“Oh, really, Cynthia—how positively Transcendental.” But Ruth was not to be outdone. “When I marry,” she ruminated, “I’ll walk down the very long center aisle of Grace Church filled with lit candles and roses, so the light will be soft and bright at the same time. I’ll have two little girls dressed in simple white muslin frocks trimmed with tiny green nosettes, each throwing down a carpet of petals before me.” She smiled at the sight. Cynthia hopped off the balustrade and settled into her own chair, preparing for the epic recitation she must have known would follow, the two having been friends since childhood.

My attention wandered in and out of Ruth’s disquisition on her wedding, watching the steady procession of lobstermen rowing homeward, their wooden traps stacked in the stern of their long dories. The men called to one another over the late afternoon’s calm, and their rough voices beat under Ruth’s interminable visions. What is it propels this absorption in one’s own wedding? Ruth’s was not the first I’d heard cataloged and imagined to the last detail. Several times in the past three or four years, suddenly a conversation would shift into this scene: one girl outlining and explaining what she saw in her head to a small crowd of attentive listeners. It is the shift I find so disconcerting—without warning, there we will be, presumptive brides declaiming, instead of the three young women we are. But today this talk of silks and laces seemed to me thoughtless. Halcy Ames had just drowned for this vision. Impatiently, I burst into Ruth’s talk.

“Really, Ruth, I should think you would remember not to sift your wedding into a day of mourning.”

On the instant, Ruth became a picture of sorrowful consideration.

“Oh, yes. The lovers.” And she held this pose for a moment, even reaching out her hand to squeeze Cynthia’s.

“Just imagine the scene,” Ruth whispered. I groaned inwardly instead of diverting Ruth’s attention, it appeared I had only just tossed fresh embers atop her fire. Here again, the love story—prelude to the dress, the candles, and the little flower girls. “Halcy must have crept from her house around midnight, muzzling that old dog, and carrying a sweet little bundle of bread and chocolate for their wedding breakfast.”

“Oh, Ruthie, do you think so?” Cynthia breathed.