“His blood alcohol was one-point-four,” I said. “The family was in Nantucket, the last day of a summer vacation. The police said he had been doing seventy when he took a turn on a winding beach road and spun out on a patch of sand. Flipped over multiple times and broke his neck and back. Tommy was the apple of his father’s eye, the golden boy, the heir apparent,” I said. “His death just about destroyed Prescott. Celia had had a miscarriage a few months earlier and hadn’t been able to get pregnant, so there would never be an heir to carry on the family name, either.”

Quinn pulled into the parking lot behind the ivy-covered building my mother had designed, where we sold wine, held tastings, and hosted many of our events, parties, and musical evenings. She had named it the Villa and wanted it to look like one of the graceful old homes she remembered from her childhood in France rather than a boxy commercial building.

Already this morning smoke was curling out of the chimney. That would be Frankie’s doing; her car was in the parking lot. On cold days like this, we kept a fire burning in the enormous stone fireplace using firewood the workers collected all year, mostly old or dead trees from the property.

Quinn parked the Jeep and said, “I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for Prescott.”

“Rose still had Clayton, who was her son from a previous marriage, so he was a comfort to her,” I said. “But Prescott felt as if he had no one. He and Clayton never really got along—different temperaments, Clayton with his dark hair and dark skin like his Italian father instead of a blond, blue-eyed Ralph Lauren model like Miranda and Tommy. I think both Clay and Prescott tried for Rose’s sake, but any effort they made fell apart after she died. It was as though Prescott resented Clay for living when his own son was dead.”

“No one can live up to a saint,” Quinn said. “A person who’s been crystalized in amber and remains perfect for all time. You’re just punishing someone for not being who you want them to be. Or need them to be. I feel sorry for Clay.”

“So do I. Plus he gave up his own career—he wanted to be a landscape architect, since no one expected him to go into the family news business. He took over Tommy’s job as assistant publisher until Prescott retired and ran the place until handing the reins over to Scotty. Until the family brought Alex in, that is.”

“I wonder how Clay feels now that Prescott’s gone,” Quinn said. “Maybe he’s relieved. Can’t say I’d blame him.”