Too Close to the Sun (2 page)

Nor did he want to admit, even to himself,
one tiny part of his motivation for the gift-giving. It was
residual guilt, even after all these years, for leaving Beth in
Denver to run Henley Sand and Gravel while he traipsed off to chase
his dreams. As the elder child and only male, custom demanded that
he follow his father at the helm of the family business. But Will
had wanted a bigger stage. And by God, had he gotten it.

LaRue smiled. "Ah, those were the days.
Bachelorhood with all its infinite pleasures and variety." His
slim, manicured fingers lifted a Lucite cube from Will's desk. "So
you gonna make lots of money for us in Napa Valley?"

Will settled back in his chair and linked his
hands behind his head in a deliberate gesture of confidence, though
that was hardly what he felt in this regard. "Don't I always?"

"There's no such thing as always." LaRue
toyed with the cube, has dark eyes focused on it as if mesmerized.
"There's only your last deal."

That was one of the machismo-laden truisms
GPG partners bandied about. There were others, even less clever,
all of which basically boiled down to
What have you done for me
lately?

Will laughed again. "Hey, my last deal made
us ten times our money!"

"And is still in business. These days that's
a stunning success. But from you we'd expect no less." LaRue
replaced the cube, next fingering a framed photo of Beth, posed in
Aspen alongside her husband and twin sons and an assortment of skis
and poles. All four sported matching sweaters, Will's own
Scandinavian coloring, and the goggle-eyed sunburn produced by a
Rocky Mountain ski vacation. LaRue's brow arched. "You ever
heli-skied, Henley?"

That was the sort of testosterone-driven
extreme sport of which LaRue—and all right-minded GPG
partners—would approve. "Do you mean was I ever dropped from a
chopper in a remote location to ski solo down a kick-ass pristine
mountain with no one around to save me if I screw up?"

LaRue nodded.

"Nope. But it sounds like good old-fashioned
fun."

LaRue laughed out loud this time, the desired
response. He set down the photo, focused briefly on its mate—a
fortieth-anniversary shot of Will's parents—then sauntered back
toward Will's door. "Give my regards to the lovely Ava," he threw
over his shoulder, and then he walked out.

Will sighed and unlinked his hands, then
leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk and sip his cooling
latte. The last thing Ava Winsted wanted from Will Henley—or from
anybody else at GPG—was regards. She'd much rather the entire firm
disappear from her life and that Will Henley in particular stop
making offers to buy her winery. She'd told him no, and apparently
she'd meant it.

But that didn't mean Will Henley would give
up. He hadn't gotten where he was by caving.

He grimaced, imagining the look on Ava
Winsted's Hollywood-perfect features when he crashed her son's
homecoming party. Not crash,
exactly
—he had finagled his way
in as an invitee's date—but barging in where he wasn't wanted was
not among Will's favorite activities.

Still, he had to go. As far as he could make
out, Suncrest was his key to making money in Napa Valley. And he
had to make as much money as possible to satisfy GPG's general
partners and investors, whose lust for huge returns was
unquenchable.

Will drained the last of his latte. Yup, he'd
gotten that bigger stage, all right.

*

Ever the actress, Ava Winsted forced herself
to laugh—to sound positively gay—as she turned from the French
doors in her casually elegant, light-filled living room to face
Jean-Luc Boursault, the Paris-based screenwriter she hoped would
pen a new, post-Suncrest chapter for her already storied life.

"I'm just thrilled to see Max take over," she
lied. "He learned so much in France, he'll bring an entirely new
perspective to Suncrest. Who knows? He might even end up a better
vintner than his father."

Ava watched Jean-Luc decide—wisely, she
thought—not to challenge that fantastic pronouncement. From his
perch on a cheerful blue-and-yellow Cottage Victorian armchair, he
merely took another sip of his Suncrest sauvignon blanc, which Ava
considered a delightful late-morning libation. Slight of build,
with thick graying hair and eyebrows that threatened to run one
into the other, Jean-Luc looked bohemian, affluent, and
intellectual, much as he had when she'd met him fifteen years
before. "Porter Winsted," he offered mildly, "is a difficult act to
follow."

Who knew that better than Ava? Her late
husband had been a man among men, the scion of a Newport, Rhode
Island, family who'd built two stunning careers—in commercial real
estate and winemaking—yet remained to the end hardworking,
self-effacing, and kindhearted.

Ava's eyes misted. She turned her back on
Jean-Luc to gaze out the French doors, the familiar panorama of
vineyards and olive and eucalyptus trees blurring into indistinct
masses of green and gold under the valley's unremitting midday
sun.

She felt Jean-Luc's hand soft on the small of
her back. "You miss him still."

Still
. Two years only he'd been gone.
Two years already he'd been gone. Sometimes when she awoke, Ava
forgot Porter was dead, and reached out across the cold, cold
sheets only to remember. The stab of pain that followed was
astonishingly raw, every time. But it happened less and less often
now, which in its own way saddened her. She was growing used to him
being gone.

"I will always miss him," she told Jean-Luc.
But I'm only fifty-five and I still feel alive, most days
anyway
. She turned her head to meet her friend's eyes. They
crinkled with a smile, and she was reminded again that Jean-Luc was
in love with her, and had been for some time, and would wait
however long it took for her to be ready for him.

Which might not be that long anymore.

"Will you miss running the winery when Max
takes over?" he asked her.

At that, Ava had to laugh, but didn't have to
lie. "Not in the least. You know me, Jean-Luc. I am many things,
but a businesswoman is not among them." She turned from the view to
wipe nonexistent dust from a round glass-topped table crowded with
art books and photo frames. "I had to run Suncrest after Porter
died. And I think I managed it reasonably well."

"Better than that, Ava."

She shook her head. "My heart was never
really in it, not the way Porter's was." She cast her mind back to
those long-ago years when she'd resented Porter's passion for
Suncrest. Perhaps
obsession
was a better word. No woman
could be as demanding a mistress as a fledgling winery, and it had
caused their young marriage real distress. But they had emerged
intact, and the winery prospered beyond anything they'd imagined.
"Porter loved Suncrest, Jean-Luc. It is his legacy."

But it is not mine
. Hers was as an
actress.

Hollywood would have no room for her, Ava
knew. She might have assiduously protected her blond, Breck-girl
looks, and no one could deny that she had some impressive credits
to her name, but she was still a fifty-something has-been.
Fortunately Europe was more willing to embrace women
d'un
certain age
who still knew how to light up a screen.
Screenwriters like Jean-Luc Boursault even wrote parts for
them.

Ava's mouth pursed in wry humor. Imagine
that.

Jean-Luc returned to his armchair, his
wineglass refreshed. "And you are certain Max can manage as well as
you?"

"Oh, of course." On went Ava's megawatt
smile, for even with a friend as dear as Jean-Luc she felt
compelled to maintain the fiction that she had complete confidence
in her son. What she'd learned in Hollywood was equally true in
Napa Valley: Image was everything. She would not derail what chance
of success Max had by appearing to doubt him from the start. "He
grew up in the wine business. And now he's had this apprenticeship
in France. He's far more knowledgeable than I ever was."

And far more reckless. And far less
disciplined. And so stunningly oblivious of his own
limitations
.

Ava sipped from her wineglass, thinking back
to those painful weeks before Max had decamped to France. The whole
episode was so unseemly and embarrassing and she hated even to
think of it. Such a classic tale: a young lady, the daughter of a
small Sonoma vintner, who, the morning after, regretted what she
had done. Started to think it hadn't been her choice at all. Ugly
accusations flew from her father, and veiled threats, and Ava
hastily cobbled together a face-saving solution. She wrote a
massive check to charity in the family's name and packed Max off to
the Haut-Medoc, claiming a long-planned apprenticeship.

She shut her eyes. Why was there so little of
the father in the son? Where was Porter's caution, his
thoughtfulness, his good sense? True, Max had many natural gifts.
He was intelligent and nice-looking and didn't lack for confidence
or charm. But there was a wildness to him that frightened Ava and
made her worry for the future.

And now of course there was the problem of
Suncrest. She knew that the most prudent course would be for her to
continue to run the winery. Yet, though it made her feel horribly
guilty to admit it, she was done with it—
done
. She'd had
enough of marketing strategies and distribution agreements and
P&L statements. She could play the vintner no longer. It was a
role she was handed against her will and she'd hated it from the
moment she walked onstage.

Of course, the other option was to sell it to
Will Henley and GPG. Suncrest would survive if she did, though
probably not in a form of which Porter would have approved. Those
buyout firms changed businesses—she was a savvy enough
businesswoman to understand that. But sometimes it was hard to
believe Suncrest would fare any better in Max's hands.

Ava abruptly set down her glass. "Shall we
have lunch?" she asked, and swept toward the sun-drenched terrace
beyond the French doors without waiting for Jean-Luc's answer.
"I've asked Mrs. Finchley to lay a table for us in the
pergola."

Jean-Luc looked confused. "Didn't Max's
flight land two hours ago? Shouldn't we wait for him to get here to
eat?"

"Oh no, let's not." Ava knew her son well
enough to know it was unwise to wait for him for anything.

*

Ninety miles south of his mother's intimate
lunch with Jean-Luc Boursault, Maximilian Winsted was doing some
entertaining of his own. He stood at the foot of a San Francisco
Airport Marriott queen-size bed, puffing on a Gauloises cigarette
and eyeing Ariane, Air France flight attendant, First Class. Her
bodacious Parisian self was draped across the bed, the top half of
her uniform strewn all over the industrial-strength blue carpet
alongside her bra and pumps and pantyhose. She was giggling so
much, she kept spilling her champagne on her breasts, where it ran
across her nipples and only made her laugh harder. At this rate,
Max didn't think it'd be a huge challenge getting off the bottom
half of her uniform, too.

Vive la France!

He chuckled, took a last gulp of his own
bubbly and stubbed out his cigarette. Bet Rory never got a
stewardess into bed, or Bucky either, that tool. They didn't have
anywhere near his charm. Sure, he'd had to spend most of the
ten-hour flight from Paris standing at the rear of the cabin
flirting and telling stories, but now he was going to get his
reward: Ariane's full roster of private First Class favors.

I can still top them
, he told himself.
So what if Rory was graduating from Yale Law and Bucky was in med
school? Max Winsted was still the biggest stud from Napa High,
class of '97, and he was about to get even bigger.

"Viens!"
The arm holding the champagne
glass motioned him to come closer. Her bright red lipsticked mouth
smiled, her big dark eyes teased.
"Viens jouer, Max!"

"Let me just shut the drapes." After eighteen
months of French food and French pastries and French wine, Max
suspected he'd look better in the dark.

Since his shirt was already off, he sucked in
his stomach before he walked to the windows, double-thick to keep
out the roar of the 101 freeway six stories below. He was surprised
to see how much traffic there was even at noon. He had plenty of
time, though, since the party didn't start till seven and from here
the drive home took only an hour and a half.

Besides, he'd get there when he got there.
The party was more for his mother than for him, anyway. The
important business started the next day, when he got down to
running Suncrest.

He tugged on the drape cord to shut out the
view. "Your winery is how big?" Ariane was behind him all of a
sudden, pushing her boobs into his back and reaching around his
belly.

"Big." Max turned to face her. "More than a
hundred thousand cases a year." At least that would be true once he
was in charge.

Ariane grabbed him lower, holding his gaze.
Her eyes sparkled.
"C'est tres, tres grand."

He harrumphed. "No kidding."

"You're very rich?" She pronounced it
reech
but he got the point.

"Tres,"
he told her.
And just wait
to see how much richer I'll be this time next year.

Oh, he had plans. Big plans. Suncrest would
really be on the map once Max Winsted was at the helm. No more
treading water like it had been under his mother's management. Of
course, what else could you expect from her? She didn't have a
practical bone in her body. And while his father had been an
excellent businessman in his day, he'd been old-school. Too
cautious. Too plodding.

"What types of wine"—Ariane was kissing his
neck now, her left hand still working its magic south of the
equator—"do you make?"