I married at Castle Green.

I was married at Castle Green. That didn't oblige me to live here, I lived here first. My then boyfriend bought us an apartment at the castle, where I remain much like Rapunzel in her tower or Peter Pumpkin Eater's wife in her pumpkin.

We've married since, inevitable since the castle is nearly a wedding factory, flanked by a bridal shop and Castle Catering, host for several decades now to a wedding nearly every weekend. The weddings are interesting. Residents may not come through the lobby when weddings are in session but instead take the elevator (a hand operated contrivance) down to the basement, exiting through the back door, like the servants of old. I refer to it as "wedding lockdown".

Our wedding was officiated by a daughter of a long time family of Castle Green, musical accompaniment provided on accordion by the neighboring Doodah Parade office. Our wedding coordinator a neighbor/producer for Pasadena Playhouse. Our caterer, the building manager; she's had 3 generations of kitties named Dickens, and her balcony appears in Jackie Chan commercials. With all this I feel married to the Castle as much as to Leif.

But I'm not the only permanent bride in the building. I own a Harpers Bazaar illustration of a ghostly bride standing at the foot of a bed in an Edwardian Castle Green suite. Her audience, a Gibson Girl hotel guest, isn't scared. She's looking quizzically at the bride, who is weeping violently, her face in her translucent hands.

Is the transparent bride warning the young woman against her marriage, or did she die in this hotel room herself, before her own wedding, disappointing her parents and her groom, but not the caterers and Castle event staff who were paid anyway.