Gerald lowered himself onto an overturned bucket and rubbed his scarred knuckles. “Wade, I started with nothing but a borrowed torch and a bad temper,” he said. “My son grew up in a big house and never once saw what built it.” He glanced at my father’s old Miller welder in the corner. “I came here to ask you one thing, and I want an honest answer.”

Then he slid his flip phone back into his pocket and stood. “Would you let me announce, in front of every guest at the rehearsal dinner Friday, exactly who built that arch? Because I intend to, with or without your blessing.” Headlights swept across the window as a silver SUV skidded outside. Brooke jumped out, mascara running, with Mom right behind her. And Preston’s truck pulled in last.