CHAPTER 38

Buena Vista Winery is the oldest winery in Sonoma. A narrow cobblestone pedestrian-only pathway leads up to an ivy-covered three-story stone structure built by Chinese immigrants in the mid-1800s. It has been witness to many weddings.

A fleet of vans caravanned from the Ritz-Carlton to the property. I elected to go alone in my rental. Driving through the vineyards, leafed out in green, now pendulous with grape clusters, I couldn’t help but reflect on the wintry New Zealand vineyards and the brown, leafless rootstock I had left behind, the country I would now presumably not be able to return to.

The wedding was held outdoors. There were several hundred people in attendance. In the tuxedo rental I was fortunate to score at the last moment, I stood in the back, all alone, feeling uncomfortable, sweat dripping from my temples as the hot sun beat down on me—the first real warmth I had experienced in months. Other than immediate family and those at the rehearsal dinner, the majority of the attendees didn’t know who I was. Once again, as I had been most of my life, I was blissfully anonymous, and existentially alone.

A hand clutched my wrist and drew my attention to my left. It was Milena, in a green dress and bedecked with a luxurious necklace with a jade pendant. “Miles?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Leila wants you to escort her to the altar. It’s tradition.” She fixed me with a beseeching gaze. “Will you? Please?”

“Okay,” I said, not feeling qualified.

A few minutes later the wedding procession made its way up the center aisle between the flanks of fold-up chairs. Pachelbel’s Canon played over the amplifiers, ironically the same music they played at Victoria’s and my nuptials. In shimmering white, my daughter approached me and reached out her hand. I took it in mine and escorted her up the aisle, a surreal experience for a guy who didn’t know he was a father until a couple weeks ago.

At the lectern, a man clad in colorful vestments and white turban was awaiting our approach. As Mitul, the fiancé, was Indian, the religious figure hired for the ordination was naturally decked out in the traditional sartorial costume of his sect.

As we neared the altar, Milena, who had been trailing me, instructed me to let go of Leila’s hand. I did. She turned to me and flashed a resplendent goodbye smile. Flummoxed now without her hand, I didn’t know what to do or where to repair to. One of Mitul’s siblings, who I had met at the rehearsal dinner, noticed my confusion, stood, and whispered into my ear:

“It’s customary to give advice to the groom.”

“Pardon?”

“Some words of wisdom from the father giving away his daughter. You know, like ‘Be good to her or I’ll kill you.’”

I chuckled in spite of the solemnity of the occasion. I didn’t feel like her father all of a sudden and felt out of place saying anything. Then, caught up in the spirit of the moment, I turned to Mitul, standing to the left of my daughter, his future wife, my future son-in-law. He glimpsed me out of the corner of his eye, then, expecting the tradition to be honored, slanted his head toward me over his fiancée’s shoulder and looked at me quizzically. With the wriggling fingers of one hand, I motioned for him to come closer. Understanding the gesture, he leaned in. I cupped a hand to the side of my mouth and drew it next to his ear. He waited, head bent toward me. I paused dramatically, then whispered:

“No fucking Merlot.”