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each other completely. Their love seems so simple. And yet deep. It’s both. Simple and deep. I can’t picture Motel telling Tzietel ten days before they’re to marry, “Tzietel, I’ve been doing some serious thinking and I just don’t think I want to be married to you. I’m sorry. I really am. I wish I felt differently. But I don’t.”
    Not in a million years.
    p.s. I sent Darlene Talcott a check for an additional $200 for her sister’s dress.

    Dear Daisy,
    The only thing that is unthinkable for God to do is to be untrue. He most certainly could ordain that you live out the rest of your days as Daisy Dacey. If you loved Max—and it is obvious to all, including God, I think, that you do not— it would not matter to you what his last name was. If you are wondering if someday you will love Max, then I suggest you keep a meter on your dislike for the name Daisy Dacey. When and if it ceases to irritate you, then you will know that you were meant to love Max.
    And may I remind you that you respect Father Laurent too much to poke your nose into his private affairs. His relationship with his former daughter-in-law is indeed none of your business, just as you said. Plus, you judge a woman you have never met.
    Yes, Motel and Tzietel have the same kind of love that made fairy tales famous. Don’t forget, though, my whimsical friend, that this love did not come easy. It tested them.
    I was going to congratulate you on sending the check to that woman but that would be like rewarding a liar for telling the truth.
    But I will say it is always a good idea to do the right thing.
    Harriet

Nine
    I’ ve had a revelation. It happened this morning while I sipped a mocha in the back room of Something Blue, far away from anything white. Mom was helping a young gal sort through our size fours. I couldn’t see them from my vantage point behind a computer monitor, but I could hear them. The gal had just told my mother how she and her fiancé met, and then my mom said, “And how did he propose?”
    And that’s when I knew.
    That’s when I knew I’d had a clue all along that something in my happily-ever-after plan had been seriously flawed. I’d had it all along.
    Daniel hadn’t proposed to me.
    I had proposed to him.
    In all my girlish dreams and fantasies I had never imagined that my life as a contented spouse would begin with me asking the Big Question. It was always going to be the guy who asked.
    Harriet would say at this point, Daisy, get a grip. You did not say to Daniel, “Will you marry me?” That’s the ‘Big Question’. And you did not ask it.
    She’d be right. I didn’t actually say that.
    I said, “Let’s get married!”
    And Daniel said, “You think?”
    Before you label me a complete idiot, let me tell you that we were cuddled in his hammock on his deck with the hues of a gorgeous late September sunset all around us. He had just told me I was the only girl for him. And it wasn’t the first time he’d said that. He also said it in a kind of cute way. I can’t describe it.
    And I had said, “Yes! Let’s get married!”
    And he kissed me and said, “Okay.”
    I never really let myself believe, until this moment, that it was all my idea we get married. When we announced our engagement—and by the way, we went shopping for rings the very next day—I said to all who asked that Daniel and I both decided we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. Like we both came up with the same idea at the same exact moment in time. And then I thrust my ring in front of their noses to prove it.
    I had totally forgotten he’d said, “You think?” before “Okay.”
    Until today.
    I’d remembered only what I wanted to. The invigorating chill as we held each other close. The woodsy tang in the air from someone burning leaves nearby. The words he had said to me only moments before. How it felt to be within Daniel’s embrace as we laughed about letting his golden retriever, Elmo, be the best man.
    I should’ve