Chapter 23: The Vows

The county clerk had explained it on the phone in a worn-out voice.

The church hall license had come back missing a witness line, because nobody had thought to sign it in the chaos.

The marriage was not recorded.

"Which means," Hattie said, "you were never legally married at all."

"I was married," I said.

"On paper."

"Not on that paper."

She cried for ten minutes, because now she got to plan the wedding.

On Friday afternoon the whole town came to the dock.

Four hundred chairs lined the shore, borrowed from the church and the Marlow Club.

The lake was flat and blue.

Fishermen came in their good flannel, and the pediatric floor sent a delegation in dinosaur scrubs.

The bank manager came.

The old lawyer came and sat in the second row with a cane across his knees.

Conway's mother sat in the front in her blue coat, with a hat Hattie had bought her.

Beside her was an empty chair with a white rose on it.

It was for my mother.

I had put it there myself.

The judge who had married us in the church hall stood at the end of the dock.

She looked at me over her reading glasses.

"This time," she said, "I'd like the groom line filled in beforehand."

People laughed.

I walked down the dock on Hattie's arm.

I wore my mother's pearl earrings and a plain cream dress I had bought at a department store.

Conway stood at the end in his black suit.

He was crying before I reached him.

He did not try to hide it.

"You're early," he said, hoarsely.

"You're late. By nine years."

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven," I said.

The judge cleared her throat.

"Dearly beloved," she began.

"Skip that," said Hattie, from the first row, wiping her eyes. "We know why we're here."

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