Then he said, “Are you kidding? Who said anything about retiring? I have too many things to do, too many projects and ideas in my mind to slow down now. Hell, son, I’m just starting the third half of my life.” He laughed. “I don’t plan on quitting for a long time.”

“Last question, Mr. Avery: Any regrets about decisions you’ve made over the years? Anything you’d do differently?”

There was a pause before Prescott said in a pained voice, “No regrets about any decisions I’ve made—just lessons learned that made me who I am today. But I do have two great sorrows: the deaths of my son and daughter. My deepest personal regret is that their time on earth was cut too short. But as to regrets about my business decisions, or would I change anything—no, none. I regret nothing.”

Quinn’s eyes met mine. Je ne regrette rien. Victoria’s perfume.

“I know,” I said. “Life’s just full of little ironies sometimes, isn’t it?”

AS USUAL THE WASHINGTON Tribune lay on our doorstep, courtesy of one of the workers who got it for us every morning from the faded, weather-beaten Tribune mailbox at the entrance to the vineyard and drove it to our front door. I picked it up as Quinn and I left the house just before ten o’clock and brought it with us in the Jeep.

Quinn’s plans for the rest of the morning were to take one of the ATVs out to the field to examine—for at least the fourth time—the diseased vines in the Merlot block that we’d discovered during harvest. I wanted to talk to Frankie Merchant about our plans for the annual “Christmas in Middleburg” celebration next weekend. It was one of the town’s biggest events of the year, three days of festivities that included tree-lighting, caroling, the Goose Creek Hunt’s well-loved Hunt and Hounds Review, a parade, and Breakfast with Santa at the community charter school. If other years were anything to go by, the town would probably swell to over ten thousand with people from D.C., Maryland, and other parts of Virginia arriving—if the weather cooperated. Since Middleburg’s population as of the last census totaled 851 and in Atoka you could practically count the number of residents on the fingers and toes of the mayor and the three members of the town council—okay, truth be told, Atoka had sixty-four residents—it was a huge influx of visitors for us.

On the drive from the house to the winery, I read Quinn an abbreviated version of the Trib’s story about Prescott’s death. As Kit promised, it was their headline and her byline was on it.

PRESCOTT AVERY, PATRIARCH OF INFLUENTIAL MEDIA AND NEWSPAPER DYNASTY, OWNER OF WASHINGTON TRIBUNE, DEAD AT AGE 95.