“I don’t know, can’t understand a word anybody’s saying,” they said.

“I thought the priest said something about cold steak, but I must have misunderstood,” said Dwayne, baffled at how useless those college French classes had proven.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “We can’t possibly make him late for his lunch. It’s 11:15, and there’s no Mass. The wedding should last only half an hour.”

Sébastien’s brother Grégory, who had attended ceremonies by this curé before, gave me an odd, startled look, but didn’t have time to say anything. The organist had begun to pound out . . . something. My sister, the professional pianist, sent me a look even more startled than Grégory’s, but said nothing.

Voices rang out, joining the organ. Everyone jumped a foot. I peered around all the people lined up to go into the church before I did. Up in front stood three ladies singing. I dimly remembered the curé’s complaining no one properly joined in the songs these days in church and saying he would try to find some nice young ladies to lead the singing. Apparently, he had done so. Young was clearly as relative as the word “singing,” though. All three were around the curé’s age, and while they might have been beautiful singers at one point, their voices and their ear for harmony had aged. I reminded myself how kind of these three villagers it was to volunteer their time and their voices to make two young strangers’ wedding beautiful. Éric, due to be one of the first of the bridal party to walk in, coughed quickly into his hand, lifted his chin, squared his shoulders and the corners of his mouth, and started down the aisle.

“Where are we supposed to sit?” my sister asked me suddenly.

“Well, you see where the, er, choir has placed those three hideous green plastic chairs?” I answered conversationally. “Those are blocking the gorgeous antique wood seats where the groomsmen were supposed to sit. You were supposed to sit opposite them; but rehearsals are a pompous American tradition, so we’ll just have to see how it goes. Good luck!” I pushed her in the back to get her going.

As she walked to the altar, I had just time to notice that the decorations Claudine and I had put up the day before looked surprisingly charming, the bouquets of wheat, bright yellow, and blue bringing humanity and life into that soaring, spiritual church. The organist charged into another song, the ladies arching into the high end of my hearing range, as Jean-Charles proffered me his elbow. Jean-Charles had tamed his hair today and traded his normal paint-stained T-shirts for an elegant golden suit; he looked so serious I knew he must be nearly as nervous as I was. He had been first stunned and then, I think, pleased, when I asked him to stand in for my father here.