Overnight the temperature dropped below freezing so that by the time Quinn and I went downstairs for breakfast, the lawn and gardens were covered in a fine coat of hoarfrost that shimmered and gleamed as if the landscape had been shined to a high polish. In the pale morning sunlight, the straw-colored ornamental grasses looked diamond-tipped.

Prescott Avery’s death was the number-one story on the Sunday morning NPR news show. Quinn and I listened as he made coffee and I cut slices of my future sister-in-law’s homemade pumpkin spice bread and put them in the toaster.

The local reporter who covered the story gave a straightforward account of how Prescott had collapsed at his home and was found by family members a short time later. He had been hosting an annual neighborhood Thanksgiving weekend party and had left to get something in his wine cellar when the tragedy occurred. Dr. Winston Churchill Turnbull, a Loudoun County medical examiner who happened to be a guest at the party, pronounced the ninety-five-year-old Mr. Avery dead at the scene.

The toaster dinged and Quinn poured our coffees. As usual he had brewed it strong enough to fuel one of the spaceships that resupplied the International Space Station. I got out butter and a jar of my homemade strawberry jam from the refrigerator and brought the toast over to a scarred-up oak trestle table where for generations my family had sat to discuss, opine, argue, comfort, laugh, cry, and eat. If I looked closely enough, I could still see Eli’s algebra homework and a perfect circle where Leland had smacked down a quarter one night as a family bet, both imprinted in the soft wood.

“At least your name didn’t come up in that story,” Quinn said. “So it seems you’re off the hook.”

“Thank goodness. And I guess that’s a more or less accurate description of what happened.”

It was obviously a slow news day—Thanksgiving weekend, after all—because after the live report, the show’s host replayed a clip from an eight-year-old piece about the group of billionaires that had met in Aspen, Colorado, that spring to establish the Caritas Commitment. It was followed by a full-length interview with Prescott recorded thirty years ago when he turned sixty-five as part of a series of leadership interviews with highly successful, creative entrepreneurs called “Perspectives on Life.” How had Prescott achieved his business and financial success? What habits had he cultivated that had helped him the most? What stoked his creativity? What advice did he have for the next generation?

Finally, as the interview was about to wrap up, the reporter had asked Prescott about his retirement plans. Prescott swore, which was bleeped out.