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But Kay probably would have walked up the steps by herself anyway. And nobody knew whether she died from the fall or whether she had fallen because she had a stroke.

Still, Warren was plagued by a sense of lost opportunities. He felt at times that, had he been with her, he could somehow have kept Kay safe.

As weeks passed, if her death was mentioned, his eyes teared and the conversation would come to a stop while he collected himself. Then, like a motor turning over and restarting, he would brighten and shift to other subjects.

During August, other events helped to turn his mind away from the tragedy. He was planning the tenth and final Omaha Classic charity golf tournament, which would take place in September. And he was already looking forward to the Buffett Group meeting in Biarritz, France, in October. In the meantime, he flew to Cody, Wyoming, with Big Susie for a long weekend at Herbert Allen’s J—9*33 ranch on the North Fork of the Shoshone River.

Buffett would much rather watch a western movie than visit a dude ranch. But as with Sun Valley, he went for the mix of elephant-bumping and people he considered friends. At Cody, he and Susie spent a leisurely, relaxed time with media CEO Barry Diller and his wife, Diane von Furstenberg; Don and Mickie Keough; film director Mike Nichols and his wife, newscaster Diane Sawyer; producer Sydney Pollack; actress Candice Bergen; and Intel CEO Andy Grove and his wife, Eva, among others.

The Buffetts arrived late in the evening and spent the first night in one of the hand-hewn cedar-shake log cabins that encircled the central lodge. They began the next morning greeting other early arrivals over breakfast, which for Warren usually meant last night’s leftover dessert. The rest of the day, as guests trickled in, he relaxed in the lodge or his cabin, reading books, playing bridge on the computer, and reading the newspapers that Allen had printed off the Internet for him. The others began to entertain themselves with trail rides up the canyon on some of Allen’s ranch geldings to see the elk and deer. Some people headed off on mountain-bike expeditions or went fishing in the river that ran through the property. Buffett skipped all of this. But at mealtime he appeared at the long rectangular table in the lodge, where the guests sat surrounded by dark leather furniture and romantic rustic paintings by Thomas Hart Benton and Frederic Remington. Buffett presided over a salon at the dinner table, talking politics, money, and world affairs. While the rest ate fish, chicken, game, and salads, the cook at Cody challenged his appetite with huge slabs of meat.1

After dinner, Allen’s friend Al Oehrle took over at the piano. The guests sang from Candice Bergen’s songbook, standards by Gershwin, Irving Berlin, and Cole Porter. Susie often sang solos. Buffett played his ukulele, and, as he did every year, sang a duet of “The Hut-Sut Song”—an appalling number from the 1941 Hit Parade—with movie producer Sydney Pollack—a performance always dreaded by the audience, which made him look forward to singing it all the more.

Hut-Sut Rawlson on the rillerah and a brawla, brawla sooit.

Hut-Sut Rawlson on the rillerah and a brawla sooit.2

The return from Cody effectively marked the end of Buffett’s summer vacation. His birthday would be arriving in a few weeks, something to which he feigned indifference but actually dreaded. The one highlight was hundreds of cards, gifts, and letters from friends—or, by now, mostly strangers—that poured into Kiewit Plaza every year for weeks beforehand. Buffett was far from jaded, but it was hard to thrill a multibillionaire—one who didn’t want to be a year older and cared nothing about possessions—with a birthday gift. He appreciated the cards and letters, the sentimental, and was touched by anything unique that reminded him of past episodes of his life. Otherwise, he had so much Coca-Cola memorabilia by now, so many Nebraska football posters, so many flags, quilts,