WHERE THE GARDEN HELD ITS BREATH | SPRING - NOVEMBER | 63 GUESTS | THE GOVERNORS LAWN
Beneath the reaching arms of Gabbinbar's ancient fig, Morgan and Aimee exchanged their vows on an afternoon so still the foxgloves barely stirred. Acrylic pedestals rose from the lawn like glass pillars, crowned with yellow garden roses and blush peonies trailing into the grass. At each crossback chair, a length of powder blue ribbon caught the breeze. Come dusk, the outdoor tables bore their own quiet poetry — bud vases, tambourines tied with silk at every place and tapered peach candles burning into the evening. By the time the candles burned low, something had shifted — quietly, and for good.
