Around them the crowd ebbed and flowed, the ebbing never lasting long because this was a popular eatery with delectable fare. Darkness fell beyond the small curtained windows, the deep velvet darkness of the valley, where city lights couldn't dim the firmament's sparkle.
Interestingly, the name of one person never passed Vittorio's lips, one person who certainly loomed large in his life. For a very long time, in fact, she'd loomed large even in Gabby's, though the two women had never met.
Their entrees had just been cleared when Gabby popped the question. "How's your wife?"
Vittorio nodded as if he'd known this would come up. He leaned his elbows on their small table and linked his long fingers, studying them with apparent fascination. His wedding band glowed in the candlelight.
He raised his head to meet her eyes. "Chiara is pregnant."
Gabby understood of course that Vittorio had sex with his wife. She'd forced herself to understand that it had even happened more than once. Certainly it hadn't been as frequent or as wonderful as their own lovemaking—surely it was more pro forma than that—but she'd inured herself to the fact that it had happened, was happening, would continue to happen.
She hadn't forced herself to consider the likelihood of a child.
Or to fully comprehend that she would not bear the tender little creature who would inherit Vittorio's dark long-lashed eyes or ready smile, or the soft, soft hair that stayed curly even when it was sopping wet. But that sad truth was stampeding across her brain now. Chiara would bear that child.
"When is she due?"
"August."
And she would bear it soon.
Gabriella didn't allow herself the indignity of counting backwards to calculate exactly when the dastardly impregnation had happened. It had happened—that was all that mattered.
Vittorio was talking. "Gabriella, there's something I want to say to you."
She looked away from him and tried to steel herself anew. This, too, had the sound of something real, and she was rapidly hitting her limit of real for the evening.
"I am so sorry for how I hurt you," he told her. "Not a day goes by when I don't think of you or feel so bad for what I did to you."
He paused for a response. She stared at their tablecloth, stained now, not perfect and white as it had been before.
He went on. "I should never have let it go so far."
That hurt. She raised her eyes. "Are you telling me you would prefer that it had never happened, Vittorio? You'd rather take it back?" She'd never wanted that, not once. She wouldn't give up a single morning of waking beside him, a single thrill of seeing him after an absence, a single walk through the vineyards holding hands. One of her self-help books told her that meant she was truly living. She'd thrown it against the wall.
He shook his head. He looked tired—exhausted, really—and older than he'd looked just the year before. "I don't really want to take it back, Gabriella. But I knew there would be problems with my parents and I didn't do anything about it. I was too happy, I guess. I didn't want it to stop."
Their gazes locked. She saw the pain in his eyes, mirroring her own, and for that moment was thrown back to that savage day when she first lost him, when amid the brutal destruction of her own world her heart had broken all over again for him, for his rage and pain and frustration. She had, in some ways, suffered for two. She had understood that he had counted on his parents to bestow their blessing, even though he had to have known they wouldn't. She had understood how deeply their refusal had hurt him. She had understood how their edict that he live his life on their terms—or else—had disillusioned him, robbed him of the last of his youthful innocence. Maybe, if he'd been a different man, their stubbornness would have given him the strength to marry her.
But was that a matter of strength? She wasn't sure. Vittorio was the man she loved precisely because he couldn't walk away from his family. The love and loyalty that infused his soul were what made him so dear.
"When my parents told me they wouldn't accept you, Gabriella, you have to understand, it was like they were saying, Vittorio, you have a choice. You can cut off your arm or you can cut off your leg." He leaned closer, a plea in his voice. "Do you understand?"
She hesitated. Then, "I understand you chose them over me."
"I had to! I couldn't choose you and keep them. And if I couldn't keep them, then you and I would never be happy."
"Are you happy now?"
He fell back against the spine of his chair. No, his silence screamed. Not really, his dark eyes repeated. And there her heart went all over again, there came the tears to her eyes, there came the fragile, beautiful wish in her soul that even without her, he would be happy.
I must love him still, she thought, because no matter what, I want the best for him. Even if it doesn't include me.
"I want you to be happy, Gabriella. I want you to find a man who loves you with all his heart. Who can do better than me." His voice broke. "When you find him, maybe I can forgive myself."
She rose from her chair then, unable to speak for the tears in her throat, for the new gash across her healing heart. She hoped that in her eyes he could read the words that shouted in her head. Vittorio, Vittorio, you're already forgiven.
He seemed to understand, because he nodded, and didn't try to stop her when she walked out the door, for the first time in her life leaving him behind to watch her go.
Chapter 6
"Can you believe this?" Max asked, grinning.
Ava had to smile as she watched her son. Dressed in his makeshift pajamas of sweatpants and tee shirt, his mussed dark hair haloed by the morning rays streaming through the kitchen windows, he wore a look of satisfaction few Wine World reviews had ever provided any Winsted.
"The 1999 Suncrest Cabernet Sauvignon," he read, "serves up dazzling layers of tightly focused currant, anise, and blackberry. Excellent structure, remarkable focus, richly elegant. An extraordinary effort." Max slapped the magazine and let out a whoop. "You can say that again!"
Ava arched a brow, leaning her robed back against the long granite-topped center island. "Are you taking credit for the winemaking now?"
"Nope. But I am taking credit for this review." And he gave her that lopsided grin again, like a mischievous imp daring her to contradict him.
But she couldn't. Not this time. Ava's slippered feet padded over to the stovetop as the teakettle began to whistle. How could Max's "schmoozing"—as he put it—not be credited for this best-ever Wine World review? A 94, Joseph Wagner had given the 1999 cab. In Porter's day, Wagner had never rated a Suncrest vintage above 90. Was it coincidence that this A+ score followed Max's hosting of the Pebble Beach jaunt? Who could be so naive?
Perhaps it was true that Max would never be the vintner his father was. Still, he might be effective in his own way. And wasn't that as much as she could hope for?
Ava poured boiling water into her tempered-glass coffeepot from France, freshly ground Sumatran beans already inside. She didn't like electric coffeepots—they were gauche somehow, besides which they cluttered the counter. European-style coffeemaking better suited her sensibilities, as did the high-tech German oven and the handcrafted white cabinetry it had taken a team of woodworkers two months to complete.
"You know, Mom, I've been tossing around another idea I'd like to run past you." Max hoisted himself atop a black leather-covered stool at the island's curved far end. "I'm thinking of hiring consultants. Just to get another perspective on where Suncrest is and where it's going. I could use a thought partner on some marketing ideas I've been playing with, for example."
Ava laid a sourdough loaf on the wooden cutting board and sliced off a few pieces, then poked them into the toaster. This was both to speed breakfast and to give her time to think.
How sage he sounds, she thought, how very sensible! Another "perspective"? A "thought partner"? And he actually wanted to run these notions past her first? This was certainly a change. Max's traditional mode of operation was to go off ha
lf-cocked. It had been some time since Ava had enjoyed a swell of maternal pride, but she was starting to feel positively buoyant now.
She pulled a few jars of fruit preserves from the Sub-Zero. "That's an expensive proposition, though, isn't it?"
Max abandoned his stool to fetch plates, knives, and napkins, another departure from the I'll sit here, you serve me Max of old. "It is, but it can more than pay for itself. And I'm not planning on using them for long." He pulled two Italian ceramic mugs from the glass-fronted cabinets. "I won't do it unless you're in favor, Mom. I know we need to keep costs in check."
"I'm not against it," she heard herself say.
"Good." He bussed her on the cheek, smiling, then proceeded to boil more water for oatmeal and to chop dried cherries to mix in. By himself. Briefly Ava thought that another mother might have been more gratified if her offspring had begun to perform these tasks at age twelve, but she was thrilled to witness them even at twenty-five. There had been many a day when the teenaged Max had made such heavy use of Mrs. Finchley that Ava had feared the housekeeper would flee in high dudgeon to her native Bristol.
Max flipped on the TV—but not before a "Do you mind?"—and ate his breakfast alongside Ava without once swearing at the news anchors. Then he carried every single plate, mug, and piece of cutlery to the sink—hers included. He didn't actually load them into the dishwasher, but he did rinse them, then straightened the dishtowel that hung from a hook near the oven.
Then, "I'm going to shower," he declared, and half jogged out of the kitchen as if the day's business were too important to delay. Ava watched, wondering if it was all an act and fearing it might well be.
But perhaps it wasn't. She felt an uncharacteristic wash of hope where her son was concerned. For a moment she could actually envision a sparkling future in which Max was a reliable and considerate son who managed Suncrest with an able hand. Then she could enjoy life with an unencumbered heart. True, without Porter. But perhaps with Jean-Luc.
Thinking of him made her smile. Maybe she could swing a quick trip to Paris. Jean-Luc had been virtually begging. And though she hated Paris in summer—it was crawling with tourists and the heat positively radiated—he had suggested they decamp to the countryside, where, it was true, the high temperature was far more tolerable.
Amid those pleasant thoughts, Ava was about to embark on her daily run when she saw Gabriella's mud-caked Jeep pull into the small parking lot behind the barrel-aging building. Ava waved a hand in the air to motion the girl closer.
She arrived at a trot, dirt-smeared as usual. "Good morning, Mrs. W."
"Good morning, Gabriella. Have you seen the Wine World review?"
"I did!" The brows behind the trendy violet-lensed sunglasses shot up in obvious surprise. "I'm going to show it to my father. He'll be thrilled."
"Good, that's what I wanted to make sure of." Though privately Ava believed Max had much more to do with the review than Cosimo DeLuca—winemaker though he might be—she had learned in her Hollywood days that a wise woman shared credit. "How is your father doing at home?"
"Champing at the bit."
"Well, you can tell him that I believe Suncrest's future has never been brighter. Exciting new things are in store for this winery. He has that to took forward to."
"Excuse me?" Suddenly Gabriella was leaning forward, all intensity. ''What exciting new things? Is something happening to Suncrest?"
Ava frowned. "Whatever do you mean?"
She looked flustered. "I mean . . ." Her mouth slammed shut. Then, tentatively, "Are there any changes in the offing that perhaps I should know about?"
What is this girl going on about? Then Ava had a revelation, one she found quite disturbing. Could Will Henley have told Gabriella about the offer? Of course Ava had taken note of the attraction between those two at the hospital—it was almost embarrassingly palpable—but she'd never imagined that a man in his position would divulge such sensitive confidential information. Certainly not to a woman in whom his interest could only be sexual.
Ava gave her voice an intensity of its own. "Despite what anyone else may have told you, Gabriella, I can assure you that the only change on the horizon is Max's management of the winery. This is the beginning of a thrilling new era for Suncrest, one that my husband and I looked forward to for years."
Ava watched the girl's eyes go wide behind her sunglasses. "Yes, Mrs. Winsted," she said.
"I trust you're as enthusiastic about this transition as I am? Because it is crucial that Max be surrounded by loyal employees. I will not have him undermined by his own staff."
"I understand. And let me assure you, I am excited." She paused, then, "I'd like nothing better right now than to see your son take over Suncrest."
"All right, then." Frowning, and silently cursing one Will Henley, Ava waved off her young employee.
*
Gabby hurtled her Jeep south along Highway 29, heading for the town of Napa and her parents' house. Here, around Yountville, the valley was wide around her, with gently mounded foothills rising to the east and west. Elsewhere in California, their green lushness might well be hidden beneath tract housing. But the restrictive zoning in this part of the valley kept them closer to a natural state.
Will would probably disapprove. Gabby snorted quietly. Too bad. He was out of luck these days, at least with regard to Suncrest. It was fantastic news that he hadn't been able to persuade Mrs. W to sell. There was still the open question of how Max would run the place, but just maybe he wouldn't do anything idiotic.
Perhaps she'd luck out and things in her life would stay pretty much the same. That's what she hoped for, deep down, though it made her feel boring and unadventurous to admit it. From when she was a girl, she'd liked habits and routine, order and predictability. She used to make daily agendas for herself. Up at 7 AM. Shower/breakfast till 7:30. To school by 7:45. Class till 11:15 . . . On and on, for the whole day. It gave her profound satisfaction to cross through each checkpoint on time, X each item off the list. It gave her a sense of control and forward motion.
But falling in love with Vittorio shredded her lists like confetti and tossed them out the window to blow away. Life became a free-for-all. And a delicious one, which surprised her. Things happened when they happened, and the wonder of it was, she didn't mind. Lovemaking in the middle of the day. Bathing at four in the afternoon. Walks at all hours. Lunch at three, with maybe a nap after. Working till nine to catch up, then wine and pasta and bed, with Vittorio, always with Vittorio.
Highway 29 widened to two lanes, a signal that she had arrived in the more heavily trafficked southern end of the valley. Gabby maneuvered around a slow-moving flatbed truck and wondered if Vittorio was still in Napa. He felt gone, somehow. Yet he'd felt gone the moment she'd walked out on him at Bistro Jeanty. She knew it was good that the ache that followed was dull, not searing, that she felt hollow, but not lost. It meant she was getting over him, for real his time.
A few minutes later she hit Trancas Street and turned left. This area, nearer to San Francisco, was a lot less glamorous than the bucolic towns farther north. The snobbiest folks from up-valley would drive through as fast as possible, turning their noses up at what was basically generic commercial suburbia. Four-lane thoroughfares and strip malls and fast-food chains held sway. Unfortunately, all the concrete meant you could easily forget you were in one of the most naturally beautiful spots on earth.
After a few zigzag turns, Gabby found herself on the cul-de-sac of her childhood. Her parents' home was one among a series of California bungalows: all small and tidy and differentiated by how well their owners tended their particular square of lawn. The DeLucas benefited from both Cosimo and Sofia being neat freaks.
Gabby pushed open the unlocked front door to find her father in the living room, wearing pajamas and watching a raunchy TV talk show. He punched OFF on the remote control the second he saw her, a sheepish expression spreading over his unshaven face.
She had to laugh. "I caught you!"<
br />
He threw up his hands. "How am I going to do this for six weeks?"
"You have to take it this easy for only the next few weeks." She kissed his cheek, then perched on the brown corduroy couch next to his easy chair. "How're you feeling?"
His face twisted into a not bad expression. Even though he was convalescing, Gabby was shocked to see her father's life reduced to daytime TV and too much free time. A musty smell lingered about him, as of clothes too long worn or a bath too hastily taken. The colorful afghan she and Cam had crocheted as teenagers draped over his legs, as if he were an invalid in a wheelchair. A small tray cluttered with pill bottles rested on the side table next to the cheesy Leaning Tower of Pisa coasters she'd brought back as a gag souvenir from Tuscany. She pivoted a few of the bottles to face her. Toprol. Zocor. Bayer aspirin.
"I think I'm due to take one of those," he said, cocking his chin at the aspirin.
"I'll get you some water."
It was in the kitchen that she noticed the flowers. A showy assortment of white roses, orange lilies, and yellow oncidium orchids, delivered in the sort of vase that Gabby's mother would save rather than recycle. There was only one person they could have come from.
Will Henley hadn't disappeared from her mind, despite his ongoing silence, which now had persisted for nearly three weeks. Still he lingered at the edge of her consciousness, occasionally giving her pause to wonder.
Why hadn't she heard from him? Did she want to? Had he been interested in her only when it was possible he might acquire Suncrest, in which case he would have wanted her support, and both DeLucas' winemaking expertise? Could he be that cynical?
Gabby returned to the living room and handed her father the glass of water, trying to keep her tone light. "That bouquet in the kitchen is really beautiful."
Her father tipped back his head and swallowed the aspirin. "You know it's from that Will Henley fellow, right?"
Too Close to the Sun Page 9
