That was it. “Because.” The guy snapped back into real estate mode. He suggested a price, and Alice suggested a slightly lower one. “That’s below market value for this neighborhood,” he said, surprised.
“That’s okay. I just want it over with,” she replied.
He jotted a notation on his clipboard. “It will certainly make my job easier.”
Within hours, a truck pulled up, guys got out, and the house was stripped of the worn furniture and aging appliances. All that remained were two lounge chairs beside the pool, which hadn’t changed since the day it was dug and plastered in 1974.
The following morning, a different truck arrived with different men—stagers hired by the realtor. They loaded a whole new set of furniture into the house. They moved quickly and with confidence, putting large abstract paintings on the walls and small shining knickknacks on the shelves. When they were finished, the house was the same, only different: cleaner, sparser, devoid of the pesky items that give a home its soul.
The day after that, a parade of real estate agents led a pride of potential buyers through the rooms, all whispering, opening cabinets and closets, studying the sheet that provided the listing details. That afternoon, the agent called with four offers, and Alice accepted the highest. We packed our things, and I made reservations for a flight back to San Francisco.
In the evening, when the stars came out, Alice wandered outside to stare at the night sky and say goodbye to Alabama for good. It was a warm night, the scent of barbecues wafting up over the back fence. The outdoor lamps reflected brilliantly off of the pool, and the lounge chairs felt as comfortable as they must have been the first day her father dragged them out onto the patio, when his wife was beautiful and tan and his children were small and rambunctious. I sensed that this was as good as Alabama could get, and yet Alice seemed so sad, immune to the beauty that had snuck up on us without warning.
Later, I would tell our friends that the idea to seize that moment to propose came as an impulse. I wanted to make her feel better. I wanted to show her that there was a future. I wanted to bring her happiness on such a mournful day.
I walked out to the pool, knelt down, removed the ring from its box, and presented it to Alice in my sweaty palm. I didn’t say a word. She looked at me, she looked at the ring, she smiled.
“Okay,” she said.
3
Our wedding was held in a pasture along the banks of the Russian River, a two-hour drive north of San Francisco. Months earlier, we’d gone out there to take a look at it. We drove right past it a couple of times, because it wasn’t marked from the road. When we opened the gate and walked down the path toward the river, Alice hugged me and said, “I love it.” At first, I thought she was joking. In places, the grass was five feet high.
The property was a huge, meandering dairy farm, with cows roaming the pasture. It was owned by the rhythm guitar player from Alice’s first band. Yes, she had been in a band, and it’s even possible you’ve heard their music, though we can talk about that later.
The day before the wedding, I drove right past the site again. This time, though, it was because it looked completely different. The guitar player, Jane, had spent weeks cutting, shaping, and resodding the pasture. It was amazing. It looked like a fairway from the world’s most perfect golf course. The grass moved up over the hill, then sloped down to the river. Jane said that she and her wife had been looking for a project.
There was a large tent, a patio, a pool, and a modern pool house. A stage rose above the river shore, and a gazebo stood on a mound overlooking all of it. The cows still wandered around in their slow, meditative way.
Chairs were brought in, tables, equipment, speakers, and umbrellas. While Alice wasn’t exactly keen on weddings, she loved parties. Although we hadn’t had one in the years I’d known her, I heard stories. Big shindigs in ballrooms, at beaches, in her past apartments; apparently it was a talent she possessed. So when it came to the arrangements, I stepped aside and let her do her thing. Months of planning, everything perfect, everything timed just right.
Two hundred people. It was supposed to be one hundred for me, one hundred for her, though in the end it was a bit lopsided. It was a funny guest list, like any wedding. My parents and grandmother, partners from my wife’s firm, co-workers from the clinic where I used to work, former clients, friends from college, graduate school, Alice’s old music friends, an off-kilter combination of others.
And Liam Finnegan and his wife.
They were the last to be invited, 201 and 202 on the guest list. Alice had met him three days before the wedding, at the law firm where she’d been working day and night for the past year. I know, it’s weird, my wife is a lawyer. If you knew her, it would surprise you too. And we can also talk about that, but later. The important part here is Finnegan—Finnegan and his wife, Liam and Fiona, guests 201 and 202.
At the firm, my wife had been the junior associate on Finnegan’s case. It was an intellectual property thing. Finnegan was a businessman now. Years earlier, however, he was a well-known front man for an Irish folk rock group. You’ve probably never heard his music, but maybe you’ve seen his name. It’s been in all of those British music magazines—Q, Uncut, Mojo. Dozens of musicians claim him as a key influence.
For days after Alice got the assignment, we had Finnegan’s discs on repeat in our house. The case was as straightforward as an intellectual property case can be. A young band had stolen a section of one of his songs and turned it into a huge hit. If you’re like me and don’t understand music on a technical level, you wouldn’t see the similarities, but if you’re a musician, my wife said, the theft was obvious.
The case resulted from a comment Finnegan had made a few years earlier. He told an interviewer that the band’s hit sounded suspiciously like a song from his second album. He didn’t plan to take it any further, but then the young band’s manager sent Finnegan a letter demanding that he apologize for the comment and publicly declare the song had not been stolen. Things devolved from there, ultimately leading to my wife working a million hours on her first big case.