Everything about her suite was wonderful: the satin slippers she discovered in the closet and the wooden hairbrush on the dressing table and the silver platter of pastries and fruit salad that arrived at the door. But she had woken up feeling slightly odd. As if she’d had a dream she couldn’t remember. Now she picked up the phone and put it down. She was in Paris; there was no point in calling Neil to ask if he found his warm socks or took down the Christmas tree. She opened her leather-bound journal and ran her fingers over a photo of an ivory satin wedding dress. The bodice had pink pearls and the veil was Venetian lace. She sat on the upholstered love seat and began to read. Dear diary, Today I wished we decided to run off and get married in a chalet in Switzerland. Just a minister and Neil and me wearing fur boots and saying, “I do!” Afterward we would drink schnapps by the fireplace and think we were so clever to skip the church with the huge urns of pink and white roses and the reception with five different entrées and a band that played long after you felt like dancing.
