Rachel turned the receipt over and handed it to me.

“Write it down,” she said.

“Monday, eight in the morning, county clerk.”

I wrote it on the back of the grocery list, under the word candles.

Her birthday reservation was still printed at the top, seven o’clock Sunday at the Italian place near the river.

“We can still make dinner,” Rachel said.

“I bought candles.

That isn’t a cake, but it’s close.”