Wallis accompanied the bride in giving me a distasteful expression. Blake must have noticed. He tugged at her hand and said, “I can’t let either of you be grumpy. It’s not allowed. The Richardsons are out and about and are not going to let any shade ruin the fun. Right?” He looked at us for confirmation, and we nodded like good soldiers. “Good. Wallis, dance with me until we have to sit for dinner?” And with that, her frown vanished.

All through the first course, Wallis picked at her bread and barely touched her mesclun. She fidgeted through the best man’s speech, which, in her defense, was long and unfocused, and by the time the filets and flounder arrived, she was texting under the table. I tried to engage her with Atlas, mostly because he was working on a story about pot legalization, and I thought it might be of interest to Wallis, who enjoyed an edible every so often. But only one thing was on her mind, no matter how many times I encouraged her to put her phone away.

Just as the main course was being cleared from our table and the band members—all fifteen of them—came back onto the stage, Blake reappeared, commandeering an empty chair from another table and sliding between Wallis and me. When the cake, thick with buttercream, arrived soon thereafter, Cricket and I ate our individual pieces, then split Wallis’s, too busy, as she was, discussing every topic under the sun with Blake to notice: films, television, sports, preferred pets (would it amaze anyone to learn that growing up, Blake had a series of pedigreed retrievers underfoot?), best breakfast foods (Wallis, waffles, he, eggs Benedict with smoked salmon), correct and incorrect footwear for men, the current state of pop music, the legacy of boy bands, and, of course, literature.

“If you’re anything like your sister, you must have a full bookshelf, Daisy.” Blake turned to me as Cricket and I were fighting over the last glob of buttercream. “Any recommendations? What are you reading?”

I figured he wouldn’t be interested in any of the paperbacks in my bedside table drawer, so I went with a book that seemed more in his wheelhouse. “Have you read the new one about the presidency in the Gilded Age?”

He shook his head. “I want to. Can I borrow it after you’re done?”

Atlas laughed. “Sorry. I’ve claimed that one next. You’ll have to get in line.”

“You’re a big reader, too, then?” Blake asked Atlas.

“I read whatever Daisy recommends,” he said, patting my shoulder. “She’s never steered me wrong.”

“Maybe Daisy and I should just start our own book club,” said Wallis. “I don’t think we’ll be invited into any now.”

“I despise book clubs,” Atlas said. “I’ve been obliged to join a few, and I have made a promise never to return.”