The Chelsea was also known for its entertainment. In the corner stood a grand piano, and John Peterson—who gave Anna lessons for years—would sometimes play and sing for the patrons. With an ear for contemporary melodies and a voice reminiscent of Nat King Cole’s, Peterson could perform any song requested and did well enough to perform in restaurants as far-flung as Atlanta, Charlotte, and Washington, D.C. Jane could spend hours listening to him, and I know Peterson was touched by her almost motherly pride in him. Jane, after all, had been the first in town to take a chance on him as a teacher.

Jane was too stunned to respond. In the silence, I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall as she debated whether or not she understood me correctly. She blinked. “But . . . how?”

“I talked to Henry, explained the situation and what we needed, and he said he’d take care of it.”

“I don’t understand. How can Henry handle something like this at the last minute? Didn’t he have something else scheduled?”

“I have no idea.”

“So you just picked up the phone and called and that was it?”

“Well, it wasn’t quite that easy, but in the end, he agreed.”

“What about the menu? Didn’t he need to know how many people were coming?”

“I told him about a hundred in total—that seemed about right. And as for the menu, we talked it over, and he said he’d come up with something special. I suppose I can call him and request something in particular.”

“No, no,” she said quickly, regaining her equilibrium. “That’s fine. You know I like everything they cook. I just can’t believe it.” She stared at me with wonder. “You did it.”

“Yes.” I nodded.

She broke into a smile, then suddenly looked from me to the phone. “I have to call Anna,” she cried. “She’s not going to believe this.”

Henry MacDonald, the owner of the restaurant, is an old friend of mine. Though New Bern is a place where privacy seems all but impossible, it nonetheless has its advantages. Because a person tends to run into the same people with regularity—while shopping, driving, attending church, going to parties—an underlying courtesy has taken root in this town, and it is often possible to do things that may seem impossible elsewhere. People do favors for one another because they never know when they might need one in return, and it’s one of the reasons New Bern is so different from other places.

This isn’t to say that I wasn’t pleased with what I’d done. As I headed into the kitchen, I could hear Jane’s voice on the phone.

“Your dad did it!” I heard her exclaim. “I have no idea how, but he did!” My heart surged at the pride in her voice.

At the kitchen table, I started sorting through the mail I’d brought in earlier. Bills, catalogs, Time magazine. Because Jane was talking to Anna, I reached for the magazine. I imagined that she would be on the phone for quite a while, but, surprising me, she hung up before I began the first article.

“Wait,” she said, “before you start, I want to hear all about it.” She drew near. “Okay,” she began, “I know Henry’s going to be there and he’ll have food for everyone. And he’ll have people there to help, right?”

“I’m sure,” I said. “He can’t serve it all himself.”

“What else? Is it a buffet?”

“I thought that was the best way to do it, considering the size of the kitchen at Noah’s.”

“Me too,” she agreed. “How about tables and linens? Will he bring all that?”

“I assume so. To be honest, I didn’t ask, but I don’t think it’s that big of a deal even if he doesn’t. We can probably rent what we need if we have to.”

She nodded quickly. Making plans, updating her list. “Okay,” she said, but before she could speak again, I held up my hands.

“Don’t worry. I’ll call him first thing in the morning to make sure everything is just the way it should be.” Then, with a wink, I added, “Trust me.”

She recognized my words from the day before at Noah’s house, and she smiled up at me almost coyly. I expected the moment to pass quickly, but it didn’t. Instead, we gazed at each other until—almost hesitantly—she leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek.

“Thank you for finding the caterer,” she said.

I swallowed with difficulty.

“You’re welcome.”

Four weeks after my proposal to Jane, we were married; five days after we were married, when I came in from work, Jane was waiting for me in the living room of the small apartment we’d rented.

“We have to talk,” she said, patting the couch.

I set my briefcase aside and sat beside her. She reached for my hand.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Then what is it?”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course I love you.”

“Then will you do something for me?”

“If I can. You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Even if it’s hard? Even if you don’t want to?”

“Of course,” I repeated. I paused. “Jane—what’s going on?”

She took a long breath before answering. “I want you to come to church with me this Sunday.”

Her words caught me off guard, and before I could speak, she went on. “I know you’ve told me that you have no desire to go and that you were raised an atheist, but I want you to do this for me. It’s very important to me, even if you feel like you don’t belong there.”

“Jane . . . I—” I started.

“I need you there,” she said.

“We’ve talked about this,” I protested, but again Jane cut me off, this time with a shake of her head.

“I know we have. And I understand that you weren’t brought up the way I was. But there’s nothing you could ever do that would mean more to me than this simple thing.”

“Even if I don’t believe?”

“Even if you don’t believe,” she said.

“But—”

“There are no buts,” she said. “Not about this. Not with me. I love you, Wilson, and I know that you love me. And if we’re going to make it work between us, we’re both going to have to give a little. I’m not asking you to believe. I’m asking you to come with me to church. Marriage is about compromise; it’s about doing something for the other person, even when you don’t want to. Like I did with the wedding.”