It was two days out from the wedding, and my penthouse looked like the aftermath of a strategic war room conference. Papers were scattered everywhere — on the coffee table, the couch, even the floor. 

Everywhere I looked, I saw evidence of the upcoming event: glossy photos of Château Éclat, the chosen venue; catering samples which, up till now, remained uneaten; a guest list stretching to two pages, listing the most influential people in Seattle, and that damned seating chart, ...