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“Of course not, and I feel amazing. I feel strong and sure and so happy. I’m fine. We’re fine.”

“Maybe you should sit down. Maybe we both should sit down. I swear my knees are weak.”

“Then maybe we should lie down.” She circled her arms around his neck. “Together.”

“Maybe we should.” He scooped her off her feet.

“Let’s not tell anyone until after the wedding, Collin. Let’s keep this ours, just ours, until after.”

“Not a word about it,” he promised as he carried her out. “Until you say so, I won’t tell a soul. And then I’m telling everyone. Johanna made me a husband. Johanna made me a father. Johanna, my Johanna, gave me the world.”

They were gone, with the coffee she’d brought him cooling on the workbench, the storm falling away.

Another tear spilled as Sonya walked to the mirror, and through.

The sun shined through the windows and sparkled through Cleo’s hanging crystals.

And the closet door stood open.

Already shaky, already grieving for people she’d never met, she stepped over.

The bride wore her dark hair in a cascade of curls that fell down the nape of her neck. The wide skirt of her gown formed with a mass of ruffles that rose from the sweeping hem to a tiny waist. More ruffles fell from the bodice, and down the shoulders to her elbows.

She carried a single pink rose. Her face was radiant with joy.

On a sigh, Sonya said, “Marianne.”

She carried the painting downstairs where the cat sat on the newel post and Yoda ran to meet her.

The front door, closed, told her someone had seen to their pets while she’d gone into the past.

With Yoda trailing her, she took the portrait to the music room, set it against the wall. She thought of the woman she’d seen dying in childbirth, the grief of her husband.

And looking at Johanna’s portrait, thought of the woman she’d just seen, the one with a ponytail and bare feet. And like the third bride, radiant with joy.

A woman who, she now understood, died with the potential of life inside her.

“Marianne. We’ll put you with the others tonight. Right now, I have to pull myself together. I have a meeting. But I’m not forgetting you. I’m not forgetting any of you. I have a big job to do.”

Her phone played Roy Orbison’s “Crying.”

“Later,” she murmured. “I can cry after the meeting.”

She’d promised treats, so walked to the kitchen only to find them sitting on the counter. With a note, in the careful cursive she’d seen before.

I closed the door and gave them the cookies.

“Jack. Thanks for that.”

Centered on the island stood the flowers, artfully arranged in Anna’s blue vase.

“And Molly, thanks. I just… forgot about them.”

She got out a Coke, drank some of it standing by the window, and waited for the boost. But her heart stayed heavy, her head light.

She got through it, and though Clover stayed silent, the scent of wildflowers drifted throughout the meeting.

Not alone, Sonya reminded herself.