Same narrow L.
Same crooked y.
“How many?”
I touched one of his signatures.
Margaret shrugged.
“Hundreds, probably.” She smiled. “He used to joke that he’d attended more weddings than anyone in the building and never had to remember an anniversary.”
A laugh escaped me.
It disappeared when the obvious question arrived.
I touched one of his signatures.
“Was he ever married?”
Margaret closed the binder.
She didn’t answer.
“Margaret?”
“Once.”
My eyes searched her face.
“To who?”
She looked directly at me.
“You.”
I sat down.
For 28 years, Larry had watched strangers enter that building as two separate names and leave legally connected.
“Was he ever married?”
Whenever they had nobody beside them, he stepped forward and signed as their witness. His name appeared again and again, but never beside the word spouse.
Not until me.
Margaret opened another drawer.
Never beside the word spouse.
“There’s something else. Larry asked me to pull this after the marriage was recorded, in case you ever came looking for me.”
