I still remember the scent of the church that afternoon—an overwhelming, cloying mixture of expensive fresh lilies and old stone. I remember the white fairy lights cascading from the cathedral ceiling like frozen rain, and the guests, hundreds of them, smiling that polite, tight-lipped smile reserved for high-society obligations. Michael stood at the altar in his navy-blue suit, the one he loved so much because he said it made him look like his father. He was nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but his eyes were bright. He was happy.