Carrying his overnight bag, Griff came in the door to Caydance's studio with a jacket flung over his shoulders. Out the window, afternoon sun illuminated San Francisco Bay. Emanating from somewhere in the studio was a welcoming music box tune, as if he had arrived at precisely the expected time. In the center of a round oak table, white daisies were arranged in an antique gold-trimmed French pitcher. Caydance was wearing a short sky-blue shirt dress.

Whenever, Griff entered her studio, the way he filled the doorway was preordained. "In four days, you will be my wife", he whispered in her ear. There was nothing he liked more at that moment than a soft blue dress with buttons down the front, and the way that the woman who would soon be his wife was touching him in response.

"Later," he said, "while we are walking down to the wharf, we can stop at street corners and kiss as if we had just met, and I will tell you stories about the fate of the computer in Dad's basement, poetic memories of sacked opposing quarterbacks that I will share at the wake for John Matuszak, and how the daffodils and tulips -- for which my Mother planted bulbs twenty years ago -- were blooming in the garden when I arrived at my childhood home.”