I realized with a lump in my throat that no one had seen or touched these decorations since my mother’s last Christmas with us.

“You’re right,” I said. “We should.”

In the end everyone pitched in, including Quinn, and by the time we were finished, the barrel room looked as magical as I’d remembered from when my mother was alive. Quinn hung her wreath over the arched doorway to the room where we stored the reds. Antonio helped Frankie weave lights and greenery around the wine barrels in the main room. I decorated the live tree Frankie had already brought here with my mother’s handmade ornaments and all of us tied red ribbons on the wall sconces and wound more greenery and lights through the mezzanine railing. We put on Christmas music—rock and roll—through the sound system and eventually everyone loosened up enough to dance or sing along, which helped because it was so cold.

“I pronounce this place terrific,” Frankie said when we were done. “I’m so glad you found these decorations, Lucie. We’ll have to arrange a few wine tastings down here so everyone can see the place.”

“Thank Antonio. He’s the one who found them,” I said.

Antonio smiled and Quinn’s eyes met mine across the room. He smiled, too, but not before I caught the unmistakable look of disappointment in his.

It wasn’t the Madeira. Maybe it was gone forever. Maybe Leland really had drunk it. Nor was I any closer to figuring out where the Bruton Vault documents might be hidden—at a place where George Washington and James Madison had met.

“… is that okay, Lucie?” Frankie was asking.

“Is what okay?”

She gave me an exasperated look. “I just said that we ought to close early so everyone can go home and get ready for caroling and the Christmas tree lighting tonight in Middleburg.”

“Sure,” I said. “Good idea.”

“You two are coming, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” I said. “We’ll be there.”

But on the way back to the house Quinn said, “Maybe we could just skip the tree lighting this one time?”

“I wouldn’t mind, but you know we’ll feel better if we go.”

“I wish we’d never known about that damn Madeira,” he said. “It’s going to eat at me.”

“Let it go,” I said. “We need to move on. Besides, it’s Christmas. And no town celebrates Christmas like Middleburg does.”

“That,” he said, “is for sure.”