“Oh, now, see here,” she said quickly, shifting the candy to her cheek. She pointed to the name of the groom, as she uncrossed her ankles and leaned forward in the chair with excitement. “This is someone else. This isn’t Edward.”

For a few seconds the lump wedged in the middle of her chest loosened as she held her index finger firmly on “John.” She could’ve cried with relief. That wasn’t her husband’s name. But Mr. Don McAfee leaned back in his chair with his fingers tented against his chin and shook his head slowly at her.

She pulled the sheet back in front of her face and ran her index finger along the other details. The groom’s date of birth, the same as Edward’s, and the place of birth, the same as Edward’s. It couldn’t be a coincidence. She swallowed the peppermint.

“John Edward Dalton,” she read aloud, her breath an uncomfortable burst of mint.

Edward’s given name was Edward, and his middle name was George, after his father George. There was no John in his name. THERE WAS NO JOHN IN HIS NAME! Edward George Dalton. Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry. Vivian had no idea where the name John had come from, but it seemed to her a sure sign he was trying to hide something, even if he hadn’t bothered to change his birth information. An icy shiver ran under her skin and her mouth felt parched, but still minty, as she scanned the rest of the license. The name of the bride was Mildred Fischer.

“Mildred,” she said aloud, and pulled a face as if she had just swallowed a glass of ipecac instead of the peppermint. “She sounds fat.”

McAfee threw up his hands and raised his eyebrows as if to say, She just might be. Vivian smiled at him and looked back down at the photostat, biting the inside of her lip to keep from crying. She needed to feel like someone was on her side right now. Edward had been married to Mildred when he took Vivian out riding in his Model A. Edward had been married to Mildred when he’d proposed to Vivian. Edward had been married to Mildred on their wedding day.

“I found where she’s living now,” McAfee said in a gentler tone, speaking slowly, as if she might be frightened away like a bunny rabbit.

“You did what?” Vivian gasped, dropping the photostat, her pocketbook and gloves on the floor next to a pile of file folders. She wondered how he ever kept all those records straight.

“I found Mildred,” he offered simply, in his deep baritone, as he rocked back in his office chair, his delicate hands clasped behind his head. “No extra charge.”

“Well, garsh,” Vivian said, feeling awfully sick and not too sure she wanted to know where Mildred was. She tried to breathe normally as she lifted the photostat from the floor and placed it on the corner of the messy desk. She couldn’t be sick in front of Mr. McAfee.