“I know.”
She looked at the velvet box.
“I hope this doesn’t become something you regret.”
“So do I.”
At twelve thirty, I drove to St.
Mark’s.
The parking lot was already busier than expected.
Florists.
Musicians.
Catering workers.
Photographers carrying equipment through the side entrance.
I parked the Buick near the rear.
The odometer showed a little over 176,000 miles.
For a moment, I wondered whether Margaret could identify poverty from a car parked half a block away.