Too Close to the Sun

by Dempsey, Diana

  We're going, she'd said. Bzzz! the wrong-answer buzzer sounded in Will's brain. You mean you're not going, he wanted to say. You can't go because you have to stay in Denver to run Henley Sand and Gravel.

  And why? Because big important Harvard Business School graduate and GPG partner Will Henley didn't want to take on the task. And he was the only other heir. He'd had some nerve criticizing Max Winsted for not appreciating the incredible legacy he'd been handed. Because for years Will had been doing the exact same thing.

  He paced the hardwood floor between the center island and the counter. Lights switching on in the Victorian next door caught his attention, prompted him to look out his window into his neighbor's kitchen, one floor down and perhaps fifteen yards away across their shared alley. He could eye the goings-on through both sets of rectangular glass, an easy-to-see tableau in the blackness of this predawn hour. A man was making coffee, like Will was, a man a few years older and equally bedraggled. A boy, maybe ten, the man's son no doubt, spun into the kitchen fully outfitted in a Little League baseball uniform, the cap on, the shoes laced. He was tossing the hardball repeatedly into his mitt as if to warm up.

  Will smiled. The boy looked excited, fully awake, ready to go—Come on, Dad! We're gonna be late! Probably he had an out-of-town game several hours' drive away and was counting on Dad to get him there. The boy's father nodded, produced a sleepy smile, concentrated on making the coffee Will knew he hoped would wake him up.

  As clearly as if there were a cartoon bubble over the man's head spelling out his thoughts, Will could guess what he was thinking. Christ, I wish I could sleep in. I killed myself at work this week. Now I've got to do three hours out and three hours back and five hours of kiddie baseball in between.

  But it was equally clear that the father would make the trip. He'd slap water on his face and pull on his jeans and grab some to-go coffee and get in the SUV and drive. And why? Because it was his son, and families did things for each other, whether they always wanted to or not. That was how it worked. That was the trade. Sometimes one person made the sacrifice and sometimes the other did, and it pretty much evened out in the end. Or it evened out close enough, because Will had learned lately it was a bad idea to try to keep a balance sheet.

  Will tried to think how often he saw his father. Twice a year? On visits that ended too fast and were too falsely separated from "real" life. Will couldn't fault his brother-in-law Bob, not really, for wanting to be near his family in Philly again after so many years of living half a continent away. His parents were getting older, and he was worried there wasn't that much time left. There was a lot of sense to what Bob was doing. There was a lot of sense to what Beth was doing, too. Which was more than Will could always say about his own life.

  His sister came into the kitchen just as the coffee finished coming down. "Did you sleep okay?" he asked her.

  She rolled her eyes, accepted a mug.

  "I slept all right. How about you?"

  "I spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling."

  She shook her head. "I'm sorry about all this."

  "No." He touched her arm. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I understand what you're doing, and it's the right thing," he added, giving himself a few points for being—even briefly and belatedly—magnanimous. "And besides, you've been running Henley S and G for years now. I don't know why this is so hard for me. It really shouldn't be."

  "Well." She moved to sit on one of the two bar stools at the end of the center island. As Will went to join her, he noticed that the father next door swung into his kitchen, dressed and combed, to grab his car keys and switch off the lights. "It's your whole life, Will. It's leaving your job and San Francisco."

  And Gabby, too. Beth didn't even know that part.

  "It's also running Henley S and G," she went on, "which you've never wanted to do."

  "It's not that I never wanted to," he said, then stopped.

  But knowing him too well, his sister chuckled and picked up where he'd left off. "Okay, you didn't want to once you realized how humdrum it is."

  He drank from his mug, set it down. "I had an idea last night."

  "What's that?"

  "There may be a way to use GPG to make Henley S and G a bigger enterprise. I could imagine them making an investment, ramping the company up, giving it a bigger platform. Expanding beyond the mountain states, taking on some of the larger players that the company's never really challenged before."

  Will saw Beth's face light up. He was reminded, once again, how relieved Beth would be if he took over. She could feel confident that she was leaving the family company in good hands, and could move with a clear conscience to Philadelphia.

  "You love this stuff, don't you?" she asked him. "Taking businesses and growing them. You actually like it a lot more than I do."

  "A lot I do like. A lot I don't. The politics. The dog eat dog."

  "There must be a lot of that at GPG."

  "You don't know the half of it." Ironically, this would be a good time for Will to quit. He'd leave on a high, after having just scored a deal that everyone judged a big winner. Who knew when that would happen next, if ever? "Funny enough, I've been thinking lately about running my own show. I did a deal in the wine country, bought a family business, and learned a lot about the man who founded it. I don't know." He shook his head. "It gave me something to think about."

  They were silent for a time. Shapes began to emerge from the shadows outside the windows. Will heard the stray birdcall. Slowly, gently, the day was dawning.

  Beth spoke. "Wasn't there a woman in the wine country?"

  Will shut his eyes. Yes, there was a woman. He hadn't known her long, not really, but she loomed large in every part of his life, his past, his present, his future.

  "Are you serious about her?" Beth asked.

  It took him a while to answer. "Very serious. But I couldn't ask her to leave Napa Valley."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, she's a winemaker for one thing. There's no winemaking in Denver."

  "She could come up with something else to do. I'll have to."

  He shook his head. "You can't begin to understand how much she loves it there, Beth. She's lived there all her life. Her family's there."

  "So what? I've lived in Denver my whole life and my family's there and now I'm moving to Philadelphia."

  It wasn't as simple as that. Now Gabby's father had serious heart problems. She wouldn't leave him. And Napa dirt flowed in her veins. If ever there was a woman tied to a place, it was Gabby to Napa Valley. It was Tara to her, Eden, the soil of her birth and the dust of her death. There was no taking Gabby out of Napa. Will understood that, even if his sister didn't.

  Briefly, he shut his eyes. It was Gabby who had taught him about loyalty to family, Gabby who showed him how high the cost of that loyalty might be. If it weren't for her, he wouldn't have learned his lesson nearly so well.

  Beth sighed. "I know I said it before, but I'm really sorry I'm putting you in this position, Will. I just wish there were an easy way out."

  That brought a wry smile to Will's face. If only.

  *

  A job, a job, a job. Max exited the salon where he'd just had a massage and paused on the sun-baked sidewalk to put on his shades. Muscles relaxed, pleasantly drowsy, he raked a hand through his hair, damp after his shower, then meandered north in the direction of the restaurant where he was meeting Claudia Landower for lunch.

  A job, a job, a job. Problem One was that he didn't know what he wanted to do. Problem Two was that he didn't really want to do anything. It had occurred to him that maybe, when he'd been running Suncrest, he hadn't fully appreciated the benefits of being his own boss. Not having anyone to report to, not having to show up or leave at an appointed hour, not having to keep somebody else happy to retain his employment. All of those struck him as fairly major pains in the ass. And they would all become regular irritants unless he came up with an inventive way to make money on his own.

  Tha
t is, if he really had to. On some level, he still wasn't convinced he did. He had to think there was a good chance that his mother would cave, throw another five mil at him. He just could not believe that when it came right down to it, she'd out-and-out screw him. So, to the end of winning her over, he'd reinstated his charming-as-can-be strategy. It'd worked before.

  Max ambled on, glancing at an oil landscape in the window of an art gallery, one of the many that could be found even here in the northernmost reaches of Napa Valley. Calistoga was a lot less chichi than St. Helena—it had more the look of a Western frontier town—but still it had its share of upscale establishments selling art, clothes, jewelry, and food. It had a few good restaurants, too, and the Wappo Grill, where he was meeting Claudia Landower, was one of them.

  His mother was making him do this lunch, though he was already bored to tears and it hadn't even started yet. It had come about because of his forced donation to a nature-conservancy group. Apparently the one his mom had picked was a favorite of the Landower Foundation, and it was just his luck that a family member involved in the charity stuff happened to be in Northern California and wanted to thank him personally.

  Great. He could just picture Claudia Landower—some blue-hair who'd be as entertaining as fruitcake. The Landowers were as rich as the Rockefellers, but that didn't mean they were interesting. So he'd opted for lunch over dinner, figuring it was less likely to drag out. And there was no way he was picking up the bill.

  Man. He hated having to think about money, but now it was on his mind constantly. He'd started paying rent for a bungalow in St. Helena, since in two days he had to vacate the house. The bungalow was nice and all, but it didn't have a pool or a Mrs. Finchley. For sure he'd have to hire someone. He certainly wasn't going to clean, or do laundry, or cook, or shlep around his dry cleaning.

  The Wappo Grill was housed in a bungalow, too, of the yellow clapboard type. On a day like this, people were eating in the redbrick courtyard, sitting around the fountain at little tables draped with blue-and-white gingham tablecloths. A trellis shaded the whole area so the diners wouldn't pass out from heat stroke.

  "Your guest is already here," the waitress informed Max, and led him to a table occupied by a woman about a third of the age he'd been expecting.

  She didn't stand, but her scrubbed, preppy face lit up as she held out her hand. "Max, I'm so delighted to meet you!"

  Max shook her hand. "Hello, Claudia. The pleasure is mine." Then he sat down, trying to remember why he'd been so sure that Claudia Landower would be a geriatric patient. No good reason, he realized, just an assumption that the younger members of the family wouldn't bother themselves with the foundation.

  "It's such good luck that I happened to be in San Francisco when I heard about your donation." This was one cheerful woman. She didn't stop smiling. She was wearing khakis and a pink polo shirt and had a ribbon tying back her long blond hair. She seemed no-nonsense and outdoorsy. "It's so generous of you, and quite sensitive," she added, "after the fire at your own vineyards."

  "Oh. Well." Max tried to look modest, never his strong suit. Funny, wasn't that exactly what his mother had predicted people would say? He remembered something else she'd told him: You don't care nearly enough how people think of you. Well, maybe he'd take a page from his mother's book and try to give Claudia here a positive impression of him.

  He set his elbows on the gingham and leaned closer to her. "My family has always been deeply interested in conservation. In fact, had we not sold Suncrest, I was considering a move toward organic farming in our vineyards."

  "Were you really? I am such a believer in organic agriculture." She leaned closer, too. "Any chance you're into animal husbandry, too?"

  Animal husbandry. He had no idea even what that was. "Yes," he heard himself say, "I love animals. The bigger, the better."

  "I love animals, too. Horses and dogs and sheep and goats and . . . Do you ride?"

  "Yes," he declared, "yes, I do. Love to ride."

  "What other sports do you like?"

  He tried to think what would be the right sports to like. "Golf," he managed, "sailing, lacrosse"—which he'd toyed with in college, without much success—"and tennis, of course."

  "Skiing?" she demanded. "Downhill or cross-country?"

  "Both?" he wondered aloud.

  She smiled. Apparently he'd passed muster. "Shall we order?"

  Obediently he picked up his menu. Claudia was clearly a take-charge kind of gal. One other thing was for sure: she didn't just believe in sports and organic agriculture, she believed in food. He didn't know how long he'd kept her waiting, but she'd put an impressive dent in the bread basket and sucked down all of a large iced tea. Then she confirmed his opinion of a healthy appetite by ordering a steak sandwich.

  Over the meal, he asked a million and one questions about the foundation, what she did there, what she liked and didn't, blah blah blah. She was a bit of a Plain Jane, but she was easy to talk to.

  "So, Max." She swiped her last french fry through the puddle of ketchup on her plate. "Now that your family has sold its winery, have you decided what you're going to do next?"

  He hadn't the foggiest idea but guessed his companion would disapprove of a lack of direction in life. "Well, I'm considering a number of options." He assumed a solemn expression. "I do know that I'd like to give something back. I've been so blessed, and surely there is nothing as rewarding as what you're doing, Claudia. Helping others less fortunate than yourself."

  "That is so, so true." She fell back in her chair and stared at him. Then, "You know, Max, it just so happens that we're looking to expand the leadership team at the Landower Foundation. Have you ever considered a career in philanthropy?"

  It was safe to say he had not. Max set down his fork, as if a matter of such gravitas could not be discussed while eating. He had to think philanthropy was one of the most boring occupations out there. But then again, compared with other jobs, it might not be half bad. He couldn't imagine it would be too strenuous to hand out money, and it probably would involve lots of being wined and dined by all the people who wanted a handout. And he'd be a personage of some importance, because anybody who had millions of dollars to give away automatically was.

  "It's a fascinating idea," he told Claudia.

  Her face lit up. "Next time you're in Chicago, you'll have to come riding with me at our family farm on the North Shore."

  A farm on the North Shore. Max knew there were some serious mansions there, but he'd never heard of a farm. "I'd love to," he told her, knowing he'd have to take lessons first so he wouldn't fall off the damn horse.

  "We have stables there, and I've been riding since I was three. I go every weekend I can get away. I love my apartment in the city . . . Did I tell you I have a penthouse on Lake Shore Drive, near the foundation offices? But I still like to get out to the country as often as possible."

  Max nodded encouragingly, beginning to take a new interest in Claudia's chatter.

  "It's got just wonderful views, the penthouse, I mean," she went on. "And of course I always ride whenever I can get down to the ranch in Kentucky. We breed thoroughbreds there, you know."

  No, Max hadn't known. But now he was glad he did. He was getting quite a picture of Claudia Landower, with her stables and her farm and her penthouse and her ranch. He did a quick assessment of her face and figure and judged her to be in her early thirties. And still with no ornamentation on that all-important left-hand ring finger.

  He cleared his throat, pretended to be casual. "And does your husband like to ride, too?"

  She looked away. "Actually, I'm not married."

  He feigned surprise, then arched his brows as if this revelation were of profound interest to him. Actually, it was. "Well." He smiled at her. "That's hard to believe. But interesting to know."

  She smiled back. Then the moment passed, and they began to chat about ordering dessert, busying themselves with a topic that had nothing to do with the one each was secretly mulling
.

  For his part, Max was trying to imagine life with this woman and an assortment of large farm animals. And big-boned, athletic children with names like Biff and Muffy.

  There were worse fates, he told himself. He could imagine weekdays in the city, weekends in the country, Landowers gathering for black-tie foundation dinners and cross-country ski trips and barbecues and pickup football games, sort of like the Kennedys. He would be a son-in-law, a secure, enviable position, particularly once he sired a few members of the next generation. And he had nothing against the Midwest; he could get used to the cold. Plus, it wasn't like he'd have to shovel.

  He gave Claudia a conspiratorial wink when he caught her glancing at him. She blushed slightly, looked away. She wasn't bad. Attractive enough. A nice girl. Easy to talk to, relaxing to be with. Older than him, so likely to be grateful. He could do what had to be done. Plus, after a few kids, she probably wouldn't want to anymore anyway.

  He could do what British women were told to do in Victorian times: Close your eyes, and think of England.

  Max could manage that. He'd just think of his bank account.

  *

  On Saturday evening, Gabby was alone in the old winery building hosing down the floor around the fermentation tanks, when she looked up and saw Will watching her. She'd had no warning that he would come by and hadn't heard his footsteps over the noise of the jetting water. He suddenly appeared, not smiling, not frowning, just watching.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Hi." She turned off the hose and listened to the water gurgle into the drain gulley that ran the length of the concrete floor. She was keenly aware of what a sorry spectacle she must make in her shorts and wading boots, her tee shirt speckled with baby cab stains and her hair in a sloppy knot on top of her head. Will wore jeans and a casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and looked clean and healthy and strong. Maybe tired, she thought, assessing him, her heart clenching as it always did when she saw him after an absence.

  "Saturday night and here you are." He smiled. "Do you work constantly?"