When the officiant declared them husband and wife—again, but this time in a way that entered both body and history without disguise—the applause that rose from the garden felt earned.
At the reception inside the center’s multipurpose hall, children’s drawings still hung on one wall because Maya had refused to take them down. Taylor had funded better lighting, better catering, and impossible flowers, but the room remained unmistakably what it was: a place built for service, not image. He seemed happier there than he ever had at the Astor.
They danced first to an old Sam Cooke song. Taylor was a better dancer than he should have been. Maya accused him of secret lessons. He denied it with a straight face too polished to be credible.
“What are you thinking?” she asked as they swayed.
His hand rested warm at the base of her back. “That I almost ruined my life by believing winning and deserving were the same thing.”
