A Memoirby Robert Beatty
On Thursday evening, March 23, 2006, my business partner and friend, Richard McDermott, drove up his long, winding driveway and parked his silver Porsche in front of his lakeside home in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. He was fifty-seven years old, but he still came across like a rakish young entrepreneur rather than an old-time corporate CEO. In good health, he had been feeling fine all day.
He walked into his house, across the marble-floored foyer, and into the kitchen, where he cut up a few slices of cheese and poured himself a glass of 2002 Amarone. A rich Italian red, not expensive, an everyday wine.