Taryn & Chris

Taryn and Chris had planned for more than 100 guests. By late March 2020 the limit was 10, outdoors only, and they kept the date anyway. The morning was damp and gray, the hills across the Connecticut River still bare. A bagpiper in full kilt led Taryn across the lawn from the red-roofed castle, and Chris waited out on the deck, grinning before she was even in sight.

The ceremony took place under a round arch of roses and greenery at the edge of the railing, the wide river behind it. With so few people there, every sound carried: the officiant reading, Chris reading his vows off a small card, a family member's laugh. When they kissed, a woman in plum threw her bouquet hand straight up in the air. Off to the side, a painter worked the whole scene onto canvas in real time.

Afterward they moved to the stone pergola, its old vines leafless and twisting overhead, and the rain held off long enough for portraits in every corner of it. Inside, there were pink favor bags with little bow ties, a round cake, a champagne toast and one bride in a lace face mask, because that was the year. I don't think anyone there will forget how small and how full it felt.