The name on the plank was Marigold, the boat my father built by hand the summer I turned ten, named after my grandmother. My father had passed away when I was fifteen, and the debts afterward forced my mother to sell the boat to a stranger. I never forgot it, but I never asked for it back, because I knew we could not afford it. My bride had listened to my stories for years and remembered every word.

Months ago she had searched through old harbor records and found the boat rotting in a shipyard two towns away. The owner was an elderly man who had planned to scrap it. She pleaded with him, told him the whole story, and he agreed to sell it for fifteen thousand dollars, the exact amount she had withdrawn. She invented the expensive dress because she knew I would never have agreed to spend that money on a boat, and she needed me to say yes without asking questions. Her parents and bridesmaids had known the whole time, and they had kept the secret beautifully.

I cried so hard that the officiant had to hand me a tissue. She laughed and wiped my face, then explained the pajamas. She said she wanted to marry me as herself, comfortable and honest, with nothing pretending to be something it was not. The real dress, which cost only three thousand dollars, was waiting for the reception, and I would see her in it that evening. She had also saved enough on the dress to restore our full honeymoon.

After the ceremony, the whole wedding party walked to the harbor, where Marigold sat freshly painted beside the dock with a blue ribbon tied to her bow. Her father and the old shipyard owner had already begun restoring her. My mother, who had sold the boat in tears, hugged my wife for ten minutes. I spent that summer fishing from the deck with my bride beside me, and every morning I thank her for the best gift ever.