Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  Of course, those weren't the only things she'd done to him. Somehow, even when he was a kid, she'd made him feel like he was a huge burden to her. He remembered back to his tenth birthday. Apparently it'd been too much trouble for her to give him a party. So she made Mrs. Finchley do the entire thing, from the invitations to the cake to the band to the magicians. She hadn't even stayed home for it. The other kids noticed she was nowhere around. He'd been so embarrassed.

  Max inhaled a huge hit of nicotine. Man. And now the huge irony was that he could relieve her of the winery, and she wouldn't let him do it. Of course he'd seen through that little charade with Will Henley; he knew she wanted him to believe she'd seriously consider selling. But if that were true, wouldn't she have done it already?

  The good news was that this humiliating limbo—Is Max running Suncrest? Is he not?—would end soon. He could tell that his mother's anger was dissipating. That was the thing with actresses, of course: they never stayed with one emotion for long. Chances were good that before long she'd jet off to Paris, no doubt to get a good thumping from that Jean-Luc of hers. Actually, it might be just what she needed.

  Max stubbed out his cigarette on the exterior stone windowsill, then stashed both butts in an envelope which he would hand-carry downstairs to dispose of in the break room trash. He sat down at his father's old desk, where a small brass clock informed him that it was already half past six, meaning official business hours were long over. Was it too late to make the day's most important call?

  No, he decided, and picked up the phone. Will Henley didn't keep banker's hours. And Max wanted to get this over with.

  He would inform Will Henley that Max and Ava Winsted did not want to sell Suncrest Vineyards, though thank you very kindly for your interest. Max had lined up a few reasons to feed the good investor, though none of them touched on the truth.

  Max Winsted had big plans for Suncrest that made Will Henley's offer a hopelessly pathetic lowball.

  *

  It was just after seven when Will put down the phone from his call with Max Winsted. Immediately his intercom buzzed. "Your sister is here," his assistant murmured.

  Good. He was curious to hear what had brought her from Denver on such short notice. He touched the intercom button. "Please show her in, Janine, thanks."

  He rose from his tufted leather chair to approach the huge paned windows across from his desk, which provided a sweeping view of San Francisco's Embarcadero. Chichi restaurants vied with hulking warehouses for waterfront position, both hiding the piers that jutted into the choppy waters of the bay. Joggers, dog walkers, and businesspeople—locals all—made up a small fraction of the foot traffic. Most of the pedestrians could be easily identified as tourists by their shorts and spanking-new FISHERMAN'S WHARF or ALCATRAZ sweatshirts. Like most nonlocals, they had naively believed that San Francisco—being in California—would be warm in June, and had gotten a chilly surprise. In the distance, commuter traffic rumbled across the Bay Bridge, a feat of design and construction that never lost its marvel status in Will's mind despite how often he stared at it, his brain finessing the details of whatever deal was top-drawer at the moment.

  One deal that had slid a bit from that vaunted position was the acquisition of Suncrest Vineyards. Max Winsted had given Will the official brush-off. What Max didn't understand was that Will Henley was not deterred so easily.

  No, the Winsteds weren't ready to sell Suncrest yet. But that didn't mean they would never be. In fact, Max's call hadn't put Will off in the slightest. He remained as convinced as ever that one day, one day soon, the Winsteds would cave.

  Will lifted a blue Lucite cube from atop the low coffee table in front of his sofa and twisted it this way and that. Suncrest was a winery in transition, a winery in flux. He respected Ava Winsted—he judged her to be a fairly canny operator—but he found it hard to believe that at this stage of her life she wanted to pour her energy into Suncrest. And Max? Max was a lightweight. Will calculated that the young heir, who'd never really had to do a day's work in his life, would tire of running Suncrest once he got a whiff of just how unglamorous the day-to-day gig could be.

  Fine. Will would remain at the ready to relieve both Winsteds of their burdens. And he would prove—to himself and everyone else at GPG—that his strategy of focusing on Suncrest and Suncrest alone had been correct.

  And in the meanwhile, perhaps he could focus on another quarter? He smiled and bent to return the Lucite cube to the table. Some things required more effort than others, but then some things—or people—were worth it.

  An image of Gabby DeLuca rose in his mind. Passionate, sexy, strong-willed Gabby DeLuca. A highly attractive woman who also showed a lot of backbone.

  For example, take how she felt about Suncrest. Clearly it was a huge part of her life and of her father's. The fact that she loved it as she did, though she didn't own a piece of it, spoke well of her—of her passion for her work, her loyalty, her good heart. It was understandable that she'd gotten so upset on learning of his desire to acquire it.

  So maybe she was a little naive about business. So what? He wasn't hiring her to run one of GPG's companies. In fact, one of the things he liked about her was how different she was from him, how refreshingly noncorporate.

  "Will?" His sister stepped inside his office.

  "Beth, you famous CEO, you." He enfolded her in a hug, then frowned and pulled back. "Is it my imagination or have you lost weight?" That wasn't all that had changed in the two months since he'd last seen her. She'd cut her hair fashionably short and streaked it, and was wearing more makeup than usual. Her sleek navy-blue suit was also a departure from her former preference for spring-bright colors. "You look great," he told her, though he wasn't fully convinced he liked this chic new version of his only sibling.

  "Ah, I was getting sick of the same old, same old." She pulled away. "How are you? You look a little tired."

  "No more than usual. Sit down." He waved her toward his cocoa-colored leather sofa. "Do you have business in town?"

  They both sat. "A few meetings," she said. "I had some this afternoon and I've got a few more tomorrow morning. Then I head back."

  "Quick trip."

  "Hm." Her gaze skittered away.

  He regarded her. Something else was different, beyond her appearance. Was the workload getting to her? Well-established as Henley Sand and Gravel might be—their grandfather had founded it sixty years before—running a sizable construction-supplies business was no cakewalk. Especially not while raising two boys, aged seven and five, though her husband, Bob, more than pitched in with the childrearing.

  "Are you hungry?" he asked her.

  "I could eat."

  Will chatted about this and that on their ten-minute walk along the Embarcadero, Beth remaining uncharacteristically quiet. Once they arrived at the waterfront restaurant where he'd booked a table—which boasted killer bay views and even better seafood— "You order," she told him, without even glancing at the menu.

  This was not Beth's style, either. Will set his own menu aside and leaned close across the linen-draped table. "What's wrong?"

  She hesitated.

  "Come on, Beth. I can see something's bothering you."

  "All right. This is why I really came out here, anyway." She threw up her hands. "It's Bob. He wants to move back to Philadelphia."

  Will frowned. "That's where his family's from, right?"

  "And now his father's got some health problems. They're getting older, but aren't we all?" She shook her head. "He says that after nine years of doing what I want, we should do what he wants for a change."

  "I didn't realize he wasn't doing what he wanted in Denver."

  "It was news to me, too."

  Will was silent for a moment, pained by the hurt in his sister's carefully mascaraed blue eyes. "Is he serious?"

  "Very." She gave a short, harsh laugh, with no hint of humor in it. "He already sent out resumes. He wants to make the move this summer, before the new school y
ear."

  "Do the boys know?"

  "No. I'm praying it just goes away. I'm actually hoping the economy stays sucky so maybe he won't get any offers." Her eyes teared up then. She made a choking sound and tried to hide her face with her hand. "And I'm afraid that if he does get an offer, he'll go without us."

  "Oh, Beth, he wouldn't do that." Will reached a consoling hand across the table, but his sister just shook her head and dug in her handbag for a tissue.

  So this was why Beth had come into town—to tell him this. It must be serious. Yet if a tornado had cut a swath from Kansas to San Francisco, Will couldn't have been more surprised. Beth and Bob's marriage had always seemed rock solid to him, like his parents'. From the moment Bob had appeared on the scene Beth's senior year in college at Boulder, he and Beth had seemed made for each other. Both engineers. Both skiers. Both kid-lovers and eager to start a family. They even looked the same, like brother and sister, blond and athletic and outdoorsy. When the boys came, the picture was complete. Both had everything they'd ever wanted.

  A waiter swept past and laid a basket of bread on their table. Beyond the windows, the bay waters did their ceaseless dance. Puffy clouds scudded across the twilit sky, while white lights began to shiver on the opposite shore as Berkeley's bohemian night came alive.

  Will watched Beth stare out the windows with blank eyes. This explained the weight loss, the new look. She was doing what she could to entice, to hold on. If Bob were there, Will knew he would have wanted to throttle him. Though he probably would have been wise to wait for Bob's side of the story.

  Which Will could easily imagine. Beth always saw her family and Bob never saw his. When he went out to Colorado for college, he didn't necessarily intend to stay forever. Henley Sand and Gravel had become a bigger part of his life than he'd ever imagined. His wife was tied to Henley S and G's CEO job.

  And Will knew why. Because it wasn't good enough for that damn brother of hers. It was too pedestrian, too humdrum, too small a stage for a Harvard Business School graduate.

  Will hung his head, guilt rising in his throat. Once in his life—once—the Golden Boy had rebelled. One of his greatest fears had always been that someday it would come back to bite him.

  "You know, Beth . . ." He didn't quite know how to say it. He knew that was because he didn't say it nearly enough. "I hope you understand how much it means to me that you stepped in to run Henley S and G. I wouldn't be able to do what I'm doing if you hadn't. And it's probably not how you imagined your life, being tied to it, and to Denver."

  She shook her head. "Look, Will, Denver is my home. And I'm tied to that company because I want to be." She leaned forward to force him to meet her eyes. Her voice was low and passionate. "So what if when we were growing up we always thought you'd run it? Times change!" She gave a little snort. "It's not like Japan, where the emperor's got to be male."

  He pinched the skin between his eyes. "But sometimes I still feel like a shirker."

  "Working eighty hours a week? I don't think so." She made a scoffing sound. "Anyway, what do you think I should do?"

  "About Bob? I'm kind of out of my depth giving marital advice."

  "Take a stab at it."

  The devil sat on his shoulder and whispered. Tell her that whatever Bob does, she should stay in Denver. He tried to shake Beelzebub off, though it wasn't easy. "I don't know," he said. "It sounds like a midlife crisis to me."

  "At thirty-two?"

  "You guys started young."

  "That's true."

  "I'd try to ride it out. I think there's a good chance he'll give up the idea. He may even go back to Philly to interview and realize he's not that crazy about it. He may realize he doesn't really want to live that close to his family again. You don't know. Maybe he's just trying to make a point."

  "Well, he's certainly done that."

  They sat silently for a time, then again Beth spoke. "Maybe you're right." Her expression grew more hopeful. "I hope so." She sighed and took one last swipe across her nose with a tissue before stuffing it back in her handbag. "Okay, I'm officially ready to talk about something else." She tried to put a smile on her face, but only partly succeeded. "Let's dissect your love life."

  Gabby DeLuca. He had to admit it was a stretch at the moment to link her name with that phrase, yet if hope was on the menu, she was the woman who came to mind.

  "I did meet somebody who's pretty interesting," he told his sister.

  "Good!" She narrowed her eyes at him. "So why do I get the idea there's a problem?"

  "Well, for one, I'm trying to buy the winery she works for."

  "For one? There's more?"

  He sipped from his water before speaking. "She thinks I'm a capitalist pig."

  Beth arched her brows and reached for her menu. "She reads you like a book. I like her already."

  *

  When Tuesday night finally rolled around, Gabby cursed herself for having agreed to meet Vittorio. When he'd called out of the blue on Saturday to announce that he was in Napa Valley and wanted to see her, why had she agreed? she asked herself. What had she been thinking?

  She hadn't been thinking about not seeing him. That rebel idea had been shot down instantly, like an enemy aircraft. She knew she ran a high risk of heartbreak. She feared her recovery would be seriously set back. Yet she also knew she could not pass up the chance to see Vittorio for the first time since she'd left Castelnuovo. Maybe, she told herself, seeing him might actually help her. Maybe he'd changed in some horrible way that would make her wonder how on God's earth she'd ever fallen in love with him. Maybe he'd gotten grotesquely fat or gone bald or sprouted nose hairs.

  Or maybe she was trying to rationalize what she was about to do, which on some level she was ashamed of. Going out of her way to see Vittorio after what he'd put her through made her either a fool or a glutton for punishment. Or both. She noticed she told no one about her intention to meet him—not Cam, not Lucia, not her mother, not her father. No one. Because she knew they'd try to talk her out of it, or insist on going along, and she knew she wanted to be alone with him.

  For in a tiny, mischievous part of her brain, where naughty ideas lurked and pranced, she wondered if maybe Vittorio hadn't gotten married after all. Maybe he'd pulled out at the last minute, so overwhelmed by his love for Gabriella DeLuca that he couldn't possibly wed another. Maybe he'd succeeded in bringing his parents around. Maybe the senior Mantuccis were willing to accept her now, seeing how their beloved Vittorio was still—one year later—so desperately in love with the pretty American.

  Who was, after all, of Italian descent.

  She arrived at Bistro Jeanty slightly late so as not to appear overanxious. That had required sitting in her car for ten minutes, which had required parking on a side street so Vittorio wouldn't happen to see her when he himself arrived. She had deliberately chosen a restaurant as the place to meet in the hope that being in a public place would keep her from screaming or throwing things or maybe even crying. And she'd dressed down—black slacks and sweater, minimal jewelry, subtle makeup—both because she didn't want him to think she'd gotten all dolled up just for him and because she knew he liked her best this way.

  She ordered herself to be strong, exited her car, marched into the tiny restaurant—cozy and chic and French—and felt something akin to a heart spasm when she spied him at a table in the rear, looking as handsome and sweet and wonderful as ever. Lovable, loving, warmhearted Vittorio.

  Wearing a wedding ring.

  "Gabriella." He rose from his chair and grasped both her hands, then kissed her cheeks, Italian-style. His dark eyes were alight with the fire she remembered; his features were as straight and Roman; he was as tall and lanky and well dressed in the casual but expensive clothes he purchased twice yearly in Milan.

  Damn.

  "You look beautiful," he murmured.

  So do you, she almost said, their little private joke, though it didn't seem all that funny anymore. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she sa
id instead, which wasn't even true.

  They sat. The business of fine French dining buzzed on around them. People chattered and clinked glasses, and oohed and ahhed over their selections. One thought chanted nonstop in her brain: It's Vittorio. Vittorio. Vittorio.

  "What brings you to the valley?" she asked him.

  "Business. You know, it's gorgeous here. As lovely as you told me."

  He had never come home with her while they were dating. When she returned to California to visit, which she did twice, she traveled alone. It was one of the few points of contention between them. It was also an omen, she realized later, that she had failed to heed. There had been a reason he didn't want to meet her family or to see where she came from. On some primal level, he must have known he wouldn't do right by her.

  A waiter came by. They ordered sparkling water—his preference—and French wine—hers. A bit of a slap at him. Small-minded, she knew, but nastily satisfying.

  "How is your family?" he asked.

  "A week ago I would've said fine. But then my father had a heart attack."

  "Oh, no." Vittorio's features twisted in what looked like genuine concern. "Gabriella, I'm sorry. How is he?"

  "He's still in the hospital. Better, but weak. His heart is pumping at only half the strength of before." That was a malady she understood, as a matter of fact. It took a long time for a battered heart to get back to full strength. If it ever did.

  "And your family?" she asked in turn, just to be polite, because she hadn't been too keen on Signor and Signora Mantucci. And they had never been other than chilly to her, at least once her romance with their son began to blossom.

  Vittorio began to recite the latest Mantucci doings. Food was ordered and presented and cleared; their superficial chatter continued. After a time they moved on to what was new with his family's winery, which she was curious about. She learned that he was assuming more responsibilities as his father aged. As was right and proper for the eldest son, who was now settled. Now married.