Chapter 3 - The Second Packet on the Signing Table
The applause followed us off the floor.
The officiant had pronounced us husband and wife and the string quartet started again and everyone stood. My bride's hand was cold in mine. I felt the phone still in my right pants pocket, heavy against my thigh, and my daughter was with the flower girl coordinator by the side door where I'd left her. I didn't look at my wife as we walked back down the aisle. I smiled where I was supposed to smile.
A venue coordinator in a black dress touched my elbow at the end of the aisle and pointed toward the hallway. "Signing suite is ready whenever you are," she said. "Just the license, five minutes, then photos."
Warm yellow light spilled from the dressing suite. The same hallway from twenty minutes earlier. The cream walls and the floral arrangement by the door hadn't moved. Inside, the officiant was already waiting at a small white table with two black folders and a pen. And a man I hadn't expected was standing by the window with his hands clasped, wearing a gray suit that didn't quite fit the wedding.
My wife saw him and her shoulders dropped a fraction. "Soielaydo made it," she said quietly, almost to herself. Then louder, to me, "My brother. He drove in late. I wanted him here for the papers."
I remembered the name on the screen. Soielaydo. At the top of the gray bubble.
He stepped forward and offered his hand. "Soielaydo. Big congrats, man." His grip was damp. He didn't hold eye contact.
The officiant smiled like this was routine. "We’ll keep it quick. Marriage license first, then one additional document your fiancee's counsel prepared for efficiency. Housekeeping."
He opened the first black folder. The marriage license was there, our names typed clean, his signature already at the bottom. He slid it toward us with the pen. "Bride first, then groom."
She signed without reading, her lace sleeve brushing the table. Her handwriting was fast and looped. She pushed it to me.
I signed below her. The pen scratched. The coordinator witnessed.
Then the officiant opened the second folder. Thicker packet, stapled top left, legal header on the first page. He laid it flat and I saw it before he explained it.
INTERSPOUSAL TRANSFER DEED
Property: 1428 Maple Ridge Road, Cedar County.
My house. My mother's house. The one she'd left me before the cancer took her, the one I'd kept in my name alone, the one I'd painted with my daughter's handprints in the laundry room.
"This just adds the property to joint ownership now that you're married," the officiant said, in that practiced neutral voice people use for things they don't understand. "Standard in this county when you want survivorship. Your wife's brother is listed as witness and notary contact for recording tomorrow."
At the bottom of the first page, under Prepared by / Witness, was a typed line: Soielaydo R. — Contact on file — and a phone number with the same last four digits I'd seen on the lock screen at 19:42.
My mouth went dry. I didn't pick up the pen.
I stared at the address until the numbers stopped blurring. 1428 Maple Ridge. Parcel number underneath. Legal description. My chest felt tight under the tuxedo shirt.
My wife leaned in a little. "It's just the house thing we talked about," she whispered, smiling but her eyes were not smiling. "Remember? So it's ours no matter what. Soielaydo had his office draft it to save us a trip downtown."
We had never talked about it. Not once.
Soielaydo cleared his throat behind her. "Totally routine. Takes thirty seconds. Then you guys can get back to the party."
The officiant tapped the signature line for me with his fingertip. "Just here, Mr.—"
I took a slow breath that I hoped looked like a man being careful. "I want to read it thoroughly," I said. I kept my voice even. Quiet. "And I'd like my own copy to take home. I don't sign deeds without reading every page."
Silence dropped over the table. The air conditioner hummed.
My wife's smile froze. "Honey, it's four pages," she said, a little laugh in it. "The photographer's waiting. We can read it later —"
"I'll read it now," I said. I didn't look at her. I looked at the officiant. "Do you have a blank copy for me to take? I need time to review before I sign anything that touches my house."
The officiant glanced between us, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well — I — typically couples do this together, but you're absolutely within your rights to take time. No one has to sign today."
Soielaydo took a half step toward the table. "It's time-sensitive for the recording fee," he said quickly. "If you wait you pay again. It's really nothing —"
I slid both folders toward me, license and deed together, and closed the deed folder over the deed without signing it. "Then we'll pay again if we need to," I said. "I'm not signing a transfer deed tonight."
My wife's hand found my forearm under the table and squeezed too hard, nails through the shirt. "Please," she said, so low only I could hear it. "Don't do this in here."
I covered her hand briefly, removed it, and stood. I tucked both folders under my arm. "We'll hold the license too until we're done," I said to the officiant. "For safekeeping."
The officiant nodded, relieved to be out of it. "I'll note it as pending. Congratulations again."
Soielaydo and my wife looked at each other. It was only a second, but I caught it. Her eyes wide and panicked, asking what now, his jaw tight and a tiny shake of his head. No words.
The coordinator knocked and opened the door. "Photos in two?"
May you like
"We need five minutes," my wife said, voice thin.
I held the folders against my ribs. The deed unsigned. The license signed but still in my possession. My tuxedo pocket bumped against my leg where the phone still sat. I didn't move toward the door.
