“Margaret did not speak for a full ten seconds,” he said. “Then she asked if you still lived in the trailer park on the county road.”
“And Daniel?” I asked.
“Daniel asked if we had set a date,” Garrett said, his voice dropping. “Then he asked if we were going to need a lawyer to draft an agreement before the ceremony.”
He looked down at his empty plate, the red syrup staining the white ceramic.
“I told them there would be no agreements,” he said. “I told them that sixty-two years of life should earn a man the right to make his own choices without a committee.”
“They are just protective of you,” I said, trying to soften the edge in his voice.
“They are protective of the ledger, Eleanor,” he said.
By Friday evening, the April wind had died down, leaving the air damp and smelling of wet Indiana clay. Garrett sat beside me on the green wicker glider on my small front porch, his shoulder brushing mine every time the seat swayed.
