DAMIEN'S POV
The wedding date was set for the last Saturday in April.
Oregon coast, twenty-three people, a small inn called Harrow Point that sat on a bluff above a private beach. The owner, a woman named Della, had been running it for thirty years and treated every booking like a personal responsibility. She called twice to confirm details and both times spent more time talking to Elara than to me.
"She likes you," I said after the second call.
"She likes that we're not doing a production. She said her last big wedding booking left sand in the chandeliers."
"We don't have chandeliers."
"Exactly."
March arrived and with it a problem I hadn't anticipated.
My memory came back.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Small things first, fragments that surfaced without warning. The smell o
