But, surprisingly, the offices of Murray Grant Wines were hardly an evil, intimidating complex. This place looked as though it belonged in Sebastopol: the hidden second story at the back of a small courtyard, with vines lining the staircase, and red, yellow, and orange plants in every window. Bright green shutters. It looked less like a corporate office and more like an artist’s apartment.
I knocked on the screen door, to which I got a distant reply of, “It’s open.”
I walked into the waiting area, which had no chairs, no sofa, just an empty receptionist desk, and a very nice painting of a pear behind it. For some reason, I kept staring at it. The pear. Its bright green hue pulled me in, slightly magical.
“It’s mesmerizing, right?”
I turned to see a man in the doorway of the office, looking at the pear with his head tilted to one side. He was wearing jeans and one of those zipper cashmere sweaters with a tie sticking out from beneath it. He was good-looking, in a way, but nowhere near as good-looking as he thought he was, standing there in that brazen East Coast way that reminded me of some guys I’d met at law school. The Masters of the Universe guys. This guy carried their vibe. Brandishing a half smile.
“I haven’t been able to figure out what it is about the painting, exactly. And I’ve tried,” he said. “At first I thought it was because my mother painted it, but everyone seems to focus on it. So it must be something. There must be something there.”
He turned from the painting and we made eye contact for the first time.
“It’s you,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“The bride. From the bar.”
That threw me. I looked at him, confused.
“I almost didn’t recognize you because your hair was up in that bun.” He paused. “Falling out of that bun . . .”
I reached up and touched my hair, which now cascaded over my shoulders, moving from its Los Angeles straight toward Sonoma curly. “What are you saying, exactly?”
He cocked his head. “It looks much better like this.”
He motioned toward the top of his head—his own thick hair—as if he were waiting for me to return the compliment. Instead, I pulled on my T-shirt, wishing I had worn something more lawyerly. He didn’t seem to notice, though. He was still stuck on my wedding dress.
“I was there when you came in last night at the small table by the fireplace . . .”
He made a triangle sign with his hand, trying to demonstrate. He pointed to the index finger to show where I was, and the opposite thumb to indicate himself.
“You know what? Reverse that. I was there with my girlfriend. She was talking about chia. She loves chia. She puts it on everything. Salad. Oatmeal. Pasta. Apparently it’s good for you. Did you know that?”
I nodded, slimy chia a staple at trendy Los Angeles restaurants. Still, this was not the way I wanted this conversation to start. This guy, somehow, in control.
“Anyway, I didn’t want to try the chia, so I was looking around the bar, and then you appeared. And now you’re here. That’s so weird. Don’t you think that’s so weird?”
“No,” I said.
Though, honestly, I thought it was. Who was this person? What was he doing in my brothers’ bar fifty minutes away from here? And why did it seem odd that he remembered me? After all, I was dressed slightly more formally than everyone else.
“Why did you walk out on your wedding?” he said.
I looked at him, completely taken aback. “I didn’t walk out on my wedding.”
“I did that once,” he said. “Or, actually, I guess I had that done to me. If we are being precise about it.”
I put my hands up, trying to halt this conversation. “I didn’t walk out on my wedding, okay?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay . . .” he said. “I get it. You didn’t walk out on your wedding.”
“Thank you.”
“So why exactly were you in your wedding dress then?” he said, confused.
“I walked out on my final dress fitting. That’s not the same thing.”
He nodded, like he was contemplating that. “I guess that’s different.”
“It is.”
“Right. For one thing, you aren’t humiliating anyone on what is supposed to be the happiest day of his life. For another, you can get the deposits back. On most things.”
“On all things,” I said.
He paused. Then he tilted his head. “Well . . . probably not on that dress.”