night after our wedding, I had torn the dress on a nail sticking out from my parents’ porch.
James proudly announced that he could repair it.
He couldn’t.
His stitches wandered crookedly across the fabric, tightening one side into an ugly little wrinkle.
I laughed so hard that evening he threatened to divorce me before we reached forty-eight hours of marriage.
Now I looked at those crooked stitches.
Then I thought about the badly folded paper rose downstairs.
James had always been excellent with things requiring strength.
Engines.
Tools.
Fences.
