"I'm just thrilled to see Max take over," she lied. "He learned so much in France, he'll bring an entirely new perspective to Suncrest. Who knows? He might even end up a better vintner than his father."
Ava watched Jean-Luc decide—wisely, she thought—not to challenge that fantastic pronouncement. From his perch on a cheerful blue-and-yellow Cottage Victorian armchair, he merely took another sip of his Suncrest sauvignon blanc, which Ava considered a delightful late-morning libation. Slight of build, with thick graying hair and eyebrows that threatened to run one into the other, Jean-Luc looked bohemian, affluent, and intellectual, much as he had when she'd met him fifteen years before. "Porter Winsted," he offered mildly, "is a difficult act to follow."
Who knew that better than Ava? Her late husband had been a man among men, the scion of a Newport, Rhode Island, family who'd built two stunning careers—in commercial real estate and winemaking—yet remained to the end hardworking, self-effacing, and kindhearted.
Ava's eyes misted. She turned her back on Jean-Luc to gaze out the French doors, the familiar panorama of vineyards and olive and eucalyptus trees blurring into indistinct masses of green and gold under the valley's unremitting midday sun.
She felt Jean-Luc's hand soft on the small of her back. "You miss him still."
Still. Two years only he'd been gone. Two years already he'd been gone. Sometimes when she awoke, Ava forgot Porter was dead, and reached out across the cold, cold sheets only to remember. The stab of pain that followed was astonishingly raw, every time. But it happened less and less often now, which in its own way saddened her. She was growing used to him being gone.
"I will always miss him," she told Jean-Luc. But I'm only fifty-five and I still feel alive, most days anyway. She turned her head to meet her friend's eyes. They crinkled with a smile, and she was reminded again that Jean-Luc was in love with her, and had been for some time, and would wait however long it took for her to be ready for him.
Which might not be that long anymore.
"Will you miss running the winery when Max takes over?" he asked her.
At that, Ava had to laugh, but didn't have to lie. "Not in the least. You know me, Jean-Luc. I am many things, but a businesswoman is not among them." She turned from the view to wipe nonexistent dust from a round glass-topped table crowded with art books and photo frames. "I had to run Suncrest after Porter died. And I think I managed it reasonably well."
"Better than that, Ava."
She shook her head. "My heart was never really in it, not the way Porter's was." She cast her mind back to those long-ago years when she'd resented Porter's passion for Suncrest. Perhaps obsession was a better word. No woman could be as demanding a mistress as a fledgling winery, and it had caused their young marriage real distress. But they had emerged intact, and the winery prospered beyond anything they'd imagined. "Porter loved Suncrest, Jean-Luc. It is his legacy."
But it is not mine. Hers was as an actress.
Hollywood would have no room for her, Ava knew. She might have assiduously protected her blond, Breck-girl looks, and no one could deny that she had some impressive credits to her name, but she was still a fifty-something has-been. Fortunately Europe was more willing to embrace women d'un certain age who still knew how to light up a screen. Screenwriters like Jean-Luc Boursault even wrote parts for them.
Ava's mouth pursed in wry humor. Imagine that.
Jean-Luc returned to his armchair, his wineglass refreshed. "And you are certain Max can manage as well as you?"
"Oh, of course." On went Ava's megawatt smile, for even with a friend as dear as Jean-Luc she felt compelled to maintain the fiction that she had complete confidence in her son. What she'd learned in Hollywood was equally true in Napa Valley: Image was everything. She would not derail what chance of success Max had by appearing to doubt him from the start. "He grew up in the wine business. And now he's had this apprenticeship in France. He's far more knowledgeable than I ever was."
And far more reckless. And far less disciplined. And so stunningly oblivious of his own limitations.
Ava sipped from her wineglass, thinking back to those painful weeks before Max had decamped to France. The whole episode was so unseemly and embarrassing and she hated even to think of it. Such a classic tale: a young lady, the daughter of a small Sonoma vintner, who, the morning after, regretted what she had done. Started to think it hadn't been her choice at all. Ugly accusations flew from her father, and veiled threats, and Ava hastily cobbled together a face-saving solution. She wrote a massive check to charity in the family's name and packed Max off to the Haut-Medoc, claiming a long-planned apprenticeship.
She shut her eyes. Why was there so little of the father in the son? Where was Porter's caution, his thoughtfulness, his good sense? True, Max had many natural gifts. He was intelligent and nice-looking and didn't lack for confidence or charm. But there was a wildness to him that frightened Ava and made her worry for the future.
And now of course there was the problem of Suncrest. She knew that the most prudent course would be for her to continue to run the winery. Yet, though it made her feel horribly guilty to admit it, she was done with it—done. She'd had enough of marketing strategies and distribution agreements and P&L statements. She could play the vintner no longer. It was a role she was handed against her will and she'd hated it from the moment she walked onstage.
Of course, the other option was to sell it to Will Henley and GPG. Suncrest would survive if she did, though probably not in a form of which Porter would have approved. Those buyout firms changed businesses—she was a savvy enough businesswoman to understand that. But sometimes it was hard to believe Suncrest would fare any better in Max's hands.
Ava abruptly set down her glass. "Shall we have lunch?" she asked, and swept toward the sun-drenched terrace beyond the French doors without waiting for Jean-Luc's answer. "I've asked Mrs. Finchley to lay a table for us in the pergola."
Jean-Luc looked confused. "Didn't Max's flight land two hours ago? Shouldn't we wait for him to get here to eat?"
"Oh no, let's not." Ava knew her son well enough to know it was unwise to wait for him for anything.
***
Ninety miles south of his mother's intimate lunch with Jean-Luc Boursault, Maximilian Winsted was doing some entertaining of his own. He stood at the foot of a San Francisco Airport Marriott queen-size bed, puffing on a Gauloises cigarette and eyeing Ariane, Air France flight attendant, First Class. Her bodacious Parisian self was draped across the bed, the top half of her uniform strewn all over the industrial-strength blue carpet alongside her bra and pumps and pantyhose. She was giggling so much, she kept spilling her champagne on her breasts, where it ran across her nipples and only made her laugh harder. At this rate, Max didn't think it'd be a huge challenge getting off the bottom half of her uniform, too.
Vive la France!
He chuckled, took a last gulp of his own bubbly and stubbed out his cigarette. Bet Rory never got a stewardess into bed, or Bucky either, that tool. They didn't have anywhere near his charm. Sure, he'd had to spend most of the ten-hour flight from Paris standing at the rear of the cabin flirting and telling stories, but now he was going to get his reward: Ariane's full roster of private First Class favors.
I can still top them, he told himself. So what if Rory was graduating from Yale Law and Bucky was in med school? Max Winsted was still the biggest stud from Napa High, class of '97, and he was about to get even bigger.
"Viens!" The arm holding the champagne glass motioned him to come closer. Her bright red lipsticked mouth smiled, her big dark eyes teased. "Viens jouer, Max!"
"Let me just shut the drapes." After eighteen months of French food and French pastries and French wine, Max suspected he'd look better in the dark.
Since his shirt was already off, he sucked in his stomach before he walked to the windows, double-thick to keep out the roar of the 101 freeway six stories below. He was surprised to see how much traffic there was even at noon. He had plenty of time, th
ough, since the party didn't start till seven and from here the drive home took only an hour and a half.
Besides, he'd get there when he got there. The party was more for his mother than for him, anyway. The important business started the next day, when he got down to running Suncrest.
He tugged on the drape cord to shut out the view. "Your winery is how big?" Ariane was behind him all of a sudden, pushing her boobs into his back and reaching around his belly.
"Big." Max turned to face her. "More than a hundred thousand cases a year." At least that would be true once he was in charge.
Ariane grabbed him lower, holding his gaze. Her eyes sparkled. "C'est tres, tres grand."
He harrumphed. "No kidding."
"You're very rich?" She pronounced it reech but he got the point.
"Tres," he told her. And just wait to see how much richer I'll be this time next year.
Oh, he had plans. Big plans. Suncrest would really be on the map once Max Winsted was at the helm. No more treading water like it had been under his mother's management. Of course, what else could you expect from her? She didn't have a practical bone in her body. And while his father had been an excellent businessman in his day, he'd been old-school. Too cautious. Too plodding.
"What types of wine"—Ariane was kissing his neck now, her left hand still working its magic south of the equator—"do you make?"
"You know what?" He wasn't interested in wine talk at the moment. "Let's go over there."
He pushed her back toward the bed, where she didn't need one single s'il vous plait, mademoiselle to whip off her skirt and lean back giggling against the pillows, five feet six inches of living, breathing, willing French female. Who, thanks to Max Winsted, was about to have the best time of her entire life.
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Chasing Venus Page 33