“Nonsense.” She still seemed rattled. “Of course I’ll walk you to the door.”

Our silence was awkward as she retraced her steps and led Quinn and me to the elegant foyer. From one of the alcoves, the armored knight seemed to watch us through slitted eyeholes.

What were Quinn and I going to say? Thanks for a great party? Condolences on the death of your fiancé’s stepfather? Nothing at all?

Surely she realized we had been downstairs with Prescott. She had been with Clayton before Bobby brought him downstairs. She would know.

“If there’s anything we can do,” I said, “please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Her eyes flickered understanding and I was glad we weren’t going to keep up the charade that nothing had happened.

“And, uh, about Kellie.” Quinn held out his hands, palms up. I knew Kellie’s raw grief and tears had unnerved him. Any woman’s tears unnerved him. I’d learned that from experience. “Please tell her she doesn’t need to come to work tomorrow … actually, not to show up until she’s ready. Let her know to take all the time she needs, could you?”

That was sweet; I was glad he’d been the one to say it.

Last spring Kellie had told her parents that if she didn’t take a year off from her studies at Harvard she would have a nervous breakdown. Scotty wanted her to stick it out—Averys weren’t quitters—but Bianca had prevailed, worried about her daughter’s mental health, so the compromise had been that Kellie would stay home for one year as long as she returned to school and graduated the following year.

Though Scotty wanted her to spend what would have been her senior year in the Trib’s newsroom learning the family business, Kellie showed up at our vineyard to ask for a job as a cellar rat. We weren’t looking for anyone, but Quinn hired her on the spot. She was terrific—smart, capable, with good instincts. Francesca Merchant, who ran our tasting room, managed to cajole her into pouring wine and doing tastings on the weekend. Our clients loved her. Despite the fact Scotty and Bianca had never said anything to either Quinn or me, we knew their daughter’s employment choice for her gap year hadn’t gone down well at home. What they didn’t know was that Kellie had no intention of returning to Harvard. She wanted to go to France and study winemaking.

She’d been plying Quinn and me with so many questions, asking our advice, that one evening after everyone had left for the day I asked her if that’s what was going on. Her eyes grew wide.

“Please,” she’d said, “promise me you won’t tell my parents. I think my father would disown me if he knew. I’m supposed to go into the family business, become a journalist, not a winemaker.”