Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  She edged another crate over and sat next to him. He didn't look at her but stared into the middle distance, as if replaying scenes from the past in his mind.

  "You know," he said eventually, "maybe we should tell that young lady that a lot of the vines that Porter and I planted twenty-five years ago are still producing grapes. Just a few years ago they were in their prime, but they're getting past it now." He met his daughter's eyes. "Dagney may want to pull them. Their yield's already way down."

  Something about the way he spoke frightened her. "Daddy, we have to give these people some time to get their bearings. Will has our interests at heart, I honestly believe that. He understands how we feel about Suncrest and he'll try to take care of it. He won't let his people do anything to hurt it."

  A little voice chirped in her ear. Not deliberately. But how much control does he really have? And anyway, maybe his idea of what will hurt it is different from yours …

  Her father patted her knee. "I agree your Will's a good man, honey. It's just"—he shook his head—"all this. It's not what I pictured when I imagined coming back to work. I pictured it the way it used to be, without all these strangers in business suits. Just you and me doing another harvest together. I really looked forward to that." He smiled. "Our second harvest together."

  "We'll still do that, Daddy," she said, but she could hear the wistfulness, and the hint of desperation, in her own voice. "We still will," she repeated, but it sounded no more convincing the second time around.

  Dagney walked past with her male associate, the two in such deep conversation they didn't seem to notice the father and daughter to their left hunkered down on crates. Gabby's father met her eyes. Again he gave her a smile, though it was no more vibrant than his earlier attempt. "I think I'll go in the break room and lie down for a few minutes," he said, then slowly levered himself to his feet and lumbered away.

  Gabby watched him go, her heart thudding. Activity buzzed on all around her: people holding meetings, having conversations, taking notes, making phone calls. Normally she was right in the thick of things. Not that day.

  She catapulted off the crate and strode toward the stairs to the second floor.

  *

  Will sat on one of the tartan sofas in Porter Winsted's office, half his mind following the chatter of his two young associates and half on Porter Winsted. He still thought of the office as Porter's—not as Ava's and not Max's—though he'd had to shove a few of Max's personal possessions aside. That hadn't been hard, especially since Max was still in France and would be gone for a week at least. Will had simply called for a box, made a swiping motion of his right arm across the flat plane of the mahogany desk, and then set the box on the floor outside the door.

  Next!

  He took much more care with what had belonged to Porter. His respect for the man who had founded Suncrest Vineyards was growing exponentially. He had long admired Porter's keen developer's eye, which early on had recognized the unique value of this particular swath of Napa Valley. But more and more he came to understand how steadily and responsibly Porter had built this business. Will spent fascinating hours poring over the winery files, which went back twenty-five years and described in painstaking detail how Suncrest had matured. This many grapes were harvested, this many bottles produced the first vintage, so many more the next, on and on till an abrupt halt two years before. Someone—no doubt Porter himself—had pasted the bottle labels from every vintage into a scrapbook. Even decades-old correspondence had been kept, along with reviews, print ads, the first check cut to the fledgling winery.

  It was like a father's mementos of a beloved child. Will knew this was akin to what his grandfather had felt building Henley Sand and Gravel. He'd spent his entire high-powered career entertaining a mild disdain for family businesses, yet felt a surge of envy that surprised him.

  He turned his attention to Dagney, who was sitting beside the other associate, Jacob, her equal in youth and workaholism. The latter was a disease that all qualified GPG employees suffered.

  "It seems to me," she was saying, "that we could triple production without a significant decrease in quality."

  Jacob looked at Will. "It would take three to five years if we wanted all the grapes to come from Suncrest vineyards. But as I was telling Dagney, we could do it right away if we import grapes from the Central Valley."

  Will nodded. "As a matter of fact, Max Winsted just signed a purchase agreement for chardonnay grapes from there. The problem is he signed a five-year deal at way too high a price."

  Dagney's brows flew up. "Five years? Can we get out of it?"

  "That's one of the things we have to find out." Will had known going into this that Max had made a fine hash of things. He hadn't realized how fine.

  The good news, which would make Will even more of a hero at GPG, was that the due diligence had uncovered enough problems to justify lowering the purchase price. It was like buying a house. If during escrow, the buyer found problems, the seller either had to fix them or cut the price in order for the sale to go through.

  And Max would cut the price, Will knew. He wanted the cash out of the winery, and fast. He'd put up a fight, but he'd cave. Max excelled at caving.

  Dagney giggled. "I just had a funny conversation with the winemakers. The DeLucas?"

  "What do you mean funny?" Will kept his tone casual. None of his colleagues knew of his relationship with Gabby. He still considered this a sensitive time and that a sensitive issue.

  "Oh"—she shook her head—"they're very sweet. But they were talking about painting with some of the grapes. You know, using different varieties to make the cabernet more complex?"

  Jacob laughed. "They'll find out soon enough they're going to be painting by number from now on!"

  "I don't think they get that," Dagney said.

  All three turned their heads at the light rap on the half-open door. "Excuse me," Gabby said. "May I have a few minutes, Will?"

  "Sure." He leaped to his feet. Did she hear any of that? What exactly did Dagney and Jacob say? Then he berated himself. None of them had said or done anything to be ashamed of. Especially not in discussing how Suncrest could be salvaged from the ruins into which Max Winsted had plunged it.

  Once Dagney and Jacob were gone, he shut the door and took Gabby in his arms. Where, he noted, she remained stiff. He dreaded the answer but had to ask the question. "How are you?"

  "I'm okay." She pulled away and went to stand at the window, bending slightly to look beneath the half-closed Roman shade which attempted to beat back the midday sun. Then she turned her eyes to his. "Actually, I take that back. I'm trying hard not to get upset."

  "Okay." Here we go. I've been on site barely two days and already we've got problems. He didn't let himself retreat to Porter's desk chair, though part of him wanted to put some distance between them. "What's upsetting you?"

  She took a deep breath. "I'm getting a little concerned about what I'm hearing from Dagney and that other young guy. They keep talking as if there's going to be some huge expansion. And they don't seem to understand the kind of wine we make. What they're talking about is a lot lower quality than what we do."

  "Jacob. The other guy's name is Jacob." Will perched on the corner of Porter's desk, thinking fast. "First of all, Gabby, you need to understand that we're going to be talking about a lot of things in the next few weeks that are never going to happen. We just need to explore every possible avenue before we set a course of action. So I recommend you not take anything too seriously at the moment."

  She stared at him. "I'm trying not to. But it's hard."

  "I understand that."

  "And my father's upset, too. So much so that he had to lie down for a while. I just don't know if he can stand the pressure of all this."

  Great. Will rubbed his forehead. What if Cosimo DeLuca had another heart attack? On premises again? Should Will insist he go back on medical leave? Then a more terrifying thought struck him. If Gabby's father did suffer another cardiac a
rrest, would Will get the blame?

  As if he'd spoken the fear aloud, Gabby came close to him and rested her hands on his shoulders. "I don't mean to pester you and I know you're under a lot of pressure. But I'm worried about my dad." She paused, then, "I'm worried about all of us."

  He raised his head. God, he was tired. And this was only the beginning. "Gabby, I don't know what to tell you. This is going to be stressful, whichever way you cut it. It's a big transition."

  Apparently that wasn't what she wanted to hear. She turned away, went back to the window. Will watched her, and listened to the loud male voices of the field workers outside. He knew they were bringing the packing bins out of storage for the upcoming harvest. All day long he'd heard them hammering together the wooden pallets on which the bins would be stacked. He could imagine Porter Winsted in this office listening to those sounds every August for twenty-five years.

  Again Gabby turned her face toward his. "So I shouldn't worry about Suncrest expanding in a big way?"

  He wanted to throw up his hands. "Gabby, I can't make any promises." I'm not going to make that mistake again. "The winery may well have to expand. I'm not sure it can survive if it produces only very expensive wines."

  "But it has for twenty-five years."

  "But it doesn't make any money. It's breakeven, at best."

  She frowned, hesitated. "Is that true?"

  "Yes, it is." He watched her take that in. Should he have told her? Probably not. But he wanted her to understand where he was coming from. Because he didn't think she got it.

  Not for the first time, he found himself a little resentful of Gabby's fantasy Napa Valley, where family-owned wineries made scads of money producing high-end bottles bought by high-end consumers, both sides applauding themselves for their artistry and highly evolved taste. But all the while, he had to live in the real world, where real people bought Two Buck Chuck and were perfectly happy. And dealing with that reality was a lot less pretty.

  She stepped closer. "Why were you so intent on buying Suncrest if it's not profitable?"

  He was trying to decide how to answer that question without upsetting her further when she asked a follow-up he didn't much care for either.

  "Because you knew you could make it profitable? Let's say, by using the brand name to expand downmarket?"

  It startled him how perfectly she'd phrased that, as if she'd graduated right alongside him from Harvard Business School. And yes, that pretty much had been his strategy. A damn good one it was, too. But at the moment he doubted Gabby would appreciate its wisdom.

  A knock sounded on the door. Before Will responded, it opened and Jacob walked in. "Excuse me," he said to Gabby, then approached Will and handed him a file. "I forgot to give you this before. It's a list of Central Valley grape growers, with their varieties and prices. You'll see they're a lot cheaper. And I think they're plenty good enough," he added before he turned and walked out again.

  Shit. Will tossed the file on the desk. He didn't look at Gabby but felt her eyes scorch his face.

  She came up close to him, cocked her chin at the file Jacob had just brought in. "What about that promise you made to me, Will?"

  "Gabby." He stood up, in a little psychological gamesmanship that forced her to raise her head to meet his eyes. "Yes, I did tell you that I would try to keep Suncrest the same. And I will to the extent that I can." By now he was starting to feel that responsibility not just to Gabby, but to Porter Winsted, too. "But it has to change to some degree, because otherwise it can't survive."

  Silence. A silence that deafened him with its intensity. Then, "You've known this all along?"

  Why did that question make him feel as if his entire relationship with this woman hinged on the answer? He looked into her beautiful, intelligent, demanding hazel eyes and knew what he had known for some time. He loved this woman and would not lie to her. But he wouldn't coddle her, either.

  "What I know," he said, "is that one person and one person only moved this winery downmarket. And that is Max Winsted. He did it when he forced you to rebottle the sauvignon blanc. He did it when he got drunk at Cassis. He did it when he lied to Joseph Wagner. Suncrest does not have the reputation it used to, Gabby, and that's a fact. It's not my fault and it's not yours, either. But I'm not going to apologize for trying to salvage what can be salvaged. And," he added, "for trying to keep everybody who has jobs here employed for the long term."

  "While making tons of money doing it."

  He regarded her steadily. "We should be so lucky."

  She turned away. When again she spoke, her voice was so quiet he almost couldn't hear it above the field workers' hammering outside. "It always comes down to the same thing, doesn't it?"

  She was right. It did. "But it doesn't have to, Gabby. I am not your enemy." That was the one thing she never seemed to understand. He grabbed her arm, forced her to face him. "This is business. This is not personal. This is not about you and me."

  "Is there a you and me?"

  "Of course there is. I love you, Gabby. I said it and I meant it." And there he was saying it again, even though she'd never responded in kind. He knew she was holding herself back for some reason, and it frustrated him. "I promise you that I am doing my damnedest to save this winery. I am trying to save your job, and your father's, and Cam's. But don't you see? It can't be the way it always was. Things are different now."

  Her eyes shone with tears that didn't fall. "You're right," she told him, then moved away. "I totally agree." Then she walked out, clicking the door shut behind her, and leaving Will to wonder if they'd even been talking about the same thing.

  Chapter 14

  It all looked just as she remembered.

  Then again, Gabby thought, hurtling her tiny rental Fiat south on an autostrada that sliced through the heart of Chianti, Italy didn't change much over centuries. Why in the world would she expect it to change in little more than a year?

  Because I'm so different. She pushed her foot down even harder on the accelerator, jerking the red needle on the Fiat's speedometer past 130 kilometers an hour—amazingly, the official speed limit on the Superstrada del Palio. No longer was she the lovesick girl who'd been so head over heels over Vittorio Mantucci that she'd been willing to toss aside country and family to be with him. Nor was she the brokenhearted wretch who'd fled Tuscany for home, cursing the man who'd hurt her, cursing herself for being such a fool as to let him.

  Now, a year later, she was stronger, more sure of herself and what she cared about. There was nothing like losing something precious to learn a fast lesson about what really mattered. The older, wiser Gabby knew. Her family. The valley. Suncrest. For her, they were the holy trinity of what was dear.

  Yet something else was becoming dear, too. Someone.

  When Gabby thought of Will, tears blurred her vision, made the highway lines run together in strips of fuzzy white. I love you, he had told her. Would he ever say that to her again, after this?

  What a terrible choice she was forced to make. And how very ironic. In the last days she'd come to understand Vittorio better than ever before. Now she grasped what he had gone through, now that she, too, had to choose between her family and her lover. Now she understood the guilt, the anguish, he must have felt.

  You could go back. The temptation was always there, needling her. Turn around and drive back to Florence airport, get on a plane home. You're risking too much. Give up. Give in.

  She shook her head. She couldn't do that, not really. She was the only thing standing between her family and "economic inevitability," or whatever phrase Will might use to try to mask how real people got hurt. People like her father. Now, after the heart attack, he needed the stability of what he was accustomed to. She didn't think he could handle the pressure of a big, corporate winery—which clearly was what Suncrest would turn into.

  No one even knew she had engaged in this battle. This trip was secret to everyone but Vittorio. Her family thought she was in San Francisco visiting a girlfrien
d from college, and Will had no idea where she was. She'd simply found a discount airline ticket and bought it. Now she was here.

  When Will found out what she was doing, he would be enraged. He would think it a massive betrayal. He might even lose his job if the acquisition of Suncrest fell through, and naturally he would blame her. He was always telling her he was only as good as his last deal, and that he'd been in a dry spell.

  The horrible truth was, Will would be right. She was betraying him. But her only other choice was to betray her family. For if she didn't fight to protect what they loved and needed, what had been precious to them for twenty-five years, wouldn't that be a betrayal, too? She could only hope that in the fullness of time, Will would understand. And forgive her. Though that might be the most foolish hope of all.

  She sped past a highway sign that read SIENA, 7 KM. From Siena it wasn't far to Castelnuovo. Nervousness shivered through her as she realized how close she now was to the task that lay ahead. It was time to dry her tears, shove all doubt aside, and do what she had come to do.

  Briefly she considered stopping in Siena—a gorgeous walled medieval city—for a bowl of pasta and a glass of the local wine. What could be more natural? It was past lunchtime, she'd been traveling for twenty hours now, and was exhausted and hungry.

  Yet who was kidding whom? Gabby forced herself to ignore the turnoff. She would only be procrastinating, and postponing the inevitable, and Vittorio would be insulted that she'd eaten at a restaurant rather than allow the Mantucci family to feed her. And now was not the time to insult Vittorio. Not with what she wanted him to do for her.

  And for himself too. I'm doing him a favor, giving him an enormous opportunity. Which is far more than he deserves.

  Clearly he'd been shocked at her phone call from California. He'd stepped all over himself trying to be gracious, even offering to send a driver to Florence airport to retrieve her. No, of course she must not stay at an inn but at the winery, in her old room. No, of course he could accommodate her visit, even though Chiara was days away from giving birth to his first child.