Too Close to the Sun (28 page)

Cam furrowed her brow. "I think candles are
good. How about three? For the past, the present, and the
future?"

Who couldn't get behind that idea? But as
Gabby watched Cam poke around the miscellaneous drawer, she
wondered what that third candle held in store. She'd never been
this uneasy, not even in that blighted time when she'd fled Tuscany
for Napa, fresh from Vittorio's betrayal. Then she'd had some idea
what lay ahead of her. No more.

Holding the cake with its candles lit, Gabby
stood poised at the kitchen's screen door as Cam pushed it open and
began to sing to the "Happy Birthday To You" tune. "Happy Suncrest
to you, happy Suncrest to you . . ."

Everyone joined in. Gabby stepped carefully
onto the patio, eyes trained on her father's megawatt grin, for a
moment glancing at Will to see the smile that lit his mouth and his
eyes, the private gleam meant only for her. Will fit in so well
with all of them, it was almost frightening. The old fear about
getting too close was always with her these days; she couldn't
quite shake it. He seemed so devoted now, but who knew how fleeting
that might be. She'd seen devotion die before. What was to say it
wouldn't again?

Her father had plenty of breath for three
candles. He blew, everyone clapped, Lucia's husband Ricky let out a
whoop that rose to the dusky heavens. Then they all stilled, while
crickets clicked and mosquitoes flitted about seeking bare flesh.
Will moved beside Gabby and draped an arm over her shoulders. Very
gently he kissed her forehead as she watched her father gaze at
each of them in turn.

"I am blessed," he said. "I knew that even
before the heart attack, but I really know it now. And since I'm an
old man who's even wiser than he used to be"—he paused while his
family noisily disputed that assertion—"then let me say that this
is what life is all about. Having your family around you, living in
the place that you love, enjoying as best you can every day that
God gives you."

Gabby watched the father she adored turn
toward the man she was so close to loving. "And let me thank you,
William. I've heard more than once how much you've helped this
family when they needed it most. I am very grateful."

"I was glad to do it, sir."

Cosimo DeLuca nodded, giving Will a steady
gaze that Gabby was gratified to see he steadily returned. Her
father ended the moment. "Come on." He waved his arm to move
everyone toward the cake perched on the patio table. "Let's
cut."

A half hour later, with leftovers packed in
aluminum foil resting on Gabby's lap, she sat in Will's car as he
drove them in the dark toward Crystal Mountain Road. She wasn't
sure exactly where on Highway 29 he told her, but knew she would
never forget the moment when he suddenly swerved off the road,
turned off the ignition, and pivoted in his seat to clasp her hands
in his. For the rest of her life, she knew she would remember the
flashes of white light on his face as cars hurtled toward them on
the opposite side of the narrow highway.

"I want to tell you something, Gabby," he
said.

She was almost afraid to ask. "What?"

"I know it hasn't been a long time. Not even
two months." He stopped, looked away out the windshield, staring at
something she wasn't even sure was visible. She held her breath,
willing him to say what she felt in her own heart but didn't yet
have the courage to put into words.

Again he met her eyes. And smiled, and ran a
finger down the curve of her cheek. "I love you."

"Oh, Will." It was what she wanted and yet
she was going to disappoint him. She watched him wait for her reply
and hated to do it but couldn't bring herself to say what no doubt
he longed to hear. It wasn't easy for a man to put himself on the
line like this, she knew, especially not a proud man like Will.
Like Vittorio, too
, she thought, and hated to include him in
this moment. Yet it was because of Vittorio that she couldn't reply
in kind to Will.
Not yet, I'm not ready yet
, she tried to
say with her eyes and her smile and a squeeze of his hand,
but
just give me a little more time, and I know I will be.

Perhaps somehow he understood, for he leaned
forward and kissed her on the lips, a soft kiss with no hint of
recrimination. Then he fell back in his seat and took a deep
breath. "There's something else I need to tell you, Gabby.
Something is happening at Suncrest. Something that matters to both
of us."

"What is it?"

"I can't say any more."

She frowned. "You can't tell me more than
that?"

He shook his head.

"Because of professional ethics?"

He said nothing.

She twisted back in her seat to stare
straight ahead, her left hand still holding his. Really, it was
true, he didn't need to say more. She understood him perfectly.

He restarted the car, got back on the road.
The valley flew past on both sides of them, the grapevines glinting
silver gray in the moonlight.

Now, everything would change. For good or for
ill, it had started.

Ava sat on the sofa in the living room of her
leased Paris apartment and watched her son gear up to play the
charming persuader.
Really
, she thought,
he wouldn't make
a bad actor. Were he ever able to commit to one script long enough
to memorize it.

For she knew Max wanted something from her;
she knew he must have some agenda for this supposedly spontaneous
trip to the City of Light. Her son wouldn't come so far merely
because he longed to see his
chere maman
.

He stood with his back to her at the open
doors that led to the walled garden. A weak breeze, the best this
steamy August afternoon could produce, fingered the gauzy white
draperies. "This place is fabulous! How many bedrooms?"

"Four."

"And a garden, too. In central Paris." He
turned toward her and shook his head, as if in great admiration
that she'd unearthed such a find. "But why'd you pick this area? I
didn't know you liked the Trocadero."

"Actually, it was the apartment I picked."
There were only so many choices for short-term luxury rentals,
after all. This one had won Ava over with its garden, its
well-appointed rooms, its slightly worn elegance—all of which
created the right impression for the dinner parties she'd already
started giving. "I'm not too keen on the area."

"Too many ministries and embassies and
official residences? It is a little overbearing. And of course
you're done with the Eiffel Tower and the Invalides."

"I have been for years." Those were for
tourists, whom Ava abhorred. She was a traveler, which was a
different thing entirely.

She eyed her son, who now sat beside her on
the sofa, hands linked between his knees, easy smile on his lips.
She was happy to see that he'd lost weight. He looked healthy, well
groomed, clean shaven, despite ten hours on a transoceanic flight.
And really, he could be quite charming and insightful.

She sighed. If only those moments weren't so
forced and fleeting.

"So you had enough of staying with Jean-Luc?"
he asked.

Answering that required some delicacy. Ava
gave herself time to think while gazing around the living room, at
its cherry-red walls, Italian marble fireplace, and wood-framed
mirror above the mantel, in which she and Max were reflected as
side-by-side toy figurines of Mother and Son.

"I had the sense he needed his privacy," she
lied, "especially now that he's revising his script. You know, he's
a writer. He can be moody and he wants to work all hours. Even
though he never said a word, I felt I was getting underfoot."

Max nodded. She had the idea he knew she was
lying but was willing to buy into her story for the sake of
politeness. There was some truth to what she said. Jean-Luc was
doing a script revision—to what end Ava couldn't guess—and there
was no denying his moodiness. But to claim he wanted privacy was
like saying Romeo had had enough of Juliet. Ava could no longer
abide Jean-Luc's clinging, especially after it became obvious that
he wouldn't be able to relaunch her career. She made time for him,
certainly, but only when her new social calendar allowed it.

For Ava was doing some revising of her own.
And Jean-Luc might or might not end up in her final script.

Max cleared his throat "Mom, I'd like to talk
to you about something."

Ah, the moment of truth has arrived
.
Ava couldn't resist needling her son a little. "Didn't you come to
Paris just to see me?"

"Well, I need to talk to you about Suncrest,
too."

So there was trouble, and it must be serious
if he'd come all this way to tell her about it in person. Ava shook
her head. She had so hoped that by now Max would have a grip on
managing the winery—both for his sake and for hers. It hardly fit
into her plans to have to play a more active role. "What is
it?"

He looked her right in the eye. "I've decided
that I want to sell it. That I want us to sell it. I really think
it's the best thing to do, for a number of reasons."

Her son's words hung in the stale, unmoving
summer air. Ava was stunned.
My God. He's given up
already
.

She rose from the sofa and half stumbled
toward the fireplace, reaching out to grasp the cool marble mantel
to steady herself. She'd feared from the first that Max would lack
the stamina to run Suncrest for long, especially once problems
cropped up. She knew only too well how grueling, how taxing, often
how boring managing that winery could be. But to give up in two
months? How would that look? Her son would look ridiculous to
everyone in Napa Valley. And as his mother, so would she.

"You're not saying anything." Max's voice
came from behind her. "Are you really surprised? I know you talked
about this with Will Henley."

"Quite the contrary. Will Henley talked about
this with me. There's a difference."

"You told me you thought he made some
compelling arguments."

She spun on her heels. "What I told him was
that I would not sell him the winery. And that's what I'm telling
you, too."

God, why couldn't this child ever do what she
wanted? It was the most perfect thing in the world for Max to take
over Suncrest! The father builds a business, and at the appropriate
moment the son takes it over. It was a Hollywood story if ever
there was one. If only the lead actor wouldn't blow his lines.

"But Mom, I don't want to run it anymore."
Max's chin jutted out stubbornly. It was if he had suddenly been
thrust back in time to the terrible twos. "I've tried it and I
don't like it."

"But don't you understand that Suncrest is
your father's legacy? How can you be so willing to just abandon
it?"

"I'm not abandoning it!" His voice rose.
"Henley's company will make it better than it's ever been. I bet if
Dad were still alive, he'd want to sell it to them."

Ava shook her head. Porter would just as soon
have sold her into white slavery as part with Suncrest. But clearly
Max didn't share that view. In this as in everything else, the son
was the diametric opposite of the father.

She tried to calm herself, marshal her
arguments. "Max, for the last month you've been telling me you're
making long-term grape deals, you're planning to add varietals, you
want to take Suncrest to the next level. You've been so
enthusiastic. Don't you want to make those things a reality?"

Now it was his turn to sigh. "Mom, don't get
mad at me." He rose from the sofa and walked toward her, his voice
persuasive, placating. "I know this isn't what you planned, but I
really do think it makes sense. For both of us."

"Why? Because you're already in trouble?
Because the sauvignon blanc isn't selling like it should?"

He flinched. She had a fleeting memory of
walking into the kitchen when he was a toddler to find him
teetering on a stool, trying desperately to hoist his chubby body
onto the counter so he could sneak one of Mrs. Finchley's
gingerbread cookies, cooling on a rack. The look he gave her
then—
Oh, no, Mom! You caught me!
—was so like the expression
he wore now that she had to stifle the laugh that rose in her
throat.

"I know about the rebottling," she told him,
and watched his shock grow. "You don't think I have people who tell
me things?" The faithful Mrs. Finchley for one, who rivaled Ian
Fleming's M when it came to spying. "Don't give me this
best-for-both-of-us story, Max. You want to sell Suncrest because
you've already made a mess of it and don't want to be stuck
cleaning it up."

"I take full responsibility for deciding to
do the rebottling. But it's not my fault it didn't work right.
Gabby DeLuca—"

"I don't want to hear about Gabby DeLuca!"
Ava let her voice rise, like a diva launching into the aria that
had made her a household name. "This is exactly what I was afraid
of, that you wouldn't be able to manage Suncrest. Max, this is your
father's legacy. You can't just sell it the minute running it gets
tough."

Her voice bounced off the red walls, poured
out into the silent garden. It was exactly what she hated to
do—rail, nag, harangue. Yet even after her diatribe, her son said
nothing. She watched his shoulders droop, his head hang. He slunk
to the sofa, where he slumped onto the cushions and let his head
fall into his hands.

Gradually, her anger melted into exhaustion.
And guilt. All those doubts about what a haphazard mother she'd
been—sometimes there, often not—rose and jostled in her mind as she
regarded the dark-haired young man on her leased Paris sofa.

Maybe it's not his fault he is what he is.
Maybe it's mine
. For he was a spoiled child, Ava knew, a rich
child who didn't understand responsibility. Before Suncrest, he'd
never really had any.