On Christmas Day, Sutton texted me.
I didn't answer it.
On Tuesday, December 29, I moved into the apartment above the Stanwick hardware store.
It cost $1,150 a month.
It had two windows over Main Street and a radiator that knocked.
Dez carried the boxes.
Henry carried Dad's records one crate at a time.
I left the carriage house key on the kitchen counter.
On Thursday, December 31, my job ended.
So did the letter of intent.
No other bank had stepped in.
Sutton's founder agreement died with the deal, three years at $210,000.
On Monday, January 4, 2027, Laurel Pembrook Events opened at my kitchen table.
I had $11,400 in savings.
I had my own laptop, my own headset and a stepladder.
I didn't own a venue.
I coordinated weddings at places couples booked themselves.
Nine couples followed me from Bellhaven's 2027 book.
Each of them paid a $2,000 coordination deposit.
That came to $18,000.
That Friday, Henry offered to invest over Thai takeout.
He said it carefully.
"Northfork could put in whatever you need."
"I need nine couples and a stepladder."
"You have those."
"I do."
"Then let me—"
"No," I said.
"You fund companies."
"Date me."
He set down his chopsticks.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I was hoping you'd say that part."
By Monday, February 1, nineteen of Bellhaven's 34 couples for 2027 had left.
Piedmont Bride dropped "The Woman Behind Bellhaven."
On Monday, February 15, Mom listed the estate.
46 acres. $6,100,000.
It was below Bradford's price.
She left me a voicemail that afternoon.
I deleted it without playing it.
Henry's note stayed where it was.
It was still $12,000 a month, due in 2028.
He drove down from DC every Friday.
Since February he'd leased a farmhouse in Fairleigh County.
It was a mile from the land his mother's family used to farm.
He parked cars at my weddings.
He was good at it.
At 6:10 PM on Saturday, March 20, rain was drumming on the tin roof of the Gorman Orchard apple barn.
The couple had booked it themselves.
There were 120 guests, adults only.
There were string lights, cider in crocks and apple crates under the centerpieces.
There was no head table.
The couple had asked for that.
My crew was five people.
Dez had the lights.
I had the headset, on channel 2.
Three servers I'd hired in January had everything else.
The crew ate first.
I'd written it into the run-of-show.
6:10 PM — Crew dinner. Folding table, kitchen door.
Five plates of brisket sat on a folding table.
Dez's lighting board glowed blue at one end.
I took the place card out of my beltpack pouch.
The corners had gone soft.
The gold ink hadn't moved.
The pencil under it had smudged a little.
Laurel — Staff
Henry — Staff
I propped it against the water pitcher.
"That the one from the barn?" Dez asked.
"That's the one."
"You kept it the whole time?"
"In the pouch."
"Through all of it?"
"Through all of it."
He passed me the cornbread.
The barn doors opened at the far end.
Henry came in from the parking field, wet to the shoulders.
Rain ran off his jacket onto the plank floor.
He'd parked forty-one cars in the rain.
He looked at our table.
There were five chairs and five of us.
He went to the stack of folding chairs against the wall.
He lifted one off the top.
Then he carried it across the barn.
He went past the cider bar and between the guest tables.
A few guests watched him go by.
Most of them didn't.
It didn't need a room anymore.
He set the chair down beside mine.
"Is this seat taken?"
"It's the staff table."
"Good."
He sat down.
He shook water out of his hair.
"How's the field?" I asked.
"Muddy."
"Anybody stuck?"
"One Subaru. I pushed."
One of the servers slid him a plate.
He ate fast, like the rest of us.
He passed the bread without being asked.
At 6:24 PM, the headset clicked in my ear.
"Couple's in the orchard," Dez said.
"Ready when you are."
I wiped my hands.
Henry leaned over and kissed me, brisket and all.
The servers whistled.
Dez pretended to check a fader.
"Headset's live, you two."
I stood and keyed channel 2.
"This is Laurel."
"Standby fourteen."
The band raised their instruments.
The rain got louder on the tin.
Dez's thumb hovered over the board.
"Cue fourteen."
"Go."
The lights came up warm.
The doors swung open.
The couple walked in out of the rain, laughing, right on time.
Somebody at the cider bar started clapping.
The whole barn stood up for them.
At the folding table, the card was still leaning on the pitcher.
Henry kept my chair turned out so I could see the floor.
It was the best table in the barn.