“Sometimes couples came in without anyone with them,” she explained. “Larry would leave his desk and sign as their witness.”
She turned another page.
“He hated the idea of someone getting married with nobody standing beside them.”
I ran my finger over one of his old signatures.
It was strange seeing Larry’s handwriting from decades before I knew him.
The same narrow L.
The same crooked y.
“How many times did he do this?”
Margaret shrugged.
“Hundreds, probably.”
She smiled.
“He used to joke that he had attended more weddings than anyone in the courthouse but never had an anniversary to remember.”
A laugh escaped me.
Then another question occurred to me.
“Was Larry ever married before?”
Margaret slowly closed the binder.
She didn’t answer.
“Margaret?”
“Once.”
My stomach tightened.
“To whom?”
She looked directly at me.
“You.”
I sat down.
For twenty-eight years, Larry had watched strangers walk into that building as separate people and walk out legally connected.
Whenever someone had no friend or family member beside them, Larry stepped forward.
His name appeared again and again in those records.
But always beside the same word.
