Sue and Dwayne came back from a visit to Vaux-le-Vicomte in time to join us for dinner around 10:00 P.M., but there was still no word from my sister. Outside, lightning flared wildly, and hail scattered shot through the rain. I was now a besieged island in my determination to continue plans to use the garden the next day. Everyone else wanted us to run up to the village’s salle des fêtes and try to get it into shape to host a party in twelve hours. Given the weather, Sébastien’s and my conviction that we would be able to hold the wedding in the garden the next day seemed optimistic at best. It was surprising that I, usually the most pessimistic of souls, persisted in it. Come to think of it, persisting in things I felt sure couldn’t work seemed to be a character trait of mine; and at least in the case of my relationship with Sébastien, I had no regrets so far. A strong desire for sleep and a conviction I was about to fall to pieces and bring this whole beautiful house of cards tumbling down around me, but no actual regrets.

“We’re having it in the garden,” I said faintly, but definitely.

Unfortunately, Sébastien wasn’t there to support his fading bride. Three hours after the first call, he called again. He sounded as if he was speaking through his teeth. “Wrong train station. He told me the wrong train station. What? In the garden, of course!”

“We’re having it in the garden,” I repeated feebly but stubbornly, after hanging up.

An hour later, he called back. “A flat tire.” He seemed to have sunk into a place of eery, incredulous calm. “We just had a flat tire.”

Only Sue was left to support my side, and she could do it only in English, patting my head. “It will be sunny; I know it will,” she said. “Where’s your sister, anyway? Not coming from Paris, I hope? If you’re within a hundred kilometers of Paris, it sucks you in.”

I responded something unintelligible, my lips too tired to move. My kebab-stabbing hands could barely hold a fork. Sébastien’s family, just warming up, looked at me with some concern as they poured another round of wine, toasted, and complained laughingly about how tired they were. “Maybe you should go to bed,” Claudine and Colette said.

It was quite lowering, really. How could they maintain their energy and gaiety while I could barely keep from pitching face forward into my plate and blubbering uncontrollably? They seemed to be getting by on love and laughter, which was an interesting lesson. I obviously still needed to develop a higher level of both, and it’s discouraging to realize your skills in love and farce need yet more work just before you get married the fourth time in eight months to the same man.