Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  Max frowned and set down his sandwich, ranch dressing dripping between his thick fingers. "What do we have to celebrate?"

  "The definitive documents. They're done." Will reached down beside his chair to pull a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. "Here they are, ready to go." He set them on the table, then leaned forward. "I was thinking we'd hold the signing ceremony tomorrow at 10 AM. I'll bring all my people over to the winery. How would that work for you?"

  "Uh, can't make that." Max shook his head. "Anyway, how can the final documents be done? There are still outstanding issues."

  "No." Will kept his tone light. "Everything's been resolved."

  "But my mom's not here to sign. I don't know when she'll get back from Paris."

  "We don't need her to sign. She gave you a limited power-of-attorney, remember?" Will smiled at Max's stricken expression. "To do the deal as defined in the term sheet. Our lawyers spoke with yours about that. It's done."

  Max started sputtering. "But she hasn't agreed to the cut in the offer price. And there's still some fine print I have to go over with her."

  Will laughed. "Honestly, Max, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you've come down with amnesia. We handled the new price with your mother two weeks ago. As I said before, every single detail has been dealt with." Will deliberately fell silent so he could enjoy the spectacle of watching Maximilian Winsted squirm. Then he snapped his fingers, making Max jump. "You know, Max, maybe you do have amnesia. Because you also forgot that the term sheet you signed has a legally binding no-shop clause."

  Max literally choked and had to suck down some Coke. Will watched him, half hoping he would expire right then and there. "You know, Max, when I saw you the other day at Meadowood with Vittorio Mantucci, I knew what was going on. I have to say, it doesn't make me happy to know I'm doing business with somebody who's not on the up-and-up."

  Max sounded truculent. "I haven't done anything wrong."

  Will sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap. "That would be something for the lawyers to decide, wouldn't it? That is, if we were ever to involve them by filing suit. After all, GPG's already invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in the due diligence, and we'd hate to think we spent all that money for nothing. And you wouldn't want the added financial burden of a suit, would you, Max? Or the negative publicity?"

  He paused to let that sink in. Then, "I think you've got a lot more common sense than that, Max. I find it very hard to believe that you'd walk away from twenty-seven million in cash on the slim hope that you'll get more out of some European dealmakers who don't know you from Adam. Who haven't done step one of their due diligence. Jeez, who haven't even made an offer yet!"

  Will didn't really know if that was true but kept his eyes on Max's face to gauge if he got it right. Judging from Max's somberness and uncharacteristic silence, Will guessed that he did. And was damned relieved.

  "So I'll see you tomorrow at ten," Will said. "And let me be perfectly clear. Tomorrow is it. The end. Do we understand one another?"

  Max stared down at his sandwich. "Yeah." He looked and sounded like a rebellious overgrown teenager.

  Will rose from his chair, pulled out his wallet, and threw a five-dollar tip next to his nearly untouched tuna burger. "And if you bring up some new bullshit issue to try to stall, GPG will walk and the deal will be off. And I guess you won't get that 27 million after all."

  Then Will strode across the patio toward his car, one thought skipping through his mind. Not even Max Winsted is stupid enough to let this bird-in-the-hand deal slip away.

  *

  Friday morning shortly before nine, Max was in the convertible, driving as fast as he could in the hope that it would clear his mind, free his thoughts, provide him clarity.

  So far it wasn't working.

  He barreled along the Silverado Trail, which had less traffic and so allowed him to go faster than Highway 29. He'd already driven north all the way to Calistoga and now was looping back in a southerly direction. There was no fog anywhere—again. It was hot as blazes, and the north wind was blowing and neither was helping his ability to make a decision.

  When he made it back to Suncrest, he might just turn around and do the same loop over again. How else was he going to figure out what to do? To sign or not to sign—that was the question. And the signing ceremony was in an hour. Should he just do the deal with GPG and get it over with? Or stall somehow so Mantucci could come up with an offer?

  At least this was his own decision. His mother had given him power-of-attorney to handle the deal, though it was humiliatingly narrow.

  He careened past the entrance to Meadowood, which brought back in skin-crawling detail the unexpected face-to-face with Will Henley. That guy was sure full of surprises. Max would've bet his mother that after seeing him with Mantucci, Henley would call off the deal, call in his lawyers, and sue Max's ass to kingdom come.

  But no. And why not? Max knew damn well why not: Henley wanted Suncrest so bad he could taste it.

  Max thought that was a pretty good argument for not signing. Because if Max gave Mantucci time to make an offer, Henley would counter it. Max knew that in the marrow of his bones. And then Max would be the beneficiary of a good old-fashioned auction, and not have to settle for this fire-sale price of 27 million.

  But Henley's cocky voice resounded in his memory. I find it very hard to believe that you'd walk away from 27 million in cash on the slim hope that you'll get more out of some European dealmakers who don't know you from Adam. Who haven't done step one of their due diligence. Jeez, who haven't even made an offer yet!

  All true, unfortunately. But Max just wasn't sure. Wouldn't he be a fool not to wait and see if an offer from Mantucci panned out, and if so, how big it would be? Naturally Henley wanted to make it sound beyond stupid for Max not to sell immediately to GPG. But Max found it very hard to believe that even if he didn't sign today, Henley would walk away. For whatever reason, Henley really wanted Suncrest.

  Fine, Max thought. Then let him pay for it.

  Max made a sudden right onto a narrow, tree-lined residential road that would lead him to Main Street in St. Helena. Maybe he'd pick up a coffee, see if after he got more caffeine in his system he'd still feel the same way.

  He left the car in a back alley off Main Street and was on his way toward his favorite bakery when he spied a tiny storefront he hadn't seen before. Or maybe he just hadn't noticed it. On its window, behind which hung dark curtains that hid the interior, were pasted big red letters in a half-circle: MADAM NATALIA. And below that, straight across: PSYCHIC READER AND ADVISOR. The door was open and the inside lights—what there were of them—were on.

  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.