The afternoon heat builds, sucking the humid air off the Pacific. It tumbles as it rises up the dead volcano under our feet, tossing the palm trees languidly, and bringing fat afternoon raindrops down on our heads. We huddle in the farmhouse, dry for now. The cock crows again, too late or too early, and the horse plods gently across the verdant green acres that stretch before us, down to the blue ocean beyond. It is almost time. The guests mingle and find their seats. Everything is touched with misty anticipation. The farmhouse door swings rustily out. The rain has stopped. She holds her breath, just for a second, and then exits into her new life.