August turned into September, which turned into a dreary October. Connor and I made his small one-person apartment on the bay into a home. We set a wedding date for early June and planned a romantic honeymoon, sailing from Boston to the Bahamas and back. Alissa was still missing in action.
The day of the wedding dawned with rain, but by mid-afternoon the sun was high in the sky. Connor’s sister, Laura, was my only bridesmaid, a pretty young thing with coppery brown hair and a large smile. My dress was a simple cotton one, off white and loosely gathered. I said my vows on the pier where he had proposed, barefoot as Alissa had predicted, and after the reception, Connor carried me up the gangway onto our new sailboat, the Kraken, for it’s maiden voyage.
“How are we today, wife?” Connor asked me in a low murmur as we pulled away from the dock, the small party of well-wishers cheering and waving us on.
“We are well, husband,” I replied, searching for Alissa’s face among the throng and finding it absent. Connor took his right hand off the wheel and reached for mine.