October in Victor Romano's garden was everything he had promised.
I stood at the edge of the garden at four in the afternoon and looked at fifty people seated in white chairs among the gardenias and the wild bougainvillea and the jacaranda that would bloom purple in spring and the specific dappled gold of an October Miami afternoon.
Lucia was beside me.
She had appointed herself to the role of person-who-stood-with-the-bride-before-she-walked without being asked, which was Lucia's way — seeing what was needed and providing it.
"Ready?" she said.
I looked at the garden.
At my father waiting at the end of the path — he had been there for twenty minutes already, with the specific over-prepared quality of someone who was not going to be late for this regardless of anything.
At Victor in
