She squeezed my hands and nodded toward the back of the room, where two of her bridesmaids were pushing open the double doors. A man in a gray work apron walked in, holding a large flat wooden sign wrapped in brown paper. I recognized his face before I recognized the apron. It was Mr. Alvarez, the old carpenter who had trained me every summer as a teenager, whose workshop had closed three years earlier. Every guest turned to look. “Open it,” Clara whispered.

My fingers shook as I pulled back the paper. Burned into the dark wood were five words: “Ben and Sons Woodworks, Est. Today.” Beneath them hung a small brass key on a loop of twine. I could not speak. Clara wiped her cheek with her sleeve and said, “Now keep listening, because that is only the first part.”