Eight Hundred Grapes: a perfect summer escape to a sun-drenched vineyard. Laura Dave

meal, then the wedding?

      I took a left off of Washington Street onto the side street housing Murray Grant Wines, parking in one of only two spaces available out front next to an old Honda.

      I looked at the contract I’d swiped from the winemaker’s cottage to make certain I was at the correct address. It didn’t feel like I was. That was the thing about wine country in Northern California. It was a small world, but with two distinct factions. There was rural and peaceful Sonoma County in one corner, commercial Napa Valley in the other. Some would argue that the divide was diminishing—Sonoma County was industrializing their wine, the same way Napa Valley had, decades earlier. For now, the divide still existed, small Sonoma producers still the David to the Goliath of corporate conglomerates like Murray Grant.

      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.”

      “Look, I’m actually just looking for Jacob McCarthy,” I said.

      He looked around the empty office, empty except for him. “Apparently I’m Jacob McCarthy.”

      I hated the way he said his full name, so proud of himself. I wished that Jacob McCarthy had an idea that I was a serious lawyer as opposed to someone he met in her wedding dress, not on her wedding day.

      “What can I help you with?” he said.

      “I want to talk to you about The Last Straw Vineyard.”

      He motioned toward his office. “Then come in,” he said.

      He stepped out of the way, so I could walk inside. I did so reluctantly, clutching the contract closer to my chest. The actual office—his actual office—was nice. It was designed with soft white couches and an enormous antique desk, and another painting—this one of a giant red tomato—behind his desk.

      “Also my mother’s,” he said, pointing at the painting. “She has a thing for fruit.”

      “That’s so nice for her.”

      He smiled, ignoring my tone, sitting on the edge of his desk. “What’s your interest in The Last Straw? Besides the obvious?”

      “What do you mean?”

      He shrugged. “It’s great wine.”

      I folded my arms across my chest, not letting that throw me. “It’s my family’s vineyard,” I said. “And I’m concerned about the sale. We all are, quite frankly. Some of us just aren’t aware of it yet.”

      “Georgia. Of course. The family resemblance, right around the mouth.”

      He motioned around his own mouth.

      “You’re definitely your father’s daughter. It’s nice to meet you. You have a great family. I love your family.”

      “You don’t know them.”

      “I disagree.”

      Then he reached over for a glass jar on his desk, full of long pieces of licorice, and held the jar out to me.

      “Are you serious?” I said.

      “Why