It started, as the best stories do, with bad coffee and a borrowed pen.
We met one slow afternoon in a sun-warmed bookstore café — the kind with mismatched chairs and a barista who hummed Sinatra. She was reading Neruda by the window. He was pretending to read, mostly looking up.
A spilled cup of cinnamon coffee. A folded napkin with a phone number written backward. Three years of shared mornings, two cross-country drives, and one very small dog later, here we are — asking you to share this day with us. To raise a glass under Tuscan light.
We are so grateful you are part of this story. Every chapter has been shaped, in some way, by the people in this room.