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orld that didn't welcome her weapon high low shoes, not the relative ease of his own life, not what their father had done—none of it. He suddenly new jordans heels, urgently, wanted to give Phoebe any wedding she wanted. Or at least a cake. It would be such small gesture against everything else.
"You could elope high heeled nikes," he suggested.
Phoebe considered this, turning a green plastic bracelet on her wrist. "No," she said. "We wouldn't have a cake."
"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you? I mean, why not?"
Phoebe, frowning hard, glancing at him to see if he was making fun of her. "No," she said firmly. "That's not how you have a wedding, Paul."
He smiled, touched by her sureness of how the world worked.
"You know what, Phoebe? You're right."
Laughter and applause drifted across the sunny lawn as Frederic and his mother finished with the cake. Bree, smiling, raised her camera to take a final picture. Paul nodded to the table where the small plates were being filled, passing from hand to hand. "The wedding cake has six layers. Raspberries and whipped cream in the middle. How about it, Phoebe? You want some?"
Phoebe smiled more deeply and nodded in reply.
"My cake is going to have eight layers," she said, as they walked across the lawn through the voices and the laughter and the music.
Paul laughed. "Only eight? Why not ten?"
"Si
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