Too Close to the Sun Page 5

  "Here," he said, and pivoted toward her. He went to work mopping her cheeks, his own face as serious as if he were piloting a fighter jet or doing laser surgery. She had a fleeting vision of him as a little boy, all white-blond hair and blue eyes and sunburned nose, brow furrowed and tongue wedged between teeth as he painstakingly filled in his coloring book or glued together his balsa-wood model airplane.

  Then, "I think I got everything," and he handed her a napkin mottled with beige, pink, and black gobs of color.

  Even in the midst of all this, she had to chuckle. "I think that was every bit of makeup I had on."

  "I'm extremely thorough." But he didn't laugh; he looked as serious as ever. Then he abruptly stood up, grasped her by the arms, drew her to her feet, and after gazing into her eyes for a moment, kissed her.

  She could have stopped him. It was hugely inappropriate—it was the wrong place, wrong time. All of that occurred to her, but none of it seemed to much matter. She simply let herself sink into an attractive man, realizing with some surprise that it just so happened she very much liked how this particular man smelled and felt and tasted.

  Especially when he backed into the wall and took her with him, pulling her tight against his body, giving her a tutorial in how good she could feel. He abandoned her mouth to kiss the skin along her neck, leaving a trail of pleasure behind him, then moved on down her shoulder. Her left spaghetti strap fell—or was pushed, she wasn't quite sure—and her fingers dug into his hair while heat built deep, low, in her body.

  It was suddenly too much. She pulled back, heard his ragged breathing, tried to slow the rampaging of her heart. Their eyes met.

  "I'm sorry, Gabby." He gave her a sheepish smile. "I got a little carried away there."

  "You weren't the only one."

  They smiled at each other for a moment longer. Then, "Shall we have our coffee?" he asked.

  "We should probably take it upstairs."

  "You're right," he said, and led her—after a pause for dress and hair smoothing—to a table for two where her pashmina and their order sat waiting.

  They picked everything up and started back toward the elevator. "My turn to apologize," she said. "I'm sorry for yelling at you before."

  "Don't worry about it." He smiled at her again.

  She sipped her cappuccino while they waited for an elevator. It was true—she did feel better. And, oddly, not at all awkward. She felt no need to bring up their kiss in the stairwell, and no worry about it, either. An unending stream of people moved past them to get into the Starbucks line, get served, move on, and be replaced by still more. "Where are they all coming from?"

  "What amazes me is that there are always people in hospitals, at all hours, worried about somebody. When you're working or sleeping or doing whatever. It's like a whole other world that you just don't think about." He tipped back his head and drank from his cardboard coffee cup.

  She watched his throat work as he swallowed. "At least until you're there yourself."

  He met her eyes. "Then what's going on in the hospital is the most important thing in the world."

  "It sounds like you've been through this yourself."

  The elevator doors opened and they went inside. Will nodded as if casting his mind back in time. "Three years ago, my mom had an emergency triple bypass."

  Gabby took that in. "Is she okay?"

  "Better than ever."

  "Where does she live?"

  "Denver. Where everybody in my family lives."

  "But you're in California."

  "Have you lived anywhere else?"

  "One other place. Castelnuovo."

  His brows flew up. "Italy?"

  "Tuscany. The Chianti region, to be precise."

  "To study winemaking, I bet."

  But that's not all I learned. In fact, that's not the half of it.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "I'd also bet there's a story there."

  "An epic."

  He smiled. "Then perhaps we should leave it for another night."

  I hope there is such a night. A normal night, when her father was fine and tucked into his bed at home. When the biggest thing she had to worry about was how to look pretty for a man she found attractive. Such simple things, yet at this moment they sounded like nirvana.

  They had just emerged from the elevator when Camella came flying toward them down the corridor. Gabby's heart picked up a staccato rhythm. Then she saw that her sister was smiling. Tears were drying on her cheeks, but she was smiling.

  She grabbed Gabby's arms. "Daddy's okay. They're taking him to ICU. The doctor said his EKG is better."

  Thank God. Thank God. "So the drug is working?"

  "The doctor thinks so. Daddy squeezed his hand. That's a really good sign," Cam started to say—then she choked on her words and couldn't say more.

  Neither could Gabby. They clutched each other, both sobbing, and through the relief that coursed through her body, Gabby was conscious of Will stepping away, giving them space. "Can we see him?"

  "Yes, on the way to ICU."

  "You go on," Will said from where he stood, "I'll wait for you here, and I'll also call Ava to let her know what's going on."

  "Thank you," Gabby began, but already Cam was pulling her away, toward her father. Before she disappeared around the corner, she saw him in the hallway, his jacket on his arm, standing and watching her, as if he had nothing more important in the world to do.

  *

  "I am truly sorry for missing the party," Max told his mother, turning her Mercedes sedan into the parking lot that fronted St. Helena Hospital. "I know it meant a lot to you and I really dropped the ball by showing up so late. Believe me, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

  Massive silence yawned from the passenger seat. His mother was mad at him, so mad she was barely speaking, but he didn't doubt he could get her past it. A little mea culpa, a little charm, a little attention, and she would forgive him. He had a way with women, always had, and his mother was no exception.

  He nosed the Mercedes into a parking space and killed the engine. "I'm glad you let me drive you to the hospital," he told her. "I am seriously jet-lagged but I appreciate that you let me do this for you."

  "Maximilian Winsted, do not say another word to me," and all of a sudden his mother's hand gripped his thigh with a force that made him wince. "I am neither as stupid nor as gullible as you seem to think."

  He pried her fingers off his thigh. Geez, had she been lifting weights or what? "Mom, you're the smartest woman I know. I have the utmost respect for you."

  "I cannot take any more of your bullshit," she declared, then climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and headed for the hospital entrance without him.

  Max sat still, shocked. His mother never swore. The worst that ever came out of her was Damn! or some mild variation thereof. For a second he considered just waiting for her in the car, then thought better of it.

  No, he had to get back on her good side. The last thing he wanted was to be living with and working alongside a moody female, though that pretty much defined the breed. Life would be a great deal more pleasant if she wasn't down his throat constantly.

  He sighed, then heaved himself out of the car and went after her. How she could make a federal case out of his failure to appear at her party was beyond him. Then again, she'd always been obsessed with trivialities: clothes, decor, the finer points of etiquette. He could never make her understand that the party hadn't really been for him, anyway. It had been for her—her opportunity to show off, to play the lady of the manor. He was just the excuse. But he'd never known her to exhibit that degree of self-awareness.

  Max forced himself through the sliding glass doors and into the reception area. He hated hospitals. They stank, they were depressing, and they reminded him of when his dad was sick after the stroke. When that was going on, Max felt like he lived in the hospital. This very one, actually. And once he didn't have to go to the hospital anymore—well, that wasn't good, either.

/>   He found the intensive care unit. A tall blond guy in a tux whom Max didn't recognize was standing outside the door looking through its narrow rectangular window.

  "Hello," Max said, guessing from the black tie that this was someone from the party. The guy spun around and Max held out his hand. "Max Winsted. Are you here for Cosimo DeLuca, too?"

  "Yes, I am." They shook. "Will Henley. Good to meet you."

  Max didn't know the name. He started to reach for the door handle but Henley stopped him.

  "You can't go in there right now. They're letting in only two at a time and your mother's in with Gabby DeLuca."

  "Right." The winemaker's daughter. Always had been kind of a babe. Max stepped back from the door. "What have you been told about Mr. DeLuca's prognosis?"

  Henley stared at him for a moment, as if he was trying to decide how much to divulge. "Well," he said eventually, "the doctors gave him a clot-dissolving drug and the early indications are that it's working. But he's not out of the woods yet. The first twenty-four hours will be critical."

  Max nodded. Truth be told, he wasn't all that interested in the medical details. Then another thought struck him. "Are you the person who called my mother a while back to say it was a heart attack?"

  "Yes, I am."

  Who was this Will Henley? Max wondered. Was he new to the valley? Something about him made Max think he had his shit in gear. Max was about to ask a few probing questions when his mother emerged from the ICU, pulling a doctor mask down from her face. Right behind her came Gabby DeLuca, doing the same thing.

  Max didn't know what it was—Gabby's slinky purple party dress or her hair piled up on her head or something—but it immediately struck him that here was a woman who was actually looking better with age. She'd stayed thin, she had a good tan, and he'd forgotten how killer her hazel eyes were. Hadn't his mother told him about a year ago that she'd become assistant winemaker, helping her dad? The thought marched across Max's brain that Gabby DeLuca just might become one of his favorite employees.

  But she didn't even seem to notice him. Instead she looked right at Henley. "Dr. Hearst says he's stabilizing. The drug really seems to be working."

  "That is great news, Gabby." Henley smiled and rubbed her arm. She looked like she might burst into tears at any moment. "He'll get through this, you'll see."

  "I'm sure he will," Max said, and then Gabby turned toward him.

  "You finally got here," she said, which immediately ticked him off. Here he was—just off a transoceanic flight, going out of his way to check on her father's condition—and the first words out of her mouth were accusatory.

  He was about to deliver a pithy retort when his mother cut him off by stepping in front of him and grabbing both of Gabby's hands. "As I said before, Gabriella, please let me know if there's anything at all I can do. I would be more than willing to bring in a specialist from out of town, for example."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Winsted. I really appreciate that."

  "Your father is very dear to all of us at Suncrest."

  Gabby nodded. Again she looked like she might start crying. "I have to say that at this point I am pretty satisfied with the quality of care here."

  Good, Max thought. In his opinion, his mother had been too quick with that offer. He knew only too well who would end up paying for any out-of-town cardiologists.

  "Please keep it in mind," his mother insisted. Then she turned to Henley and took his hands. "You've been extremely helpful, Will. I truly appreciate what you've done tonight."

  He just nodded and looked heroic. Then again, Max thought, who didn't in a tuxedo? He looked down at his own T-shirt and wrinkled cargo pants, which he'd been wearing for twenty-four hours plus, and shook his head, more eager to leave by the second.

  "I'll call you in the morning to see how he's doing," his mother told Gabby, "and don't you spend a minute worrying about anything else." Then she nodded at Henley and that was finally it. She turned and walked away, leaving Max to make his own good-byes and trail after her like a pet dog.

  When they arrived at the elevators, he jabbed the DOWN button. "So Mr. DeLuca will make it?"

  "It appears he will. Thank God." Her voice was clipped.

  I hope they don't sue us, he thought. The valley was full of hotshot lawyers who'd love nothing better than to go after the Winsted family. An elevator opened up and he and his mother got in. He decided to continue his PR campaign. "It was really clever of you to offer to bring in a specialist."

  But his mother shook her head as if she were disgusted. "I didn't do it to be clever. I did it because Cosimo DeLuca has been a valuable employee for as long as you've been alive."

  Man. She made it sound like she cared more about DeLuca than she did about her own son. Max shook his head. She could be cold.

  The elevator stopped and more people got in. Max didn't speak again until he and his mother walked out on the first floor. Then, "I suppose this means he could be out of commission for a while."

  "I would imagine at least through midsummer. I intend to ask Gabby to take over as lead winemaker while he convalesces," his mother informed him, which stopped Max dead in his tracks on the hospital's shiny green linoleum floor. Nearby at reception, a woman giggled at a security guard leaning toward her over the counter.

  "Don't you think that's my decision to make? After all, I'm running Suncrest now."

  He found his mother right in front of his nose almost before he saw her turn around. "What makes you think that?" Her voice was low and cold and unlike anything Max had ever heard out of her before. "You will run Suncrest when I say you will run Suncrest. Your behavior tonight has been beyond abominable. I have half a mind to go right back upstairs and tell Will Henley I've decided to sell."

  She stopped then, and Max had to say he was glad she did, because he couldn't believe what he had just heard. ''Sell? Who the hell is this Will Henley, anyway?"

  "He's an investor from San Francisco. With a firm called GPG. And I have to tell you that I am a lot higher on him right now than I am on you."

  Then she turned her back on him and walked out. Max watched the big sliding doors part and her sweep through, a group of orderlies splitting in two to get out of her way. It was like watching Moses part the Red Sea.

  What did she mean, sell? Didn't she understand that it was his right to run Suncrest? To inherit it and to run it? He was the only heir, for Christ's sake!

  Max imagined a world in which his mother sold Suncrest. It made him feel as marooned as if the 747 that had flown him home from Paris had crash-landed on a desert island and left him as the only survivor. His heart began to pound and for a moment he felt like he was the one suffering cardiac arrest. He was hot, and scared, and wanted only to sit down and catch his breath.

  But that was the last thing he could do. Because if he wanted any chance of bringing his mother back around, he'd better not leave her standing outside in the cold.

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, midmorning. Gabby stood in Suncrest's Rosemede vineyard, holding a walkie-talkie in one hand and a cell phone in the other, its caller on hold. Fog lingered here on the valley floor, enveloping her in a chill gauzy mist. She lifted the walkie-talkie to her mouth and pressed TALK.

  "Felix, I'm halfway down row sixteen in Rosemede and I don't see anything." No mildew on the vines, no rot, no parasites. One of the field workers thought he'd seen evidence of a pest, but apparently he hadn't. "Anything in Calhoun?"

  A beat later Felix's voice blared back, rough with static. "I think we're gonna have to spray here. We got some sort of mite. Not too bad, though."

  She shook her head. The vines were so at the mercy of Mother Nature, which meant Gabby was, as well. A winemaker lived and died by the quality of her fruit. But the threats were many and varied. If it wasn't insects or cutworms, it was gophers or rabbits or deer. A virus or a fungal disease. A killing frost in spring, or a heat spike in summer, or a too heavy rain. Or, God forbid, flooding.

  This time of year
, the grapes were the size of peppercorns and as hard as bullets. Soon they would begin to swell and soften and color. Their sugar level would rise, and birds would become the next threat.

  Gabby's scientist's soul loved the year in-year out tending of the grapevines. The routine, the order, the predictability. Yet every year was slightly different from the year before: no two were exactly alike. They were the same enough that she knew what she was getting, different enough that it stayed interesting.

  "You want me to come help?" she asked Felix.

  "I got Pepe with me. You go have your talk with Mrs. Winsted."

  I'd rather spray the fields. But "10-4," she said, then switched the walkie-talkie for the cell and pushed HOLD. "You still there, Cam?"

  She waited. Nothing. Her sister had hung up. And there was no way to reach her, as she'd been forced to use a pay phone at the hospital. Gabby stowed her cell and headed for the Jeep she'd abandoned at the vineyard's edge.

  What a difference 36 hours made. How light her heart now felt. After those first horrible hours, the news about her father had all been good. He's responding to commands, Dr. Hearst said. He's breathing fine so we can take out the tube. Most likely her father would be moved out of ICU that very night, to something called the telemetry unit. She wasn't sure what that was, but she knew the relocation was a good sign.

  With Cam at the hospital with Lucia and their mom, Gabby was free to spend some time at Suncrest. Where she was doing two jobs—her own and her father's.

  She hopped into her little ragtop Jeep—impossibly dirty as always, as it spent most of its time on mud-packed roads—and started the half-mile return trek to the winery. She wished she could put off going to see Mrs. W. What could she want? To bring in a new winemaker to replace her father? Or was it something about Max?

  Gabby bumped the Jeep slowly along, worried what Ava Winsted might have up her cashmere sleeve. But those ruminations didn't prevent her mind from soon spinning in a different direction.