Late in the afternoon, Dwayne, Ken, Grégory, and Sébastien—two men from each country—carried the pièce montée out on a huge foil-covered board. A peanut brittle license plate on the front of the classic car gave the dates, and a big sign on the back said, “Vive les Mariés.” Jean-Charles grinned when he saw it.

As night fell and temperatures plummeted, we danced the “Macarena,” the dance where all the men had to take off their shirts, a French version of the hokeypokey, and this absolutely beautiful number where we had to act like S&M chickens. I think. Maybe I just have a kinky imagination, but since we had to flap our arms and legs and pretend to whip someone, that’s what I got out of it. Children pelted us with ripped-up grass, leaves, and anything else they could pretend was a flower petal for hours.

To think this day was a gift I had almost refused, from pure fear of love, more work, more people, more cultural expectations. I looked around me again, at all these people I hadn’t even known two years ago, so many French I would have assumed I didn’t like and wouldn’t like me. Under the multicolored lights, Anna, Ken, Sue, and Dwayne danced among the French, having crossed an ocean for the first time in their lives as something more than just tourists. I had never even seen Ken and Dwayne dance before, not even at our second wedding; they usually sat music out on the sidelines.

I spotted Mamie sitting by herself at one of the deserted tables, watching everything, and walked over to her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Just a little tired.” She squeezed my arm. “It was just nerves this morning, just a little crisis, yes?”

I nodded. “Thank you for the bouquet you made for me. It’s beautiful.”

She nodded, and we sat there together watching the festivities for a few minutes. People kept adding clothes until all the elegant dresses and suits had disappeared under sweats and wool sweaters. To keep warm, everyone danced or gathered around the grills. Dwayne brought out Frisbees around 2:00 A.M., and a handful of guests, many of whom had never played this American game before, spread around the yard.

Bruno sat with the other wedding organizers by a grill and, without moving, dominated conversations all around the yard, roaring names across the garden in a growly enormous shout as though trying to gargle his throat out of his mouth: “Grégory! GRRREEE-GOOO-RRRRY!”

A Frisbee flew out of an inexperienced hand and landed on his head.

“So tell me, Sébastien,” I said as we crossed paths trying to catch the same Frisbee. “Is that man who just grabbed two handfuls of my ass from your father’s side?”