“She knew before any of us did,” Clare said.

She put her arm around my shoulder and leaned her head against me, just as she used to on the back porch when the house on Main Street got too loud.

I wrapped my arm around her waist and held her close while the night air cooled the metal hood beneath us.

Fifteen years of unanswered airmail letters, forged trust amendments, and calculated town rumors lay behind us in the dark ballroom, as powerless as the rejected cashier’s check sitting on table one.

Inside, the band began playing its final slow song of the night, a soft tune that drifted through the terrace glass.