Too Close to the Sun (38 page)

*

Ava behaved uncharacteristically on her first
morning home in Napa. She slept late, well past ten, then instead
of going down to the kitchen asked Mrs. Finchley to bring tea and
toast to the master suite, where, still in her robe, she
breakfasted off a tray in the sitting area overlooking the
pool.

Part of her lassitude was caused by fatigue.
Her flight from Paris had been delayed, and the long limo ride
north to the valley from the airport had seemed endless. It wasn't
until after midnight that she'd collapsed into bed, even forgoing a
bath. Then, courtesy of jet lag, she'd awoken at three and suffered
through a few sleepless hours.

But it wasn't exhaustion alone that kept her
in seclusion. Ava sipped tepid tea from her china cup, gazing
without joy at the magnificent view. She dreaded seeing Max, whose
actions she found more inexplicable than ever. She dreaded
assessing the fire damage with her own eyes. And she dreaded
dealing with Suncrest's future, which looked uncertain indeed.
She'd thought that by this weekend she'd be free of the winery, for
once she'd agreed to sell it she was impatient to have it done. But
no. Like everything else that involved her son, something had gone
wrong.

She was mystified as to why Max had failed to
sign the final documents selling Suncrest to GPG. Why he'd balked
at the eleventh hour, when he'd been so terrifically intent before,
she had no idea. Neither did her attorney, who'd informed her that
her son had left Will Henley and numerous attorneys waiting in
Porter's office while he was off God knew where doing God knew
what. Then the fire began. Minutes later.

Ava shivered, though on this Sunday morning
the sun had already burned through the fog and the breeze through
the open French doors was balmy. She was not a churchgoer: one of
her youthful rebellions had been to turn her back on her parents'
Methodist faith. Though her own views on the Almighty were murky
and unresolved, she couldn't help but think of the fire as some
sort of celestial sign. If it wasn't from God, then perhaps it was
from Porter, who'd sent a thunderbolt down from the heavens to show
how mightily he disapproved of the way his beloved Suncrest was
being managed.

She hung her head. Porter would be colossally
disappointed, she knew. And not only in Max.

Ava wished she had managed Suncrest better,
and raised Max with more care. Yet he'd always been such a handful.
She shouldn't resent her own child, but sometimes she couldn't help
it. And now nothing was going as it ought, and when had that
started? The day Max returned from France.

She forced herself to throw her napkin aside
and rise from her breakfast. Perhaps it was just as well that this
morass had dragged her back to California. She'd been shirking her
duty, and it wasn't as if her European pursuits were flourishing,
anyway.

Ava showered and dressed quickly so as to be
ready for her first visitors of the day. It was time to find Max
and face reality. She exited the master suite to hear the noise of
a televised sporting event blaring from the family room. Could it
be football season already?

Max hoisted himself off the sofa to hug her.
"Hey, Mom, welcome back." He gave her a tight squeeze before he
released her. "How are you? I guess the flight got in really late
last night."

"There was a mechanical problem. A five-hour
delay."

He winced. "Ouch."

She eyed him. He might be lounging in front
of the television on a bright weekend morning but he had taken some
care with his appearance, in deference to her return, no doubt.
He'd showered and shaved, and wore pressed khakis and a polo shirt.
She even caught a whiff of cologne. "You seem to be holding up
well," she said.

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 difficult 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.