He spied the DeLucas back where he'd seen them three long months before. They stood in a knot beside the nurse's station, Gabby, her mother, Cam, Lucia. They were deep in conversation, their heads bent close together. As he pounded toward them down the long, fluorescent-lit corridor, Gabby turned, and their eyes met. Her whole family pivoted toward him as a unit, but he could see only her face.
Which crumpled into tears as he neared her. God, oh God, don't tell me this. She broke away from her family and stumbled into his arms. "You came."
He almost couldn't breathe. "I had to." He searched her face. "How is he?"
"Oh, Will." She let out a choked gasp. "He's alive." Her head fell against his chest, sobs racked her. "It's amazing, I can't believe it, but he's going to be okay. The doctors say he suffered sudden death. His heart stopped. But I gave him CPR ..."
Will clutched Gabby as if he held salvation in his arms. He only half processed the tale she told him. That in another time and place, her father would not have survived. Were it not for the CPR, the speed of the paramedics, the well-equipped facilities, the alignment of the stars, Cosimo DeLuca would not have been spared. But in this, he had been blessed by the fates. And by a daughter who would stop at nothing to save him.
"He's awake. We all spoke to him. There's a lot he can't remember, he may never remember." Gabby raised brimming eyes to Will's. "Maybe that's better."
"Oh, Gabby." After this, what man couldn't hope for his own miracle? "I am so sorry," he started to say, but she shook her head and lay a trembling finger on his lips.
"So am I. But that's for later. I need to be with my family now."
She was right. More important, he understood. And he was beyond content just to hold her. Later would come; he was blessed to get it. Will shut his eyes and pulled Gabby tighter against him as the world of the hospital flowed around them, some people's dreams over, and others just beginning.
*
Ava led Paul Erskine, head of the moving company that bore his name, to her foyer. He paused to clasp her hand and deliver his final reassurances. "We will see to everything, Mrs. Winsted." His tone was stentorian, as befitted a man whose mission in life was to transport the irreplaceable possessions of affluent families. "My crew will be here the morning of the twentieth at eight o'clock."
"Thank you, Paul." Then he was gone, off to climb in his Mercedes-Benz, and Ava was once again alone in the home she no longer owned, but had sold along with Suncrest to GPG.
One week more she would live in this house. She strolled to the French doors in the living room, open to admit the September evening. The day's hot air was softening as the hour melted toward twilight. The sky above the rolling crest of the Mayacamas glowed pink as a peony, while close at hand the grapevines beyond the mesh fence huddled in endless, undulating rows. Here and there an olive tree punctuated the horizon like nature's exclamation point.
Ava was not a sentimental woman, but still tears gathered in her eyes. If Porter had lived, this glorious valley would have remained the stage of her life. But Porter had not lived. Her role as his wife was over. And it was long past time for her to find a new script to memorize.
She went to the kitchen to pour a glass of sauvignon blanc, then repaired to a white wicker chair on the flagstone terrace between the residence and the pool. She would miss Napa Valley. It amazed her that it had been her home for thirty years. How accidental life was, how it could turn on a chance meeting, a haphazard introduction, a stray idea. If she had married a man other than Porter, she might have made her home in Minneapolis or Houston or New York or London. And if Porter hadn't been possessed by the urge to found a winery, she never would have found herself uprooted from Southern California and transplanted here.
Yet life flowed in a circle, too, didn't it? For now she would return to Bel Air, where she had history and friends and a precedent for starting over. True, she'd been much younger the first time she went to Los Angeles to seek her fame and fortune. But thanks to Porter, the latter half of her quest had already been most tidily achieved.
Ava watched a leaf from a nearby oak tree flutter into the pool, setting off a ripple soft as a baby's breath across the water's surface. She owed so much to Porter. That was another reason she couldn't bear to stay in the valley. Though she couldn't even fathom how wounded he would be to see how Suncrest was changing, she felt the pain of it herself. She knew how her husband had strived for excellence, perfection even. What the new owners would do, she didn't know, but was sure Porter's lofty goals were not on their agenda.
Still, she told herself, she couldn't live her life fulfilling the dreams Porter had run out of time for. She had her own life to live.
The phrase brought a wan smile to Ava's face. She had received a call a few days earlier from one of the Hollywood contacts she'd assiduously maintained over the years—under the guise of friendship, of course. Once the conversation had wound its way through the pleasantries, he had asked if she would consider a role in daytime television. Apparently a long-running soap had an opening for a woman of her age, as the love interest of a beloved male character who had been widowed. Ava thought the role had potential, as she happened to know that the body of the character's wife had been found, identified, and duly buried, precluding her shocking reappearance in a ratings-grabber a few months down the road.
Why, yes, Ava had said, I am interested. She'd been so delighted by the prospect of call times and rehearsals and wardrobe fittings and the sheer joy of being once again under the klieg lights that she chose to ignore how much of a comedown a soap role would be from her former career. Pragmatic Ava knew that beggars could not be choosers, particularly at her age and particularly in Hollywood.
She wondered if her son would ever learn any part of that lesson. There was no question that Max had a sense of entitlement. She couldn't help but think she must have given it to him. He was so flawed, it amazed and sometimes revolted her. But still he was her son, and she loved him. She was proud of herself for not having succumbed to his importunings for more cash. For once she had stood firm, not let guilt over her bad mothering drive her. Certainly she had felt his rage and frustration, but she knew he would get past it. She also knew he recognized that they were the only two Winsteds left in the world. That would mean something to him.
Ultimately, she would protect him, of course. In the end he would inherit quite a bit from her, because much as she liked to live well, Ava's native caution kept her from excess.
She sighed, sipped from her wineglass. It was true that some lessons were very difficult for a mother to teach. She had to stand by and watch, pained and helpless, as her baby either flew or stumbled. And pray that should it be the latter, he would fall neither too hard nor too far.
Mrs. Finchley appeared beside Ava's chair. "You have a call, madam, from Mr. Boursault."
"Jean-Luc? At this hour?" It was past four in the morning in Paris. More than a little curious, Ava followed Mrs. Finchley inside. Ava had been relieved to learn that the faithful housekeeper had been unfazed at the notion of accompanying her employer to Bel Air. Ava thought that if she had asked Mrs. Finchley to move to Timbuktu, the woman would have procured a pith helmet and shown up ready to decamp at the appointed hour.
Ava took the call in the kitchen while Mrs. Finchley discreetly busied herself in another part of the house. "Jean-Luc? Comment ca va?"
"Ca va tres bien." Then he made a point of adding, "Thank you for taking my call, Ava."
A touch of sarcasm there, she noted. "Isn't this an odd time for you to be on the telephone?" She frowned. Was that a horn she heard in the background? Could he be driving at this hour?
"Well, actually, I'm in Los Angeles. So it is not so very late."
"Ah." How odd that he had come to California and not bothered to alert her. Ava, who had delivered her share of slights over the years, recognized a definite snub. "Is this trip business or pleasure?" she asked, rhetorically, because she knew it had to be the latter. Jean-Luc knew no one in L
.A.
"Business," he said. Her brows flew up. "I have come to finalize my movie deal. In fact, we inked the contracts today. The script is revised, and I have found producers with ready cash all set to go forward. So you see, the film will be made. I believe that you will read about it in the trades."
Ava could not have been more stunned if Jean-Luc had declared that he had been elected president of France. "Well! Congratulations." She couldn't think what to say next, for she had a strong inkling that her role in this resuscitated endeavor had evaporated like the bubbles in uncorked champagne. "I'm so happy for you, Jean-Luc. And I am not in the least surprised that you have succeeded in this endeavor."
He chuckled as if he didn't quite believe that last sentiment. "Well, Ava, perhaps if you were not so busy with other projects, we might have worked together again. But alas. Ah, please excuse me for a moment." Then he broke away from the call to speak to someone. He was giving directions to a driver, she realized. The likelihood that Jean-Luc was being ferried about Hollywood in a limousine only added to her sense of insult.
He came back on the line. "Ava, I'm sorry, but I must go. Au revoir," and before she could utter a word, he had hung up, leaving her fit to be tied holding a dead receiver in her hand.
Ava replaced it without a slam, never one to let anger or any other emotion carry her—unless the role demanded it. With an effort, she calmed down, refusing to think how humiliating it was that she would be performing a small role in a soap opera while Jean-Luc was directing his cinematic chef d'oeuvre. But by the time she returned to her wicker chair and her wineglass, she was once again sanguine.
No matter, she told herself. If that is the sort of friend Jean-Luc is, it is better that I find out now, rather than waste another fifteen years of friendship on him. She sniffed, and set all thought of the Frenchman aside. She hadn't intended to include him in her new life, anyway.
*
In the dim light of a nighttime ward, Gabby lingered at her father's bedside, the rest of the family gone home for the night. He dozed while she held his hand and halfheartedly watched the television mounted to the wall across from his bed. The 11 o'clock news was on, the usual recitation of tragedies followed by sports and weather. Even with the volume so low she could barely hear it, she had a pretty good idea what was going on. Nothing earth-shattering in the great wide world, though the headlines in her own personal universe were four inches tall. FATHER SURVIVES. LOVER BEGS FORGIVENESS. WOMAN GETS NEW LEASE ON LIFE.
Her father stirred, emitted a little snort, settled back into slumber. Gabby smiled to herself, squeezed his hand. He was attached by various tubes to equipment that beeped and gurgled and read out an astonishing digital array of numbers and charts, but apart from that he looked very close to normal. His color was good; his breathing regular. Even more amazing, his heart—the very heart that had stopped beating—once again pounded a steady rhythm.
Sudden cardiac arrest, they called it, or more frighteningly, sudden death. Not a heart attack, but the most feared complication of the one he had suffered three months before. If she hadn't performed CPR, if the paramedics hadn't been so fast . . . She hated even to think about it. But thank heavens she didn't need to.
The next day the doctors would give him a defibrillator, in what they described as minor surgery. Most likely he could go home the day after. Simple as that. She was sure he'd have a list of shoulds and should nots, but there was every reason to believe the long-term effects from this harrowing event would be minimal.
She punched the power button on the remote control, and the room slipped deeper into shadow. Two nurses in soft shoes and pink uniforms padded down the corridor past the half-open door, giggling to each other and weaving around a wizened old woman in a frayed robe laboriously pushing a walker. Somewhere a call button buzzed; a male patient hollered for a nurse.
The hospital was as Will had described it months before: a world unto itself that you didn't think about until it was your world, and then it was all-encompassing. It held your dreams and your hopes; you could barely function outside until the life-and-death questions it held within its institutional walls were answered.
Had she gotten a different answer from Will that day? I had to come, he told her. I am so sorry. She believed him. She'd seen the genuineness of the apology in his eyes; she'd felt it in the way he held her. Was that enough? She knew she loved him—that had never stopped. She also knew she had betrayed him when she went to Vittorio. She had faulted him not for being angry with her, not even for not understanding, but for not trying to. Was he trying now? And would that be enough to bridge the differences between them?
That question, too, would be answered soon. She had put off their own moment of truth-telling, but like any hour of reckoning, it was approaching.
Her father fidgeted, drew her back into the present. "Daddy?" She rose from her seat, bent over him. "Are you awake?"
His eyes fluttered open, focused on her face. "Gabby." His voice was hoarse.
"Are you thirsty?" She was already handing him a little cup of water. He sipped, fell back against the pillows. "How are you feeling?"
He seemed to think about that. "Groggy. Not too bad." He frowned. "Shouldn't you be at home in bed? What time is it?"
"Almost midnight. I just wanted to make sure … " Her voice left her at the same moment that he found his.
He took her hand and squeezed it. "I'll be fine, Gabby. I'm in good hands here. You should get some sleep. Your mornings start early."
At dawn, but so did his. That was the winemaker's life. "I'll go home soon. Let me just sit for a while."
She returned to her plastic bedside chair. The big round white-faced clock on the wall, the kind found in high school gyms and community centers, ticked away the seconds of the night. Around their private cocoon of father and daughter, other people slept, and still others held vigil.
After a time he spoke. "I can't remember what happened today."
She remembered all too well. "Let's talk about that another time."
"Did something bad happen at work?" He gave a weak laugh. "Something else bad?" When she said nothing, he spoke again. "Gabby, I think I might want to leave Suncrest."
She turned to look at his face. It was funny how often truths came out at night. Maybe weariness and shadows made some realities easier to face. "Really?"
"Would that upset you? What with Will there … " His voice trailed off. "I don't want to leave you, or him, in a lurch."
"Oh, Daddy." What a fine heart her father had, despite all its troubles. "You wouldn't be doing that. And besides, you need to do what would be best for you."
He nodded. "I hate to say it, but I think leaving would be best for me."
She watched him, heard the regret in his voice, saw the sadness in his eyes. All those years he'd spent at Suncrest, and now it had come to this. But maybe sometimes it was wise to walk away. Maybe it wasn't always surrender.
"I've been thinking about it, even before today." He grimaced as he resettled himself on the thin hospital mattress. Her heart ached to imagine how much pain he must be in, despite his "not too bad" demurral. "Part of what's been keeping me there is Porter. Of course, the rest is you and Felix and Cam and everybody else. But Porter . . ." He shook his head. "I hate to see what's happening to what he built. He loved that winery, Gabby."
"I know, Daddy. But there's nothing we can do about it anymore." In fact, she hadn't been able to do much even when she'd tried.
"Porter Winsted was about my age when he founded Suncrest," he said. "Maybe a few years younger. I always envied him that."
Gabby was surprised. "I never knew you wanted to start your own label."
"It was always a pipe dream of mine." His eyes moved to hers. "A label for the DeLucas. A fantasy, you'd have to call it."
What a fantasy. To craft a wine just as you wanted it, to make your own decisions about the grapes with no interference from anyone else, the almost unimaginable pride of seeing your own name o
n the label. Yet it was an extremely expensive fantasy, which is why Gabby had never allowed herself to nurture it. "How do you feel about going to work for somebody else?"
He shrugged, then smiled. "I don't have much choice, Gabby. I can't retire yet. It won't be easy, though, to convince a winery to take on an old man with a heart problem."
"That is not true." She said that louder than she'd intended, maybe to convince herself as well as him. She lowered her voice back to a half-whisper. "People in the valley know you're a terrific winemaker. And you have lots of friends. And despite all this"—she waved her arm to take in the expanse of the bed and high-tech cardiac equipment—"you're still okay."
He arched his brows as if to remark that even that analysis was an overstatement. Then his eyes fluttered partway shut, and Gabby realized she should take her leave, let him sleep.
"Good night, Daddy." She bent forward, kissed his brow, tears rushing anew to her eyes, though now it was joy she cried for. How lucky she was, how very lucky. She would always love the valley, she would always have a place in her heart for Suncrest, but it wasn't flesh and blood and bone, in the end it wasn't what really mattered.
She exited the hospital into the cool, cloudless Napa Valley night, where love and home were, and always would be.
Chapter 20
Will hadn't slept well. Now, on a Saturday morning before dawn, he stood in the kitchen of his Pacific Heights Victorian spooning ground coffee into a drip coffeemaker and mentally replaying the scene from the night before.
As if they were frames in a reel of film, images rose in his mind. Beth, standing in his living room after a hell-bent flight from Denver. Trying not to cry, not always succeeding. Her words the last ones Will wanted to hear. Bob's taken a job in Philadelphia. He's already there. He wants us to join him as soon as we can.
Will had hated himself for what he'd wished for. How selfish could a brother be? Did he ever put anybody but himself front and center? What are you going to do? he'd asked her, knowing the answer he wanted to hear even as he despised himself for it.
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