Cyncerely Yours

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It was a warm, sunny morning in Washington, DC. Scraps of white fluff trailed across the bare dome of the sky, a lacy lingerie more tease than cover. The air was damp and fragrant; the grass was just damp.

 It had rained yesterday. Rain was forecast for tomorrow. But it was not raining this morning. Cullen regarded it all — wet grass, sweet-smelling air, blue sky — with exhilarated wonder. “No r ain,” he pointed out to his best man. " They were predicting rain, you know.”

 “True,” Rule said. “It ha s remained true every time you've mentioned it.”

 So he was repeating himself. So what? He was getting married. A man could be foolish on his wedding day — was intended to be foolish, perhaps, on this one day, when past and future hinged on a moment that was nearly here. Nearly now.

 Nearly, dammit. Cullen was not good at waiting. “I should have gone. When she called--”

 “You think Cynna and Lily can’ t handle a flat tire?”

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