And yet she hoped—was it a vain wish to have?—that he was, in fact, the tall one. The eyes that had depth. That looked serious and kind at the same time.

That was how she’d begun to picture him when she penned her own words on air mail stationery. Though she’d continue to care about him greatly even if she was wrong.

“Margaret Jane Beck, if you don’t come down here this minute, we are leaving without you and you’ll have to take the bus to the church.”

She bristled. Her mother hadn’t used that tone with her since she was a child, but she couldn’t blame her. George’s family had hired a fleet of cars to pick up the bridal party and close friends from all parts of Brooklyn, and the driver had just pulled up outside of their row house.

Margaret took the letter from her desk and slipped it into her pocket instead. Even if he didn’t want her to read it, it was the most recent thing she had of his, and she wanted to feel as if he were attending the wedding with her. She ran down the stairs in her silk stockings, a gift from Dottie for standing up for her at the wedding. She was careful not to catch them on a stray splinter or to slip on the floor’s glossy varnish. Her heels—specially made for her by her father for this occasion—were hanging from her fingers. She put them on before stepping outside and marveled as she looked down at them, pleased that something of such beauty had once again been crafted in their shop. Creamy leather with embroidered pink rosettes.

It was almost like old times.

*  *  *

Margaret didn’t know if it was typical for Catholic weddings to last as long as this one was or if the Troutwines had paid the priest to make it purgatorially long to make up for their first daughter’s lack of nuptials, but it was sweltering in the pew at St. Charles Borromeo and time ticked by with aching slowness. Though she’d only heard tidbits of the theology of Dottie’s family in the years they’d known each other, Margaret suspected that the offer it up nature of the religion encouraged them to withstand it without complaints. Poor Dottie and George had to kneel through the whole thing, and Margaret imagined that her friend was drowning in sweat on this blazing July afternoon. If it were her, she would have been slumped over the velvet-lined wooden kneeler, but Dottie’s back was as straight as if a rod were attached to it. George’s too.

Was this a strain on his heart? If he was concerned, he didn’t let on.

Hats off to them.