On Saturday morning it snowed, lightly, the way it does in March along the harbor, and by noon the sun came out and the streets were wet and bright. I dressed in the upstairs room of the apartment we had rented, and Daniel's sister, who was my bridesmaid, fastened the bracelet on my wrist and helped me pin the veil to my hair.
It was not a large wedding. Sixty guests, as planned, in the Old Chapel on Harbor Street, which holds eighty at most. Daniel waited at the front in a gray suit with a blue tie, and when I came down the aisle, the veil moved around me like weather, and every guest turned to look at the gold rose climbing across the lace. My design. My hands.
Marguerite came. She sat in the third row with Charles Winters and did not try to speak to me before the ceremony. At the rece
