A wariness came into his eyes. "You mean ... after the fire?"
"And also the—" She didn't know what to call it. "—end of the sale to GPG."
He dropped his gaze. "Yeah, we need to talk about that."
"I should say so." The doorbell rang. "Ah, they're here. I want you with me for this."
He followed her into the foyer. "Who is it?"
She pulled the door open and stepped aside. "Gentlemen, please come in." Ava turned toward Max to include him in the introductions of the two uniformed men from the Napa County Fire Department, but was startled to see an expression of raw panic take over his face.
He stammered. "What are they doing here?"
"I asked them here." She frowned as she watched her son back away a few clumsy steps and bump into the narrow foyer table, making the dendrobium orchid atop it dance. Why in the world is he acting so oddly? She smiled at her guests to try to dispel the awkwardness. "I wanted a report on the fire and these gentlemen were kind enough to come here to the house to provide it." Though Ava considered the housecall less a kindness than a duty. After all, she was a major taxpayer in this county.
One of the men held out his hand to Max. "Fire Captain Ralph Dunphy." He pivoted to indicate the man behind him. "And this is Fire Captain Jimmy Marcino."
Max nodded, shook hands with both of them. "Good to meet you," he said. Ava ushered everyone into the living room, where seats were taken and throats cleared. Max didn't sit, though, she noticed; he stood at the open French doors as if ready to flee at any moment.
Dunphy took the lead. "Mrs. Winsted, my colleague and I would like to extend our sympathies on the losses you've suffered to your vineyards. It is a terrible thing."
She bowed her head. "Thank you." She'd find out just how terrible when she met later with Cosimo and Gabriella. "I gather a great deal of forestland was burned as well?"
"32 acres." Marcino consulted a small notebook. "We fought the blaze for about three and a half hours, deployed one chopper and three tankers on it, and of course stayed on it overnight. In case of flare-ups."
"I appreciate that."
"We considered it a significant blaze," Dunphy said.
Yes, Ava thought, particularly to us. "Do you have any idea how it started?"
Marcino spoke. "We know exactly how it started, ma'am."
"And how was that?"
He held up a baggie with a small object inside it. "This, ma'am."
Ava squinted at it. "Is that a cigarette butt?"
"Yes," Dunphy said. "Most common cause of this sort of thing."
"We consider this type of incident accidental," Marcino said. "Caused by carelessness. Negligence."
"But," Ava said, "might it not be arson?"
"It might be," Dunphy said, "but we have no way to prove it. And so there are no real ramifications even if we could trace it to an individual. Especially if that individual has no prior convictions."
"I see." She paused, considered. "But since you know how the fire started, I gather you know where it originated, as well?"
"Yes, we do," Marcino said. "Just west of overlook number four on Drysdale Mountain Road. We suspect an individual tossed the cigarette over the guardrail and into the ground brush, which caught instantly."
"The north wind exacerbated matters," Dunphy added. Then he shook his head. "We think it was probably a foreign tourist who started this fire, Mrs. Winsted. It's a strange brand of cigarette. French."
Marcino consulted his notebook. "It's something called a Gauloises."
Marcino massacred the pronunciation but Ava immediately understood. She froze. That's Max's brand. And he goes to an overlook on that road. In fact, at his suggestion we went there the day he bought me the Mercedes.
She was afraid to look at her son, who remained as still as marble, staring out at the pergola. She struggled not to let any emotion show on her face. Is that why Max seems so petrified? Because he started this fire? It was a terrible thought, a preposterous notion. Her son might be many things, but he certainly wasn't an … No, she wouldn't even think the word.
Still. It wouldn't surprise her that he was still smoking. And a Gauloises cigarette? That overlook? And now, this bizarre behavior?
By now she had one thought and one thought only. Get these men out of here. For whatever Max had or had not done, he was still a Winsted, and her and Porter's son, and it was her duty to protect him. She rose from her chair and struggled to keep her voice steady. "Mr. Dunphy, Mr. Marcino, I so appreciate your time today."
They both stood. Dunphy spoke as she led them back to the foyer and held open the front door. "I'm sorry we couldn't give you more satisfaction, Mrs. Winsted. I know that in a situation like this, you want to be able to bring the guilty party to justice."
"Quite right. Very perceptive, Mr. Dunphy. Thank you again." Then, after the requisite good-byes, she closed the door and her visitors were gone.
She returned to the living room. "Not so fast, Max." He was halfway across the lawn to the pergola, but she waylaid him. "Did you start that fire?" She couldn't believe she was asking that question, but yes, she was. It hung between mother and son, the latter taking far too long to say no. "You did, didn't you?"
"Of course I didn't." He sounded belligerent. Some part of her admired him for at least putting on some show. "I would never do something like that."
"Not intentionally."
"Not any other way, either."
"It's very odd. That the fire was started by a Gauloises? And the timing, too."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "What's weird about the timing?"
"It started right after what should have been the signing ceremony with Will Henley. And the location is highly coincidental. I know you like that overlook."
Max had nothing to say to that. He turned away and jutted out his chin.
"I can just imagine you being upset, going up the hill to have a smoke, and tossing the cigarette away. That sounds like something you would do."
His mouth twisted. "You would think that, wouldn't you?" He sounded surly as a teenager whose grounding had just been lengthened by another week. "I thought mothers were supposed to give their kids the benefit of the doubt. Wrong again."
"I have given you the benefit of the doubt a thousand times. This is a thousand and one." She grabbed his arm and forced him to look at her. "You are going to sit down and tell me exactly what happened Friday. What you could possibly have been thinking when you failed to sign those sale documents. Then I will decide what to do."
"You mean about Suncrest?"
She didn't answer her son, just led him back inside the house to begin his long overdue reckoning. I mean about everything.
*
Tuesday afternoon, the last day of August, Will sat at his GPG desk and pushed his intercom button. "Yes, Janine?"
"Ava Winsted is here for your four o'clock."
"Please show her in."
He rose, lifted the suit jacket from the back of his chair, slipped it on. I'm either a glutton for punishment, he told himself, or the luckiest man alive. For when Ava Winsted had called and asked for a meeting, he'd been only too happy to oblige. That old hope had leaped anew in his heart. He'd known that nothing but a bizarre incident could salvage the Suncrest deal for him. But then he got one.
He still wanted Suncrest, even after the fire had rendered it an even paler reflection of its formerly grand self. By now people in the wine world were clucking their tongues: could more catastrophes possibly strike one winery? Its brand name was shot. Its value had plummeted to a new low. From the partial loss of the cabernet sauvignon crop and vineyards, its revenues would be down for years. It had been barely breakeven before, but now would require major cash to keep operating.
But that was the time to buy!—when times were the worst. That's when the price was right, when the best deals could be made. And Suncrest still had that precious, heaven-sent, underutilized land—so perfectly situated, so primed for grape-growing, so di
fficult to acquire. And the land would recover. It always did.
Ava appeared at his office door looking lovely and elegant in the way of classic older actresses. It was as if, even thirty years out of Hollywood, she still utilized daily stylists for hair, makeup, and wardrobe, as if every outing were An Appearance. This afternoon she was dressed for business in a turquoise suit cut of such fine silk no actual businesswoman would find it remotely practical.
He greeted her with hands outstretched. "Ava, it's good to see you. It's been too long." How true was that? For if he'd been dealing with her on the deal instead of her son, no doubt Suncrest would be his already.
She smiled as if she hadn't a care in the world. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Will. And on such short notice."
"Of course." He swept her toward his leather sofa. "May I offer you tea or coffee?"
"Coffee would be lovely."
So she wanted to stay awhile, another cheering sign. Will buzzed Janine, then took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. "I am so sorry about the fire, Ava. You may not know that I actually witnessed a bit of it."
He shook his head, the image of those flames screaming down the rows of grapevines part of his memory bank forever. As soon as they had gotten away from the worst of it, he'd watched Gabby regain control, directing the firemen to the other endangered vineyard, shouting orders to the field workers desperately trying to quench the flames with a few ineffectual hoses. He didn't think she noticed him slip away to call his partners, and they hadn't seen each other since. But he would never forget her face as the inferno raged—frightened, disbelieving, tortured. He pushed that recollection aside.
"The blaze moved amazingly fast, Ava," he went on. "The only good thing is that Napa's firefighters are so well trained. Otherwise the damage would have been even greater."
"Yes." She looked down into her lap. "I can hardly bear to see the burnt area. Porter would have been devastated."
Will eyed his guest. Ava Winsted might be chilly, she might be theatrical, but it seemed she had loved her husband, and she was nobody's fool. He doubted Porter would have married her otherwise. True, her son exhibited a distinct lack of character. Was that her fault? Perhaps in part, but Will wasn't inclined to blame the parents for the sins of the children, particularly not the adult children.
Janine appeared with coffee, served quickly, and departed.
"How was your stay in France?" Will asked.
"Enjoyable." Again Ava smiled. "But I'm glad to be home."
He was wondering just how true that was when she shifted position on the couch as if to signal her readiness to get down to the business at hand. "I know that Max did not participate in the signing ceremony," she said.
How delicately she'd phrased that. A more accurate construction might be Max blew it off or Max really screwed GPG, didn't he? But Will wouldn't challenge Ava, or embarrass her, or demand an explanation. His goal was Suncrest, and to get it he'd better let its owner save face. "No, he didn't," he agreed mildly.
"Despite that, I remain very interested in selling the winery to GPG. If you care to pursue the matter further, I would love to hear a new offer."
He kept his face expressionless as conclusions spun out in his mind. So Mantucci didn't make an offer. As I predicted. And Ava doesn't want to run Suncrest any more now than she ever did. She certainly won't let Max run it now, even if he wants to. This was what Will wanted, this was so what he wanted, but he was hemmed in by his partners, as always. He needed to wring concessions out of Ava—gently, of course—to convince the GPG brass to go another round.
Carefully he set down his porcelain cup and saucer. "Ava, as you know, we had a deal with you and your son. You also know that he backed out at the last minute. We invested a great deal of time and money in the due diligence. I can tell you that my partners feel poorly used by what transpired. And now, given the fire"—he spread his hands—"I can only say that any price I might offer would be significantly lower than the one we agreed to before."
She nodded. "Let me assure you, Will, that from now on you will be dealing only with me." Translation: My idiot son is out of the picture. "I have been advised by my counsel that the final documents are fine and need no revision. I'm prepared to do a transaction here and now, if you and I can agree on a price."
So far, so good. "I should also warn you that any agreement you and I reach is contingent on my partners' approval."
"Fine."
This could not be going more smoothly. Will cast his mind back to the price he had calculated earlier, should his conversation with Ava move in this direction. The old price, from the prior Friday, was 27 million dollars. "I can offer 19 million dollars," he said.
She hesitated only a second. Then, "22."
She just wants this done. A thrill pulsed through him as he realized that he was about to get what he wanted. He shoved aside the image of Gabby that rose in his mind. She was wrong about him, she was wrong about Suncrest, and he wouldn't let her resentment spoil this moment. "Twenty million," he said to Ava, knowing this would be it. He would get his victory, his ultimate vindication. He would win at last.
Ava held out her hand, her gaze steady and clear. "Done."
*
Dispense the fledgling wine from the fermentation tank, roll it in the mouth, judge the flavor, spit it in the drain gulley that runs the length of the concrete floor, go on to the next tank. Motions one after the next, repetitive, pointless, bereft of their usual joy and satisfaction. Meaningless, Gabby thought, like everything else.
It was Friday, late in the day, evening really. Gabby was alone in the old winery building, everyone, including her father, gone to get a jump start on Labor Day weekend. Yet she wanted to be alone, and she wanted to be working. Right now she was good for little else. She had no plans for the weekend and no ability to be social. She felt amazingly similar to the way she had a year before—raw, wounded, shell-shocked.
She moved on to the next tank, placed her wineglass beneath the spout. Out flowed an ounce or so of the thin crimson liquid that over time would become a complex, nuanced, multifaceted cabernet sauvignon. Not only would it carry a prized Napa Valley appellation, but it would also be an estate wine, as all the grapes used to make it had been grown on Suncrest property.
Gabby held it up to the light, assessed its color, viscosity. It was the last of a dead breed. Suncrest would never make another vintage like it. That era was over.
She ran the wine through her teeth, calculated how far the fermentation had progressed, then bent over the gulley and spit it out. The ceaseless mechanical whir of the tanks hummed in her ears; the vinegary smell of grapes fermenting assailed her nostrils. Another week and the baby cab would go from tanks to barrels, to age for two years more. In the end, because of the peculiarities of the soil and the climate and the sunshine and the rain and the exact moment she had chosen for harvest, it would have a flavor distinct from any other cab she had ever made or ever would make. That was the wonder of it, and the beauty.
She abandoned her wineglass and walked outside to stand on the pebbled path. Here it was quiet, save for a stray birdcall, and the air was sweet. The sun teased the jagged crest of the Mayacamas; soon it would disappear behind the mountains and roll across the Pacific. Its last rays caressed the grapevines that covered the slope down to the Trail, the grapevines that had every excuse to rest not just for the night but for the season. Their fruit had been taken, and their labor was done.
She was back inside the winery doing the last of the closing-down for the night when she heard footsteps behind her on the concrete floor. She turned, surprised, then caught her breath, more profoundly shaken. "Will."
He stepped closer. "I thought I'd find you here." He wore gray suit trousers and a white dress shirt open at the neck. "Sorry if I startled you."
"No," she said instantly, though he had. She hadn't been sure she would ever see him again, except in some businesslike setting where she was getting the corporate word along with eve
ry other Suncrest employee. And even though this was Friday night and they were alone, this was pretty much along those lines. The tone of Will's voice, the planes of his face, were cool and hard. By now she could barely remember seeing them any other way. "How are you?" she asked.
"Fine," he said, though to her he looked exhausted. Then again, that was typical for him late on a weekday. "And yourself?"
"Fine. My father, too," she added, to forestall the polite inquiry she knew Will would make.
Silence fell between them. The tanks chugged relentlessly, their task never done. Gabby busied herself making a useless notation in her notebook, something she'd just have to cross out once Will was gone. Though in some ways he already was. The man she'd known had disappeared behind a mask of distrust and formality.
"I've come to tell you something," he said.
She didn't look up from her notebook. All the horrible possibilities of what that something might be zigged and zagged in her mind. Very likely of course was that this was the formal breakup announcement, though by this point that really wasn't necessary. Then again, Will was the type who liked to dot his i's and cross his t's.
He spoke again. "Ava just signed the final documents selling Suncrest to GPG."
She caught her breath. "So you own it now."
"Well, GPG owns it."
"Congratulations." How trite and false that sounded, echoing off the walls of the tank room. She didn't say You won, though it occurred to her. But she didn't want to sound petty, didn't want to add that to the list of damning adjectives that Will no doubt used these days to describe her.
She turned away. It's over. Here it was, the moment she'd been dreading. Yet she felt oddly detached. It was as if she'd already begun, some time back, to separate from Suncrest. To give up on it, she corrected herself, which made tears prick hot behind her eyes. It was like the feeling she'd had when her Grandma Laura died, when Gabby knew that her nonna was going in one direction and she was going in the other, and that as much as they loved one another, neither could share the other's path.
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