Quinn and I got bowls and platters out of the refrigerator, heating up casseroles and my family’s version of mashed potatoes—mixed with celeriac for a little zing—along with the last of my homemade orange-cranberry sauce. The envelope with the safe-deposit box keys in it was still in my pocket and every so often as I leaned against the counter I could feel it dig into my hipbone.

We ate in the kitchen, though I dimmed the lights and lit the candles we’d used in the dining room on Thursday. Quinn poured more of the Pomerol we’d opened earlier into our wineglasses.

We touched glasses and I said, “Happy End-of-Thanksgiving.”

“Happy End-of-Thanksgiving.”

He passed me the platter of turkey and speared a couple of pieces of dark meat for himself.

“Those Merlot vines in the south block don’t look good,” he said. “I know how you feel about trying to keep them, but I really think it would be better in the long run to tear them out, wait the three years until the new vines start producing, and start over.”

He saw my unhappy look in the flickering candlelight and brushed the top of my hand with his fingers. “I know you don’t want to do that and I understand your reason, sweetheart. But it doesn’t make financial sense to spend the time and money to see if we can salvage vines that are that far gone. Plus we need to keep the disease from spreading.”

Usually I was the one making the exact same arguments he was making. Time and money. Not sentiment. Of course he was right. But ripping out those particular vines would be like tearing out the heart of the vineyard and there was a psychological cost to that, at least for me. They were the very first vines my parents had planted and I suppose I thought they would always thrive, always produce good—even excellent—wine as they grew older. They would serve as a connection between the past and the present.

“What if we got some help?” I said. “There’s a woman living down in Charlottesville who advises a number of vineyards when they’ve got problems like ours. Not just in Virginia but also in California and overseas. She’s supposed to be a miracle worker.”

“Are you talking about Josephine Wilde?” he asked through a mouthful of turkey.

I nodded. “Josie Wilde. I’ve only heard great things about her.”

“And I’ve heard she’s not taking on new clients because she’s got more work than she can handle,” he said. “Plus she’s very particular about who she’ll work with. She expects you to do exactly what she says if you sign on with her.”

“To have someone with her expertise helping us, I’d be willing to do anything,” I said. “What about you?”