In a ringing voice, she declaimed: “We welcome today the tenth of August 2002, to the House of the People, Monsieur Sébastien Florand and Madame born Laura H———, who come before Us to make known to those bound to them by both blood and friendship—and perhaps, a little, to make it known to themselves as well—that the magic word of three letters they pronounced a little over seven months ago, the twenty-sixth of December, 2001, in C———, the State of Georgia, before the Judge Madame———was a big YES.” She grinned at us. “We are now going to employ ourselves in the verification that this YES was indeed a DEFINITE YES.”

A murmur of chuckles ran around the room.

“Monsieur Sébastien Florand, do you consent to recognize that you were right to take Madame Laura H———, here present, as your wife?”

Sébastien grinned, looked at me, and nodded. “Yes.”

“Madame Laura H———, do you consent to recognize that you were right to take Monsieur Sébastien Florand, here present, as your husband?”

Going with the flow, I studied him, put a finger to my lips, and mulled it over. “Umm . . .”

The crowd burst out laughing. All the tension left over from the curé seemed to flow away.

“Yes!” I said.

The mayor tried to stop laughing. “Then in the name of conjugal harmony and in virtue of the powers conferred upon me in my function as mayor, we declare you apt . . . to continue to be united in marriage.”

More laughter.

“We present you our best wishes for your happiness and for your future life as a couple. And we wish you good luck for your Cotton Anniversary in a little over four months.”

Applause erupted all around us. This was more like it, the perfect final touch. The town’s official representative of the French people had gone out of her way to confirm our union with wit and warmth. Now we were married in both cultures, on both continents, for both families, in all manners possible—the cheap and quiet, the solemn and ceremonial, the hilariously bad, and the hilariously good.

When we came out onto the steps, the old cars gleamed in the sun. Half the sky showed blue, the clouds dispersing with a vengeance. Petals showered around us. Claudine had somehow managed to sneak the baskets of unthrown flowers to the children who now darted with them among the guests. Petals caught in our hair, my lace, the mayor’s sash. Bombarded, cameras flashing, we ducked into the rear of the beige Citroen and headed off in a blaze of giddy glory.

People ran after us screaming. I waved and kissed. “No, I think they’re really screaming,” Sébastien said. “They want us to stop.”