“You look…” I started, then had to stop and try again. “Claire, you look like your mother did the day we got married. And that’s the highest compliment I have.”
Her eyes went glossy. She stepped forward, hugging me carefully, mindful of the makeup, the hair, the dress.
“Don’t cry,” she said, voice wavering. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and then the makeup artist will kill us both.”
I sniffed, tried to laugh.
“I’ll be stoic,” I promised. “Like a cowboy.”
Outside, guests began arriving, their cars lining the gravel drive and the makeshift parking area in the field. Folding chairs waited in neat rows facing the arbor we’d built and decorated with late-summer flowers—sunflowers, dahlias, wild grasses. The barn doors stood open, tables inside laid out with white linens and mason jars, waiting for the reception that, as it happened, would never happen.
Ray, the sheriff, mingled among the guests like any other middle-aged man in a suit, his badge hidden under his jacket. Patricia hovered near the driveway, camera hanging at her chest, eyes scanning constantly. Margaret stood nearer the house, a leather folder tucked under her arm.
I was the only one who knew exactly what we were all waiting for.
I walked Claire down the makeshift aisle, her arm hooked through mine. The sun hit her veil and created a halo effect that made my chest ache. People turned in their chairs, smiling, some wiping away tears. I heard little gasps—“She’s beautiful,” “Look at her dress,” “Oh, Robert”—but it felt like I was walking underwater, sounds distorted, everything slightly slowed.
At the front, Tyler waited under the flower-draped arbor in a well-cut tuxedo, his expression a perfect blend of awe and love. If I hadn’t heard his voice on that recording, I might have believed it.
“I love you, Dad,” Claire whispered, her grip tightening.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” I whispered back. “Always.”
We reached the front. I kissed her cheek, placed her hand in Tyler’s, and took my seat in the front row. My chair felt both too solid and not solid enough.