“A little place called Darice,” she said. “They keep the good stuff forever.”
It was simple: a deep navy background, silver filigree corners, and a single, thin line for the constellation of their first date—the night he pointed out Andromeda from a field behind his parents’ barn.
The download button worked. So did her ancient printer, spitting out page after page onto her last pack of cardstock. She cut them by hand, the guillotine trimmer shushing in the quiet kitchen. She tied each one with a piece of silver string left over from a Christmas five years ago. www darice com bridal templates htm
Six days later, at the reception, an old friend pointed at the invitation still tucked in her purse. “Where did you get these? They’re beautiful.”
By dawn, sixty invitations sat drying on her dining table. They weren’t perfect. The silver was a little crooked on number seventeen. The navy ink smudged on number forty-two. “A little place called Darice,” she said
She had cried for an hour. Then her mother called. “Honey, when I married your father, we printed our invites on a mimeograph machine. They smelled like ink and desperation. Everyone came anyway.”
She smiled.
Elara’s cursor hovered over the faded bookmark: www.darice.com/bridal/templates.htm