Love may last, I want to say, but do not, feeling unsure of my voice. Eva returns her free hand to my arm and tightens her grip. The arm she holds is my left one, close against my racing heart. In her own left arm she balances a great sheaf of flowers-daisies and lilies, marigolds, snapdragons-and in her left hand she holds a Belgian lace handkerchief, also borrowed from Ruth, in case she cries.

The organ strikes up Bach's "Jesus, Joy of Man's Desiring" for the bridesmaids' entrance, and down the aisle they skim, those gorgeous women in midnight blue. Overawed by the crowd, the flower girls hang back until their mother nudges them along, and then they dash and skip, carrying their fronds of flowers like spears.

Finally, only the bride and the father of the bride remain in the vestibule. Eva whispers. "Remember, now, don't walk too fast." But how can I walk slowly while my heart races? I've forgotten the ballet step she tried to show me. I want events to pause so I can practice the step, so we can go canoeing once more in the wilderness, so we can sit on a boulder by the sea and talk over life's mysteries, so I can make up to my darling for anything she may have lacked in her girlhood. But events do not pause. The organ sounds the first few bars of Purcell's "Trumpet Voluntary," our cue to show ourselves. We move into the open doorway, and two hundred faces turn their lit eyes on us. Eva tilts her face up at me, quirks the corners of her lips into a tight smile, and says, "Here we go, Daddy." And so, lifting our feet in unison, we go.