Rowan watched her stare into the dark.
“Is it Candace’s letter?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re allowed to be angry about it.”
“I am angry. But if I spend my first month proving something to her, then she’s running my first month.”
Rowan was quiet for a moment. “So what do you want tomorrow to prove?”
“Nothing,” Bethany said. “That’s the point.”
She wanted to walk toward him under the roof her father built. She wanted to hear her mother laugh with people she had known for decades. She wanted to see Quentin, who had survived their childhood by making every tense moment into a joke, standing still long enough to hold a ring. She wanted a photograph in which the white dress was the most remarkable thing about her.
“No badge,” she said.
“No badge.”
“No radio.”
“No radio.”
“Phone stays in my purse.”
“And I will personally hide the purse if necessary.”
She took his hand. “Today, I’m just Bethany.”
“Good,” Rowan said. “I’ve been trying to marry Bethany for years.”
At two in the morning, rain tapped once against the window and stopped. In the half-dark, Bethany remembered Hiram tightening bolts above the pavilion while she stood below with the level. She remembered him asking whether the bubble was centered and waiting for her to check rather than telling her what to see.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of a roof with no walls and a crowd of people standing beneath it, all waiting for someone else to decide who was allowed to stay.
PART TWO: A PAVILION IS NOT A KINGDOM
Chapter 6: Morning at the Lake
At six-thirty on the Fourth of July, Harrow Lake was still enough to reflect the clouds as perfect copies of themselves.
A light mist lay over the reeds, and the far bank looked farther away than it was. The road above the pavilion had not yet filled with holiday traffic. The town would spend the afternoon smelling of grilled meat and sunscreen. By evening, the fireworks would draw crowds toward the southern beach. For now the only sounds were a lawn mower across the water, the ticking of Rowan’s truck as it cooled, and Quentin asking for the third time where his sister had put the extension cords.
“In the blue container,” Bethany called from beneath the pavilion. “The one marked electrical.”
“There are four blue containers.”
“Then I have more faith in you than you deserve.”
He found the cords two minutes later. She heard him mutter something about organized people being a menace to society, and she smiled without looking up.
Bethany was not dressed for a wedding. She wore gray sweatpants, an old university sweatshirt, and a pair of flat shoes she did not mind getting dusty. Her hair was still in rollers, secured under a bright scarf. There would be time to dress after the chairs were arranged and the flowers delivered. Alma had objected to the plan until Bethany pointed out that it was the only way she could stand still during the final hour before the ceremony.
The chair plan was simple. Two rows on either side of a narrow aisle, with a wide center opening beneath the pavilion roof. The lake would be the backdrop. The music would come from two speakers near the west post. A small table at the front would hold the rings, the guest book, and a framed photograph of Hiram wearing his Parks Department shirt.
Rowan was adjusting the photograph when Bethany looked over.
“Left a little,” she called.
He shifted the frame to his left.
“Your other left.”
“I teach history,” he said. “I don’t do directions.”
“Then hold it still and look handsome.”
