“They are going to love you,” I said, though the words felt dry in my mouth.

My mother did not answer.

She only nodded and reached for her small vinyl purse on the counter.

The Lake Forest air smelled of damp cut grass and expensive catering by the time we arrived.

Ethan was standing near the edge of the stone terrace, looking out over the fifty round tables set up under the white canvas pavilion.

He looked remarkably handsome in his tailored dark suit, though he was spinning his gold signet ring around his finger, a habit he only fell into when his mind was elsewhere.

I walked up behind him, holding the skirt of my gown to keep it off the damp stone tiles.

“Ethan,” I said.

He turned and smiled, his face softening, though the nervous movement of his hand on his signet ring did not stop.

He reached out to take my fingers in his.

“You look incredible, Clara,” he said in that smooth, quiet voice he used when we were alone.

“My mother is already looking for the photographer.”

“I was just looking at the seating chart by the entrance,” I said, pulling my hand back slightly to adjust my glasses.

“My parents are at table forty-eight, all the way at the back near the catering tents.”