Yes, the reception. I still had questions about the final guest count, what she’d arranged for parking. Had she given the caterers the check? They’d left me a voice mail that morning wondering when—

Wallis’s abrupt squeal of joy interrupted my thoughts. “He made it!” she cried, and Cricket and I spun toward the narthex stairs in time to see Atlas taking them two at a time. My best friend, whom I hadn’t seen in close to a year, was back stateside, and the sight of him in his favorite tailored, dark blue suit had me teetering close to the edge of grateful, sloppy tears. The months since my father had passed had been grueling, and I’d wished countless times that Atlas hadn’t been three thousand miles away.

He reached Cricket’s open arms first, bending from the knees to envelop her as she mumbled something about delight and my name, Daisy, into his narrow suit lapel. Then Wallis hugged him tightly and all but threw me into his arms.

“Hi, Daisy,” he said softly, pulling me close and resting his cheek on my hair, his hand on the back of my head in the way that made me feel delicate.

“I can’t believe your adventure getting here,” I said when he released me. “What a debacle.”

“One canceled flight, another delayed, and a couple of British Airways agents who would do well never to see me again. You should’ve been there when they called my name from the standby list,” he said. “I shrieked like a little girl. I didn’t know my voice could even reach that high.”

“Sounds like a thrilling performance,” I said. “Will you stage a reenactment for us at the reception?”

“Certainly,” said Atlas. “I just need my own trailer to get into character.”

Behind the altar, the organist began to play a dirge. I wanted Atlas to keep us laughing but, sensing his time was up, he squeezed my hand and left to take his pew.

Cricket and Wallis looked at each other and then at me.

“He came all the way from London,” Cricket said, as though I didn’t understand how travel works.

“He was moving back anyway, Cricket,” I said quickly, anticipating where this conversation was headed, wanting to cut it off at the pass. “He didn’t come here just for us.”

“And is he back for good?” Cricket procured a vial of lip gloss from the pocket of her full, black skirt and aimed it at my face.

“Atlas is hard to pin down,” I said, swatting her away, “when it comes to long-term plans. He gets restless. London is where he was born and raised. I can’t imagine he’ll stay away from it forever.”