Thatcher threads his arms. “Have you two picked a date yet?” Last I heard, they were still up in the air. Maximoff rotates his stiff shoulder. “Farrow has always wanted a winter wedding, so we’re thinking a couple years from now. It gives us time for this.” He gestures to the binder. I tell him, “I can simplify for you.” “He’ll need that,” Farrow teases.
