Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  Was it her imagination or did he sound fake casual, too? "I know he sent flowers to the hospital."

  "And sent this bunch here. I remember liking him, when I was talking to him during that dinner." Her father's tone turned wry. "Though I have to say the rest of the evening is kind of a blur."

  "He was very helpful," she heard herself say. "He really took charge when you had the heart attack, then he came to the hospital and stayed till past two."

  "Did he really?" His brows arched as if that tidbit gave him something new to think about. "I liked him," he repeated, then his eyes strayed to the blank TV screen. Gabby had the funny feeling he was waiting for her to say something confidential, something girly and private that didn't pass often enough between fathers and their grown-up daughters.

  She was quiet for a time, then, "I like him, too." It hung in the air, an admission of truth swinging back and forth in the breeze billowing inside through the open front window. "But I think I gave him the impression I didn't. I think I may have overreacted to something he told me."

  Her father's gaze snapped back to her. "How so?"

  Gabby crossed her arms and stared out the window. Some neighborhood ten-year-olds were using the cul-de-sac in the way it was meant to be used: as an asphalt baseball diamond. All that was different from her day was that a good number of the players were girls.

  There were things she couldn't tell her father about Will Henley. That he'd tried to buy Suncrest, for example. That news flash was strictly verboten, not to mention that her father would find it highly upsetting.

  "He's in business," she began. "In the city. With some hotshot company that does investments." She paused, then, "It makes me think he sees the world very differently from how I do."

  "You're in business, Gabby. Suncrest is a commercial enterprise."

  "It's not the same thing. You and I don't spend our time worrying about whether Suncrest makes money. We just try to make the best wine we can."

  He laughed. "Well, it's good somebody's worrying about it! Otherwise Suncrest wouldn't have lasted for long."

  She reclaimed her seat on the couch. "Don't you ever think the valley's changing too much? That it's a lot more about making money than it used to be?"

  "Oh, sure. For lots of folks, money's all they're interested in." He paused and looked away from her, his dark eyes taking on a faraway gleam as if he were thinking about other times, times she'd never known. "But that's not true for everybody. Never has been." He frowned and moved his eyes back to her. Narrowed. Penetrating. "Are you worried that's what this Will is like?"

  She shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed and very cornered. "A little."

  "Just because of the outfit he works for, the kind of work he does? Do you even really understand what that is?"

  She heard the incredulity in her father's voice. She met his gaze and scrunched her nose. "You're thinking maybe I judged him too fast?"

  "Well, it certainly seems to me that he's been very nice to us. And he didn't have to be. It's not like the DeLucas can boost him up the corporate ladder." He shook his head, his mind clearly made up. "Nope, he didn't strike me as the sort of man who cares only about money."

  A tiny hope leaped in Gabby's heart as she listened to her father. Maybe he's right. All I've seen Will be is considerate and helpful. I wonder if it's me who's been the jerk here?

  It was ironic. She hated when people judged her on the basis of snippets of information. She was her father's assistant winemaker, so they assumed she got her job not because she was good but because of that inside connection. She was nearing thirty and never married, so they thought she was too uppity or picky or careerist to get a man. Now she'd gone and made slapdash judgments about Will, relying almost entirely on her own biases.

  Great work, Gabby.

  Her father continued, but now he had a sparkle in his eyes. "You know, I noticed him staring at you all during that dinner."

  "You did?"

  "Yes, I did." He paused. "And I liked him."

  She didn't know quite why, but tears pricked behind her eyes. "Oh, Daddy," she managed, then she had her arm around his neck and her head against his shoulder, and it was as if all the fear and heartache of the past days fell away like a winter cloak shed in the first warmth of spring. Her father's heart was beating a steady rhythm, for the first time in years her life didn't begin and end with Vittorio Mantucci, and an American man named Will Henley had sent her father flowers—twice—and stared at her all through dinner.

  She raised her head to see that her father's dark eyes were moist, too. "You know," he said, "if you made a mistake, you can always apologize."

  She could. And she realized she wanted to. "Do you—?" she started to say, but she didn't even need to finish.

  Her father patted her knee. "Just come back later, honey."

  She kissed him and then was off, in the Jeep, on 29 back to the winery, not sure what she was going to do about Will Henley but knowing it was going to be something.

  It turned out he beat her to it.

  "You got a package," Cam chirped from the reception desk when Gabby burst into the winery, hell-bent for who knew what. "I put it on your desk."

  It was a small box wrapped in string and brown paper, like an old-fashioned delivery. She knew it was from Will even before she opened it, though a big clue was that the return address read SAN FRANCISCO. She tore into it with excited fingers.

  Inside was a white box tied with light blue ribbon. Then tissue paper, then something cool and roundish and ceramic. Carefully she pulled it out .

  It was a pig. Pink and cheerful-looking. With a big round rump and a squiggly tail and perky pig ears above an enormous snout.

  There was a note attached. Which read, Dinner Saturday over July 4th weekend? Please say yes. Give your favorite capitalist something to look forward to . . . Will.

  *

  Will always thought that GPG's Monday partners' meeting was like a grown-up version of Show and Tell. For the junior partners like him—who were intent on currying the favor of the senior partners like Simon LaRue—they generated a fair amount of performance anxiety. You had to describe your deals-in-progress in realistic terms yet still project supreme confidence about them. If the partnership got any whiff of doubt, it would be a deal-killer. And while you benefited from their best thinking, you might also get creamed by their analysis.

  This group didn't miss much.

  Will sat at his usual place at the conference table, its mahogany expanse littered with folders, documents, charts, and the occasional laptop computer. Lunch had been cleared, but the coffee and water services remained. Modern art of the multimillion-dollar variety hung on the pristine white walls, while perfectly tended phalaenopsis orchids in blue-and-white Japanese pots perched on the two side tables. For this session, three of the usual attendees were missing—two away on business and one on a long weekend. At midafternoon, seven pairs of challenging eyes turned toward Will.

  Simon LaRue spoke from the head of the table. He was allowed to play pasha when managing partner Hank Faskewicz was out of town, and clearly lived for the role. "What do you have for us, Will?"

  Will rattled off the latest on his telecom and publishing deals, generating the usual aggressive backflow of questions and comments. He finished with, "We've got a term sheet with Internco, and I anticipate we'll be finalizing that deal by the end of the month," which generated nods all around.

  He took a deep breath. Now for the hard part.

  "With regard to our acquisition plans in Napa Valley, the Winsted family of Suncrest Vineyards has passed on our initial offer. However, as we've discussed here before, the winery is in transition. The only heir, Max Winsted, who's twenty-five years old, is just back from France to manage the operation. I remain confident that in the short to medium term he'll find running Suncrest sufficiently challenging that the situation will play out in our favor."

  He leaned back in his chair. The End, he hoped, but it was not to be.r />
  Directly across from him, fellow junior partner Susan Amos Jones frowned. She was African-American, a Rhodes Scholar, and married to a director of the biggest consulting firm in town. "Are you looking only at Suncrest or are you considering other opportunities in Napa?" she asked him. "Aren't there more than two hundred fifty wineries there?"

  "Suncrest offers a distinctive value proposition, Susan." Will leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "The brand is well known but underutilized. It's focused exclusively on cabernet sauvignon and sauvignon blanc but could be applied to a broader range of varietals targeting the same customer base. In addition, the winery owns significant property in the so-called Rutherford Bench, which produces superior cabernet sauvignon grapes. It's extremely difficult to acquire vineyards in that area, and this acreage has not been fully planted because the owners have been content to run a smaller operation. And as I've said before, I believe the family situation is such that given a bit more time, the Winsteds will be primed to sell."

  Omar El-Farouk piped up, from Will's right hand. Stanford B-School, fabulous New York connections, national amateur cycling trophy. He was the third young partner, meaning he and Susan and Will were competing for the one senior position that might open up over time. "You are looking at other options, correct?"

  Will turned cool eyes in his direction. "Of course." Looking? Sure. Doing more than that? No. Feeling a bit queasy about that strategy at the moment?

  Yes.

  At the head of the conference table, Simon LaRue cleared his throat. "I believe there's fairly significant time pressure here. I understand that both Diamond Capital and the Richmond Group are going to try to buy Napa wineries to bundle them into real-estate investment trusts and take them public. And I know of more than one European winery investigating Napa acquisitions."

  Unfortunately for Will, LaRue was attuned to valley gossip. He and his third wife owned several acres of prime vineyard in Sonoma Valley, where LaRue played vintner in his spare time. He fancied himself deeply plugged into California's wine country, though Will suspected his most intimate connections were with his fellow vintners' wives.

  LaRue focused his hawklike eyes on Will. "What's your timetable, Henley?"

  Getting tighter by the second. "We'll have a deal by the end of September," he pronounced, though this was the first time he'd given himself that deadline.

  LaRue put a thoughtful expression on his face, doing a nice imitation of the firm's absent graybeard, Hank Faskewicz. "Late September may be fine," he intoned, as if it were solely up to him and not the firm's entire senior partnership. "But I'd rather we step up the pace. Once other firms recognize the Napa opportunity, we'll be looking at auctions. And nobody makes money when everybody chases the same deal."

  Will nodded. Despite his discomfort at the not-so-veiled pressure, he knew LaRue was right. He also knew LaRue believed Will shouldn't be putting all his eggs in the Suncrest basket.

  The meeting ended shortly thereafter. Will beat a hasty return to his office, feeling an urgent need to get an enormous amount of work done. He found waiting for him eleven phone messages, twenty-three e-mails, and one festive red gift bag with white tissue paper poking from the top.

  He smiled as he picked up the bag. He knew who he wanted it to be from. He was almost reluctant to delve into it for fear he might be disappointed.

  He reached inside. First he encountered a small parchment envelope, unmarked, which he set aside. On his next foray his fingers closed around a box that just fit in the palm of his hand. He pulled it out. It was white, with a small gold-and-red sticker on it proclaiming the name of the St. Helena store where the item had been purchased. His heart began to beat just a bit faster.

  Carefully he opened the box. Nestled within a tissue-paper bed was a glass heart the color of the deepest burgundy. It felt cool and weighty in his hand. He peered at it closely, puzzled by its unorthodox design. For the heart was meant to appear broken. The glass was split down the middle, almost but not quite to the base, with each half sporting a beautifully rendered jagged edge.

  He frowned, slightly worried. Surely the heart in question wasn't already broken?

  He opened the parchment envelope and scanned the note inside, written in a curlicue feminine hand: Dinner accepted, with pleasure and anticipation. From your favorite bleeding heart ... Gabby

  Ah. He chuckled. He understood. Will Henley stood in his office on that workaday Monday afternoon, and for a short, happy time Simon LaRue and tricky acquisitions and impossible deadlines all seemed just a bit less important.

  Chapter 7

  Max had just stashed his mother's bright red convertible on the pebbled driveway behind the house when he spied Gabby DeLuca in the employee parking lot a hundred yards away, getting out of her Jeep and heading for the main winery building. She strode at a rapid clip across the asphalt, from which he could see the heat rise in shimmering waves. She wore khaki shorts and a white U-necked tee shirt and a blue-and-white bandanna that held her hair back from her forehead. He positioned his hand above his eyes to shield them from the midday sun and just watched her.

  She is a babe, he concluded. Look at those legs. Long, tanned, and thin, but with enough muscle to prove she worked out. He let his eyes rove farther up her body, and a smile he wasn't even aware of curved his lips.

  Max could use a piece of that. It'd been a while. And wasn't it ironic that the female who inspired his ardor just so happened to be the person he most needed to see at that very moment?

  He called out her name and she spun to face him. He approached her, helping to close the distance between them, knowing he needed to exhibit supreme charm to accomplish both items on his agenda.

  He halted a few paces away from her, but close enough to smell the Coppertone she used to protect that pretty skin of hers from Napa's scalding summer sun. It was a favorite of his, reminding him as it did of the bikinied girls of his youth. He smiled at her, widely, invitingly. "How you doing, Gabby?"

  "Just fine, Max, how are you?"

  "Never better." He smiled at her again. She didn't exactly smile back but Max didn't mind having to work it. "You know, you're just the woman I want to see."

  "Really? Why's that?"

  "A little something's come up I want to talk to you about." He jerked his thumb back behind him. "Why don't we talk up at the pool? I'll get us some lemonade."

  She seemed surprised but then shrugged. "Sure. Sounds good."

  Max allowed her to lead them along the narrow path back toward the house, which also allowed him to assess her posterior from closer range. In his opinion, it bore up well under this closer scrutiny. "I just dropped my mom off at SFO," he told her.

  She half turned as she kept walking. "You drove all that way just to drop her off at the airport?"

  "Oh, it's not that far." He tried to sound as though to Thoughtful Son Max, it was nothing to go a bit out of his way for Dear Old Mom. Actually it was a 150-mile roundtrip, but he couldn't risk her having a last-minute change of heart. "She's going to Paris for a few weeks." Even saying it made him grin. It'd taken some expert maneuvering to get her to go, but he'd succeeded. Clearly he was on an upswing.

  Gabby laughed. "You Winsteds must love France. One gets back and another one goes."

  "Well, she's been doing so much around here lately, she really deserves a break." See how considerate I am? Can you imagine just how nice I'd be to you? "Don't you like France, Gabby?"

  "I do, but I'm more of an Italy person."

  "Ah." He paused, then, "La dolce vita per la bella ragazza."

  She just laughed, but he felt sure his compliment hit its mark.

  They arrived at the house and he led her around the side path to the interior yard, where the pool, lawn, and pergola baked in the heat. Just beyond a low mesh fence, vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, hemmed in by mountains faded to a dull purple by the sun's white-hot light. He could almost smell the grapes ripening.

  "I'll be right back," he s
aid, and returned a few minutes later to find Gabby relaxing on a white wicker rocking chair in the pergola's cool shade. Her long naked legs were crossed and her head was thrown back against the neck rest. She lifted it when he handed her a tall glass of lemonade and raised his own in toast. "Salute!"

  They clinked glasses and then both downed a good bit of the lemonade. He prided himself on having had the presence of mind to bring out the whole pitcher. He refreshed her glass. "You did an apprenticeship in Italy, right?"

  "I did. You know what, Max?" She set down her glass, ice cubes clinking. "I don't mean to be rude, but I've got tons to do today. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  So she wasn't much for foreplay. Fine. "Well," he started, "I've been talking to some marketing consultants, very highly regarded folks, and we've come up with an exciting plan for this year's sauvignon blanc."

  "Great." She waited. "What is it?"

  "You know those hot new French bottles? Bordeaux style but twice the weight? Very in these days, the newest thing. Sell like hotcakes."

  She said nothing, just watched him. A little frown appeared between her eyes.

  Here goes nothing, he told himself. "We're going to use those bottles for the sauvignon blanc."

  "Oh!" She paused. "You mean for next year's."

  That's what the consultants had suggested, but no, that's not what he meant. Why wait? The time to move was now. "No, I mean for this year's."

  Silence. A bee buzzed nearby. Gabby leaned forward so that her wicker rocking chair tipped frontways as far as it would go. "For this year's? You're joking, right?"

  He laughed. It sounded funny, oddly fake, in the thick air. "I'm serious, Gabby. The rebottling will make some extra work for you, sure, but it'll be so worth it. The sauvignon blanc will jump off the shelves. We'll break sales—"

  "Max." Her tone irked him. It sounded like his mother's most of the time. "This doesn't make sense. The wine was bottled back in March. The release date is ten days away. It's warehoused. It's ready to go. The bottles are fine. If you want to switch for next year, that's something to think about. But—"