Three weeks later, Ethan and I drove out to the coast to look at the wedding venue.
It had been my idea, in a way. Actually, it had been his mother's idea, and his mother was paying, which meant it was more of a command than a suggestion. The Halversons didn't issue suggestions. They issued schedules.
The venue was a historic hotel on a bluff above the water, the kind of place with marble floors and a doorman and a lobby that smelled like cut flowers and money. Ethan's family had been members of the club next door for three generations. His grandmother had been married in the same ballroom we were touring.
I walked through it with the coordinator and nodded at all the right things. The ballroom. The terrace. The bridal suite. And underneath all of it, I was counting.
Ethan's mother, Ca
