David’s old station wagon was parked near the edge of the stone terrace, just beyond the overhead floodlights.

Clare was already sitting on the flat metal hood, her white bridal train tucked carefully around her knees to keep the silk hem off the gravel.

She held two small paper cups of ice cream from the catering kitchen, complete with flat wooden spoons.

She handed one to me as I climbed up onto the fender beside her.

“Vanilla,” she said.

“Howard said it was all they had left in the kitchen freezer.”