then.
There was Blythe in a long white dress with no straps, her blonde hair swept up, diamonds in her ears. She’s thirty-four, very pretty, with the kind of smile that looks good in photographs.
There were the flowers. White roses and white hydrangeas everywhere, spilling over every table.
There were the guests in their linen suits and silk dresses, holding champagne glasses, laughing on a wide green lawn beside the water.
And there was the cake.
Three tiers, white, with little sugar seashells pressed into the frosting.
And on
