Too Close to the Sun Read Free

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