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happy. “Nat, I am,” she said.
    “Oh,” said Nat coldly. “Glad to hear it.”
    Franny heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. It was either the florist or the caterer.
    “We’re going to be so happy together,” said Franny. She felt no corresponding flicker of joy. She smiled wide, so wide that her cheeks hurt.
    “We are,” said Nat forcefully. He came close to her and touched his lips to the top of her head. “I really do love you, sweetie,” he said. “Can you just relax?”
    “I am relaxed, Nat.”
    He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Franny?” His voice was nervous, and when his eyes caught hers, it seemed that he wanted to say something else, but he was silent.
    “Nat,” said Franny, “I am relaxed.” And when he left her alone, closed the door behind him, for a moment, she was.
    “Darling,” said Nat’s mother, Arlene, “I’m afraid I really don’t see what the big problem is. Tulips are lovely flowers! In fact,” she leaned in, as if sharing a secret, “I carried a bouquet of tulips at my own wedding to Frederick.”
    The florist, a squat woman named Reed, sighed. “Hon,” she said, “I did everything I could. You changed the order too late.”
    “I wanted lilies from the beginning. Remember when I told you that my mother’s name was Lily?” asked Franny, quietly. The kitchen was unbearably bright, and she wished she had a pair of sunglasses. There was a dull ache behind her eyes.
    “No, dear, I don’t. Anyway, won’t the tents be lovely?” said Arlene. Her new facelift had given her a sinister look, her eyebrows always arched. She clasped her hands together. “Well!” she said.
    Reed bit her lip and studied her nails. A rhinestone chip was embedded in each one. Outside, Franny saw Nat and his father arguing. Nat’s hands were splayed, and he was shouting. His father was shaking his head. Franny couldn’t hear anything above the sound of the waves.
    “I’ll handle this,” Arlene was saying to the florist.
    “I’m not trying to be difficult,” said Franny.
    “No, honey. Of course you’re not!” cried Arlene. To Reed, she mouthed, “Nerves.”
    “It’s going to be beautiful. It’s going to be perfect. I promise, hon,” said Reed with practiced cheer.
    Arlene had made them hair appointments at Pierre’s at eleven. “Pierre,” said Arlene as she navigated her Land Rover to the salon, “is an absolute miracle worker.” Franny decided to ignore the implications. Arlene waved as a friend drove by. “Oh, what an exciting day,” she said, and then she turned to Franny. “Honey,” she said, “let’s have pedicures.”
    “I’ve never had a pedicure,” said Franny.
    “Welcome to Westchester, sweetie,” said Arlene.
    When Franny met Nat, during her second year of medical school, she was living near Columbia, in a tiny studio apartment she had painted green. One night, tired of studying alone in the medical library, Franny had wandered into a bar, promising herself that she would go home after one beer. But she had heard him, in the corner with the spotlight dimmed, his voice like molasses, singing quietly about darkness. She had ordered another beer, and then another. Franny thought, there is someone as sad as me, but he makes it beautiful.
    Nat began to brighten her few free hours, winning Franny with homemade dinners, goofy songs, and tequila. He took her to parties where native New Yorkers talked quickly and sarcastically, and Franny, who had not been invited to any parties since losing touch with her few friends from college, was thrilled. While Nat spoke, his face animated, his fingers flying through the air like hummingbirds, she felt lucky, and could be still. Nat filled Franny’s life with color; it bled into her exhausting days. She could stay up for the twelve-hour shifts, eating candy bars and vending machine sandwiches, sticking needles into veins, pretending to care about everyone’s aches and pains. Knowing that her bright