to time during a five-course meal.

  But nothing could disturb Gabby that night—not the wine writer to her left she usually found too snobbish for words, or Stella's father Robert Monaco to her right, who didn't bother to look in her direction the entire evening.

  What made the evening magic was Will Henley seated half a table away. Will Henley catching her eye, or raising his wineglass to her at a toast. Her keen awareness that he was watching her during those moments when she refrained from watching him.

  They arrived at dessert. White-jacketed waiters laid down plates of plum clafouti adorned with little puffs of whipped cream, and poured coffee, tea, grappa, and port. Mrs. W rose to speak, and all at once Gabby was reminded of the extraordinary fact that Max had never shown up to his own homecoming gala—he'd never shown up!—and the evening was almost over.

  Yet Ava Winsted stood at the head of the long table looking unperturbed, smiling, winking at this guest and then that. Gabby realized anew that this was a woman with incredible self-possession. She appeared so at ease, so composed—yet had to be churning inside. What public humiliation her son heaped on her, and on Suncrest. What disrespect.

  When the room had fallen silent, she spoke. "I am so very proud of my son this evening. I certainly wish he were here with us, but when I asked him yesterday, while he was still in France, to handle an important meeting in San Francisco this afternoon, he didn't hesitate for a second. He wanted to plunge right into business. He is truly his father's son."