I wore a dress the color of the grapevines in early autumn, deep green with a warmth underneath it, and I did not wear my work boots.
I stood beside my daughter when she walked to the rose garden. I was in the photographs, my hand in hers, the vineyard behind us in the late afternoon light.
Greg’s mother was there, Margaret Hollister, in a hat that was too formal for the setting and that she wore anyway with complete confidence, and she shook my hand before the ceremony and said the property was extraordinary. I thanked her and meant it and we did not say more than that, which was the right amount.
Ben and the crew had strung lights along the south fence and the tables were set beneath them in the warm evening and someone, I found out later it was Greg, had arranged for a small band rather than the original quartet because he had found out that Samantha preferred dancing to chamber music, which is something he would not have known a month earlier and had taken the trouble to find out.
