Chris & Carmen

Carmen's dress hung in the stairwell of a bright beach house, under a wall of windows. Her bridesmaids crowded a grey sofa in matching powder blue pajamas and fuzzy slippers, glasses in hand. A woman in navy pinned the last curl into place at the mirror. Elsewhere, Chris and his groomsmen lounged in cream suits and open collars, cans of beer on the coffee table. Then Carmen came down a spiral staircase with a bouquet of coral dahlias and peach roses, and the house went quiet for a second.

They saw each other for the first time in church, beneath a tall painted mural over the altar. A few minutes of kneeling, a lot of grinning, and then out through a brick doorway into applause. The next stop was Southport Harbor, where the sky was a hard, clean blue and the masts stood in rows behind the wedding party. Everyone in cream and pale blue looked right at home among the sailboats.

At the pavilion, gold bentwood chairs and white linens filled a room draped in sheer fabric, with the Sound showing through the far windows. A saxophone player worked the deck during cocktails. As the sun dropped, Chris and Carmen slipped out to the sand, and the sky turned pink and lavender over the water. Carmen changed into a short white dress to cut the cake, a toast drew big laughs from the tables, and the live band kept everyone moving.