People in Middleburg and Atoka still talked about it. How shortly before Rose Avery, Prescott’s beloved wife, died five years ago, the two of them had signed the Caritas Commitment, a philanthropic promise drawn up by some of the world’s most influential billionaires, to give away the majority of their wealth as a legacy, a way of giving back for the very good fortune they had enjoyed in their lifetime. Already Prescott and Rose had bequeathed many paintings and sculptures in the Avery art collection to important galleries and museums upon their deaths, adding to donations made by Jock and Daphne. What remained after those bequests were fulfilled—more art, furniture, jewelry, books, carpets—would be sold at auction with the proceeds going to charities the Averys supported—most of it to the Miranda Foundation, named for their late daughter.

“I think it’s incredibly generous that you’ve committed to giving it to charity,” I said. “I can’t imagine how you could do that—let go of everything.”

“It was Rosie’s idea. She was the driving force in setting up the Caritas Commitment, you know. My Rosie always said that we are merely temporary stewards of our good fortune.” His hand swept the length of the hall. “All these things belong in a place where anyone can see them. Where everyone can see them … My God, we have a Picasso in one of the guest powder rooms because there was no place else to hang it.”

He chuckled at the irony of a Picasso in a bathroom. We reached the elevator and he pushed the call button. Like everything else in the house it had its own fascinating history: originally commissioned in France to be installed as the first elevator in the Senate wing of the U.S. Capitol, Congress changed its mercurial mind while Hawthorne was being built and Jock had snapped it up instead.

The elevator gave a faint whine as it descended from one of the upper floors and stopped on the main floor. Prescott pulled the outer door aside and the inner door slid open.

He gestured to me, ever the courtly Southern gentleman. “After you, my dear.”

I stepped in and saw my reflection in the dusky glass of an antique mirror on the back wall, my features accentuated in the slightly distorted reflection. Dark brown hair pulled back in a French braid, my favorite pearl drop earrings that had been my mother’s, hollowed cheeks, eyes with smudged circles underneath since we had been hard at work in the vineyard right up until Thanksgiving this year and I still hadn’t caught up on sleep.

Prescott’s eyes met mine in the mirror and I knew that he had been studying me. What did he want to talk about that we couldn’t have discussed upstairs?