“Lucie took the words right out of my mouth,” Quinn said and I caught him protecting his ribs from another dig.

“You both need to be one hundred percent on board,” she said with a knowing look at Quinn. “And you need to come to my lab in Charlottesville to see what I can do for you. Then I want to see your vineyard. On my own. Without either of you with me.”

“It’s a deal,” I said and Quinn nodded.

“All right,” she said. “After you visit me and I visit you, let’s see where we are. Okay?”

“That sounds fair,” Quinn said. “What do you think, Lucie?”

“I think I’d really like Josie to work with us,” I said. “So I hope the next two meetings are smooth sailing.”

“You have an interesting vineyard and a long family history of owning your land so I know how personally important this is to you, Lucie.” Josie hooked a thumb in Quinn’s direction. “However Mr. California here is not completely sold on the idea. That’s why I’d like you to come to the lab. We need to talk some more.”

This time she did see me elbow Quinn. “Mr. California,” I said, “will see the light by the next time we meet. You have no worries.”

We had been walking past rows of metal crosses with no adornment and no names—a large graveyard on the edge of the James River. Next to it was a larger-than-life weathered bronze statue of John Smith, his back to us, proud and defiant, as he looked out over the James River. I already knew that the inscription on the front of the statue read GOVERNOR OF VIRGINIA, 1608 along with his coat of arms: VINCERE EST VIVERE. TO CONQUER IS TO LIVE. He’d returned to England under arrest, just as he’d arrived in Jamestown. Eventually he died there without ever returning to Virginia, though he’d written books about his adventures in the New World.

Who were the men buried in the graveyard next to his statue? Had he known many of them and led them as governor? Years ago when I visited the American cemetery in Normandy with my French grandfather, he told me that all the graves of the American soldiers buried there faced west, toward the Atlantic Ocean. Toward home. I wondered if any of the dead buried here at Jamestown had wanted to face England, their home—or did they not want to go back, whatever the consequences?

A small sign indicated the site of Confederate earthworks as Quinn, Josie, and I continued walking toward a long, low building made almost entirely of glass and set up off the ground on short, stubby blocks: the Archaearium.

“Jamestown was a Civil War fort, too?” Quinn pointed to the sign, changing the subject smooth as silk, so we weren’t talking about us working with Josie anymore.