“I asked him the same thing.”
She pulled out a thick binder and placed it on a table.
“He sat in that chair for almost an hour.”
She pointed toward a seat beside the arch.
“What did he want?”
“Nothing.”
Margaret smiled.
“He said he was nervous.”
I almost laughed.
“A man who worked around weddings for twenty-eight years was nervous about getting married?”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
She rested her hand on the binder.
“He stared at that arch and told me, ‘Tomorrow, I’m standing on the other side of the desk.’”
Suddenly, I remembered Larry’s shaking hands on our wedding day.
I had blamed the illness.
Maybe I had been watching something else entirely.
Margaret opened the binder.
“Look.”
