Then I turn it in my hand.
It isn’t perfect, but it’s from the heart—my heart. Made from something the island gave us and shaped by my hands for her. Somehow that matters more than anything I could’ve bought.
I wrap it and set it aside before heading toward the trees to find the wood I’ll need.
The wedding arch comes together quickly. It’s really just pieces of driftwood, the two uprights driven deep into the sand with a third stretched across the top. The wood is pale and worn smooth from years in the ocean, twisted slightly in places from salt and weather.
I test it—push, pull, lean my weight into it—until I’m sure it won’t give. Only then do I step back and admire it.
Charlotte comes through the trees with her arms full of flowers and stops when she sees it.
She just stands there for a second.
Her eyes flick to mine. “Perfect. Like everything else you build.”
“Not much to it. Just some driftwood I found on the beach.”
“I love it. Thank you.”
My gaze drops to the flowers in her arms. “It’ll look even better once you’re done with it.”
Charlotte moves with easy focus, weaving flowers and greenery through the frame like she already knows exactly whereeverything belongs. Adjusting one piece here, shifting another there.
She’s always been good at things like this—making rough things prettier.
When she finishes, she steps back to study it for a second, makes one last adjustment, then brushes her hands together.
“Everything’s ready. We can get dressed now.” She waves a hand toward the shelter. “That means scoot. You can’t see the bride before the wedding.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her all day, but I don’t argue.
I head back toward the shelter and change into the suit I found on the yacht. It was sealed up and untouched, the navy still dark in a way most things out here don’t survive.
It fits well enough through the shoulders, but not through the waist. The jacket pulls where it shouldn’t.
It wasn’t made for me. Dad was shorter. Leaner than I am.
When I return to the beach, Charlotte’s voice carries from just inside the trees. “Go stand by the water, and don’t turn around.”
“Charlotte—”
“Don’t, Dane. I mean it. I need a few more minutes.”
Obeying my soon-to-be wife feels like the smart thing to do. I stop at the edge of the water with my back to the trees, staring out at the horizon.
“No peeking.”
“I’m not peeking.”
Time stretches.
Then—
“You can turn around.”
I do.
Charlotte is walking toward the arch. The dress she’s wearing is white, but it’s not the one I found her trying on before. This one falls long and soft around her body, the fabric loose and flowing in the ocean breeze.
