Too Close to the Sun (36 page)

Max paused. He'd never consulted such a
person before, never even thought of it. He suspected most of them
were charlatans whose only "gift" was getting hold of people's
credit-card numbers. But then again, mysteries did abound in the
universe. And right at the moment he had a pretty serious need for
inspired counsel.

He glanced both ways down the sidewalk, saw
no one he knew, and ducked inside, his footfall setting off a
singsong chime. Inside a dimly lit anteroom was a small round table
draped with dark heavy fabric and set with two rickety chairs. Atop
it and the few other tables that filled the space were an
assortment of candles and crystals and framed drawings of unknown
seers, who peered at Max with narrowed eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Hello?"

From the rear a woman pushed through a narrow
arched passage hung with beads. "What can I do for you?" she asked.
She looked like a frowsy housewife on the wrong side of fifty but
had a handshake like a stevedore. And a subtle accent he couldn't
identify. Armenian, maybe?

"Uh, I'm wondering if it would be possible to
get some sort of reading."

"Of course. Tarot card, palm, or psychic
reading, the best is the package of all three for 75 dollars." Her
mud-colored eyes never wavered from his face.

"How long would that take?"

"Anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour. It
depends on the complications in your life."

He snorted. "Then it might take a while."

"Here." She waved him toward a chair at the
round table. "Sit. I'll be right back," and she shut the front
door, flipped the sign to ADVISING—COME BACK LATER, and bustled off
through the narrow passage with another clattering of beads.

He claimed a wobbly chair, relieved the place
was air-conditioned and didn't reek of incense. Instead he sniffed
unidentifiable cooking smells and wondered if he'd interrupted his
psychic's breakfast. He picked up a business card from a stand and
noted that Madam Natalia had three wine-country outposts.

He stuffed the card in his pocket. She might
be more successful in business than he was. Maybe one of his next
ventures should be to back
her
.

Madam reappeared, balanced her substantial
rump on the other chair, and slapped a stack of tarot cards down in
front of him. "Cut twice, toward you."

He obeyed. She collected the cards and
proceeded to lay them faceup in long overlapping rows. Max tried to
tell if light, happy cards or dark, foreboding cards were turning
up in important positions and had no idea.

"Give me something of yours to hold," she
said, "so I can pick up your energy. Something you've owned for
more than a year."

He removed his watch, handed it to her.
"That's a Rolex."

No reaction from Madam Natalia, who simply
clutched his watch in her left hand, shut her eyes, and swayed
briefly in a trancelike manner. Then she glanced at the tarot cards
and frowned. "Let me see your palms."

Shit. She's seen something horrible
.
He held out both palms, afraid she'd touch him and find out how
damp they were. But she only leaned forward to look, then fell back
in her chair. "One thing is very clear. You are at a significant
crossroads in your life."

He felt a rush of cold that didn't come from
the air conditioning. "That's true."

"You have an important decision to make."

"Yes."

"And you worry you will do the wrong
thing."

"Yes."

She nodded, leaned forward again to peer at
the cards. She shook her head, her brow furrowed. "Have you had
some sort of accident or mishap lately? A fire, perhaps?"

"No." Now she was off on a weird tangent. He
tried to rein her back in. "What can you tell me about this
decision?"

"It's not a love decision. It has to do with
the success and money part of your chart, is that correct?" Her
laser gaze was on him again.

"Yes."

She rubbed the face of his watch, pursed her
lips. "I sense a separation of some type. Perhaps the loss of a
great deal of money. Is that possible?"

You're damn right it's possible
, he
thought.
If I sign with Henley and then get a better offer from
Mantucci, too late to do anything about it
. But to Madam
Natalia he only nodded.

She looked again at the cards, fingered one.
"There is a great deal of pressure around this decision. Perhaps
you are being bullied. I see in your chart that you have been
thwarted before in what you seek to do. Is that correct?"

Max was starting to build real faith in Madam
Natalia's gift. "It sure is," he told her.

She nodded. "I see that you are an old soul
who has fought this battle in prior lives. You have come to this
life to learn to act on the courage of your convictions." She
paused to meet his eyes. "I would love to do a past life regression
for you. I believe it would provide a great deal of illumination.
It requires three days of my preparation and costs"—she glanced at
the watch—"two hundred and fifty dollars."

Seeing his watch reminded Max that he didn't
have much time to play with. "I might be interested in that down
the line, but for now I just need to know what to do."

She arched her brows. "But I have already
advised you. To achieve your goals, you must not be bullied, you
must not be pressured, but you must do what your heart and your
soul tell you is right. You must act on your own convictions." She
waved a hand over the cards. "That is very clear from all of this."
She stood up. "Thank you. That will be 75 dollars."

That's the best 75 bucks I ever spent in
my life
. For Madam Natalia had told Max exactly what he wanted
to hear. He rose, dug out his credit card, and reattached his Rolex
to his wrist. It was ten to ten. He was still hyped but on some
level calmer than he'd been in weeks.

He exited Madam Natalia's into the garish
bright light of a Napa Valley summer day. On the way to his car, he
used his cell phone to call Suncrest's lawyer and declare that no,
he would not attend the signing ceremony. Simple as that. He
listened to a minute or so of her protests, then said he was going
to hang up. He did, then shut off his cell. He had no desire to
hear how Will Henley might react to this latest turn of events.

To revel in his newfound confidence—and also
to avoid running into Henley and his lawyers—Max didn't drive
straight back to Suncrest. Instead he headed for his favorite
overlook, where he'd taken his mother the day he bought her the
Mercedes, up a little-traveled road that wound into the Howell
Mountains on the east side of the valley. At a dirt-packed
clearing, he parked and went to stand at the low guardrail, beyond
which the ground, dense with oak trees, dropped off steeply. He
gazed at the vista of forest and meadows and vineyards, a panorama
of gold and green and brown. Some of Suncrest's vineyards were down
the hill, so close that if he craned his neck he could see pickers
moving along the rows, harvesting the cabernet sauvignon
grapes.

The view was stunning but conditions weren't
great. At ten in the morning it was already close to ninety degrees
and the north wind was annoying—swirly and gusty and constantly
blowing dust in his eyes. Max leaned against the car and lit a
cigarette.

Man
. He chuckled.
Henley must be
apeshit right about now
. But Henley was too arrogant; that was
his problem. He thought that with his snooty investment firm and
his fancy title and his big pot of money that he could always get
what he wanted, when he wanted it. Well, guess again. He might
still get Suncrest someday, but he'd have to wait for it. And shell
out more cash.

Max flicked his cigarette butt. He watched it
roll a few inches along the dirt and was about to lever himself
away from the car to go stomp it out when the wind suddenly got
hold of it and whisked it under the guardrail and into the grass
and trees below.

Shit!
Max scuttled over to the
guardrail and peered down the hill, searching for the butt. He
didn't see it. Thankfully nothing was happening. Eventually he
started breathing again and ambled back to the car to relax against
the chassis. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes,
listening to birdcalls and a distant chopper and the rare whoosh of
a passing car. It was a fine thing, having nothing to do. And
nothing to worry about.

Minutes passed. The sun baked Max's face; the
wind gusted around his body. Then he took a deep breath, and
frowned. Did he smell ... smoke? He raised his head, opened his
eyes, and stared.
Oh, my God, I do smell smoke
. Because
there was a fire crackling right in front of him, mere yards away,
just beyond the guardrail.

Max bolted upright. He didn't entirely trust
what he was seeing. He blinked, shook his head, but there it still
was, right in front of him. Flames, spreading fast, consuming like
a greedy beast the dry, sun-baked grass that hadn't felt any cool,
damp fog in weeks. Before he knew it some leaves on the oaks were
alight. The fire seemed to skitter from one place to another,
carried by the wind. Some area wouldn't be lit and then seconds
later it would be.

Max backed away from the fire, started to
pant. He looked around wildly, for what he didn't know. A fire
extinguisher? A jacket or blanket or something smothering he could
throw on top of it? But there was nothing around, and the fire was
already too big anyway; it was feeding on the grass and the trees
amazingly fast. That damn wind! It was making the fire way too
monstrous and hot and scary for Max to do anything about.

All he knew was that he wanted to be gone. In
desperation, he threw himself back in the convertible, made a
screeching U-turn, and sped down the mountain road as fast as the
car would take him. Once he passed a Smokey Bear signpost declaring
FIRE DANGER: HIGH, and once he went by a fire department call box.
But he ignored it. Because if he called in, they'd figure out it
was him who'd been up there on the overlook. They'd think it was
his cigarette that had started the blaze.

He jammed his foot down even harder on the
accelerator.

*

At 10:30, Will stood in the hallway outside
Porter Winsted's office and tried Max's cell phone one more time.
Instantly voice mail responded. The phone was turned off. He
flipped his own phone shut and returned it to his trouser
pocket.

"Damn." He muttered the word, paced a few
times, raked his hand through his short blond hair.
I can't
believe it
.

Believe it
. The devil on his shoulder
cackled, then threw back his head and outright roared.
And you
thought Max wasn't stupid enough to walk away
.

Apparently he was, though stupidity might not
provide the whole explanation. Cockiness also played into it.
Bravado.

Will set his hands on his hips and stood at
the head of the stairs, staring down to the first floor, where a
male worker in wading boots was hosing down the concrete floor near
the fermentation tanks, several of them now full of the sauvignon
blanc crush.

Max thinks he's still got me in his
pocket. Even after this. He thinks he'll get an offer from Mantucci
and I'll counter it.
Will threw back his head, gazed at the
hundred-year-old beams that crisscrossed the winery's coved
ceiling.
And he might be right
.

But he only
might
be. Because Will
highly doubted that Mantucci would come up with an offer. Suncrest
was too big an acquisition for Mantucci to swing. If Max was
counting on that, he was dreaming. And for Will to make another
offer, he'd have to have his partners' consent. But he already knew
what they'd say.
This Winsted guy's an idiot. And he can't be
trusted. It makes no sense to spend more time on him
.

True, all true. Will shook his head in
disgust. So much for his resuscitation at GPG. With the blowup of
this deal, he'd go from success to failure, just like that. He
wouldn't get fired the minute he got back to the office but he'd
have an enormous blot on him. And his partners weren't too keen on
blots.

This is happening because of Gabby
,
his devil reminded him.
Max would never have even heard of
Vittorio Mantucci if Gabby hadn't forced the introduction.

And what would she get out of her little
Italian jaunt? A big fat zero. Mantucci would not ride in on his
white horse. Now, most likely, Suncrest would get auctioned off to
the highest bidder, or sold off in pieces.

She'll get what she deserves
, Will's
devil said. And Will—angry, hurt, thwarted—agreed.

Porter Winsted's door opened, and Dagney
walked out into the hall. Before she closed the door behind her, he
caught a glimpse of his two male lawyers and Suncrest's one female
on the tartan couches, still waiting, not quite giving up yet.

But he had. Unless something truly bizarre
happened, this game was over.

Dagney joined him at the head of the stairs.
"What do you want to do?"

"Go back to the city."

"I'm really surprised by all this." She
seemed genuinely perplexed, her demeanor somber, her brow furrowed.
He realized this was the moment for him, as the senior member of
the team, to dispense wisdom and perspective.

He took a deep breath. "Some deals just fall
through, Dagney. Often at the eleventh hour. Emotions play a big
role, and people do unexpected things. In this business, it's
really true that it's never over till it's over. That's why it's so
important always to have several possibilities in play." Right now
he could kick himself for not following his own advice. "Come on,
let's get going. We've got work to do."

She nodded, seemed mildly cheered, and
followed him as he said his good-byes and collected his paperwork.
They exited the winery together and halted in unison as they
stepped onto the pebbled path. "Wow," she said. "Something's
burning,"