Contrary to my expections of elopement as a furtive Elvis-supervised ceremony in Las Vegas, there were hotels in Florida, Hawaii, and Arizona that offered "elopement packages" including the wedding service, the hotel stay, massages, and a meal plan. Gage and Liberty paid for our elopement to the Keys — it was their wedding present to me and Nick.

Having taken a stand against my marriage to Nick, Dad went through with his threat to cut me off entirely. No money, no communication. "He'll come around," my brothers told me, but I said emphatically that I didn't want Dad to come around, I'd had enough of him and his controlling ways for a lifetime.

Liberty and I had our first argument when she tried to tell me that Churchill still loved me and always would.

"Sure he does," I told her curtly. "As a pawn. As a child. But as an adult with my own opinions and preferences... no. He only loves people when they spend their lives trying to please him."

"He needs you," Liberty persisted. "Someday — "

"No he doesn't," I said. "He's got you." It was unfair of me to lash out at her, and I knew it, but I couldn't stop myself. "You be the good daughter," I said recklessly. "I've had enough of him for a lifetime."

It was a long time before Liberty and I spoke again.

Nick and I moved to Piano, north of Dallas, where Nick worked as a cost estimator at a construction firm. It wasn't something he wanted to do forever, but the pay was good, especially the overtime. I got an entry-level position as a marketing coordinator for the Darlington Hotel, which meant I assisted the director of communications with PR and marketing projects.

The Darlington was a sleek, modern hotel, a single elliptical-shaped structure that would have looked phallic enough, except it had also been covered in a skin of pink granite. Maybe that subliminal suggestion was partly responsible for the Darlington having been voted as the most romantic hotel in Dallas.

"You Dallasites and your architecture," I told Nick. "Every building in town looks like a penis or a cereal box."

"You like the red flying horse," Nick pointed out.

I had to admit he was right. I had a weakness for that neon Pegasus, an iconic sign that had perched on top of the Magnolia Building since 1934. It lent a lot of personality to an otherwise sterile skyline.

I wasn't sure what to make of Dallas. Compared to Houston, it was squeaky-clean, cosmopolitan, tightly hinged. Fewer cowboy hats, much better manners. And Dallas was a lot more politically consistent than Houston, which had drastic public policy swings from election to election.

Dallas, so tasteful and composed, seemed to feel it had something to prove, like a woman who was too concerned about what to wear on the second date. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that unlike most great cities of the world, it had no port. Dallas had become a player in the 1870s when two railroads, the Houston and Texas Central and the Texas and Pacific, both met and crossed at a ninety-degree angle, thereby making the city a big commercial center.

Nick's family all lived in or around Dallas. His parents had divorced and married other people when he was still a kid. Between all the stepsisters and stepbrothers, and half sisters and half brothers, and the full-blood siblings, I had trouble figuring out who belonged to whom. It didn't seem to matter, though, because none of them were close.

We bought a small condo with two parking spaces and access to a community pool. I decorated the condo with cheap, brightly colored contemporary furniture, and added some baskets and Mexican ceramics. In our living room, I hung a huge framed reprint of an old travel poster, featuring a dark-haired girl holding a basket of fruit beneath a huge banner reading, VISIT MEXICO: LAND OF SPLENDOR.

"It's our own special style," I told Nick when he complained that our furniture was crap and he didn't like Southwestern decor. "I call it 'Ikea Loco.' I think I'm onto something. Soon everyone will be copying us. Besides, it's all we can afford."

"We could afford a fucking palace," Nick replied darkly, "if your father wasn't such an asshole."

I was taken aback by the flash of animosity, a lightning strike that had come out of nowhere. My pleasure in the condo was an irritant to Nick. I was just playing house, he told me. When I'd lived like middle-class people for a while, he'd like to see if I was still so happy.

"Of course I will be," I said. "I have you. I don't need a mansion to be happy."

It seemed at times that Nick was a lot more affected by my changed circumstances than I was. He resented our small budget for my sake, he said. He hated that we couldn't afford a second car.

"I really don't mind," I said, and that made him angry because if he minded it, so should I.

After the storms had passed, however, the peace was all the sweeter.

Nick called me at work at least twice a day just to see how things were going. We talked all the time. "I want us to tell each other everything,'' he said one night, when we were halfway into a bottle of wine. "My parents always had secrets. You and I should be completely honest and open."

I loved that idea in theory. In practice, however, it was hard on my self-esteem. Complete honesty, it turned out, was not always kind.

"You're so pretty," Nick told me one night after we'd made love. His hand moved over my body, coasting up the gentle slope of my chest. I had small breasts, a shallow B cup at most. Even before we were married, Nick had laughingly complained about my lack of endowment, saying he'd buy me implants except a pair of big boobs would look ridiculous on a woman as short and slight as me. His fingertips moved up to my face, tracing the curve of my cheek. "Big brown eyes... cute little nose... beautiful mouth. It doesn't matter that you don't have a body."

"I have a body," I said.

"I meant boobs."

"I have those too. They're just not big ones."

"Well, I love you anyway."

I wanted to point out that Nick didn't have a perfect body either, but I knew that would start a fight, Nick didn't read well to criticism, even when it was gentle and well meant. He wasn't used to anyone finding fault with him. I, on the other hand, had been raised on a steady diet of critiques and evaluations.

Mother had always told me detailed stories about her friends' daughters, how well behaved they were, how nice it was that they would sit still for piano lessons, or make tissue-paper flowers for their mothers, or show off their latest ballet steps on cue. I had wished with all my heart that I could have been more like those winsome little girls, but I hadn't been able to keep from rebelling against being miscast as a smaller version of Ava Travis. And then she had died, leaving me with a mountain of regrets and no way to atone.

Our holidays — the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, the first New Year's — were quiet. We hadn't joined a church yet, and it seemed that all Nick's friends, the ones he said were his family, were occupied with their own families. I approached cooking Christmas dinner as if it were a science class project. I studied cookbooks, made charts, set timers, measured ingredients, and dissected meat and vegetables into the appropriate dimensions. I knew the results of my efforts were passable but uninspired, but Nick said it was the best turkey, the best mashed potatoes, the best pecan pie he'd ever eaten.

"It must be the sight of me in oven mitts," I said.

Nick began stringing noisy kisses along my arm as if he were Pepe Le Pew. "You are ze goddess of ze keetchen."

The Darlington had been so busy during the holidays that I had had to work overtime, while Nick's job bad eased up until after New Year's. With our unsynchronized schedules, it was frustrating and time-consuming for him to drive back and forth all the time. Nothing was ever finished... the condo was always a mess, the fridge was seldom stocked, there were always piles of dirty laundry.

"We can't afford to take all my shirts to the dry cleaner's," Nick said the day after Christmas. "You'll have to learn how to do them."

"Me?" I had never ironed anything in my life. The proper pressing of a shirt was a mystery of the universe akin to black holes and dark matter. "How come you can't do your own shirts?"

"I need you to help. Is it too much to ask for you to give me a hand with my clothes?"

"No, of course not. I'm sorry. I just don't know how. I'm afraid I'll screw them up."

"I'll show you how. You'll learn." Nick smiled and patted me on the backside. "You just have to get in touch with your inner Martha Stewart."

I told him I had always kept my inner Martha Stewart chained in the basement, but for his sake I would set her loose.

Nick was patient as he took me step by step through the process, showing me exactly how he liked his shirts starched and ironed. He was particular about the details. At first it was sort of fun, in the same way grouting is fun when you first do it... until you face an entire bathroom full of tiles. Or a laundry basket crammed with unwashed shirts. No matter how I tried, I could never seem to get the shirts exactly the way Nick liked them.

My ironing technique became the focus of a near-daily inspection. Nick would go to our closet, file through the row of pressed garments, and tell me where I'd gone wrong. "You need to iron the edges more slowly to get all the little creases out," or, "You need to redo the armhole seams."

"You need to use less starch."

"The back's not smooth enough."

Exasperated and defeated, I finally resorted to using my personal money — we each had the same amount to spend each week to have Nick's shirts professionally laundered and pressed. I thought it was a good solution. But when Nick found a row of shirts hanging in plastic coverings in the closet, he was pissed.

"I thought we agreed," he said shortly, "that you were going to learn to do them."

"I used my own money." I gave him a placating smile. "I'm ironing deficient. Maybe I need a multivitamin."

He refused to smile back. "You're not trying hard enough."

I found it hard to believe we were having an argument over something as trivial as shirts. It wasn't really about the shirts. Maybe he felt I wasn't contributing enough to the relationship. Maybe I needed to be more loving, more supportive. He was going through stress. Holiday stress, work stress, newlywed stress.

"I'll try harder," I said. "But sweetheart... is there anything else bothering you? Something we should talk about besides ironing? You know I'd do anything for you."

Nick gave me a cold stare. "All I need is for you to fucking get something right for a change."

I was angry for approximately ten minutes. After that, I was suffused with fear. I was going to fail at marriage, the most important thing I had ever tried to do.

So I called Todd, who sympathized and said everyone had stupid arguments with their partner. We agreed it was just part of a normal relationship. I didn't dare talk to anyone in my family, because I would have rather died than let Dad suspect the marriage wasn't going well.

I apologized abjectly to Nick.

"No, it was my fault," he said, wrapping his arms around me in a warm firm hug. His forgiveness was such a relief, I felt tears spring in my eyes. "I'm asking too much of you," he continued. "You can't help the way you were brought up. You were never expected to do things for other people. But in the real world, it's the small gestures, the little things, that show a guy you love him. I'd appreciate it if you'd make more of an effort." And he rubbed my feet after dinner, and told me to stop apologizing.

The next day, I saw a new can of spray starch in the laundry closet. The ironing board had been unfolded and set up for me, so I could practice while Nick started dinner.

We went out one night with two other couples, who were guys from the construction firm Nick worked at, and their wives. I was excited about doing something social. It had been a surprise to discover that although Nick had grown up in Dallas, he didn't seem to have any old friends to introduce me to. They had all moved away, or weren't worth bothering with, he had told me. I was eager to make some friends in Dallas, and I wanted to make a good impression.

At lunch hour I went to the hotel salon and had one of the stylists trim several inches of my long hair. When she was finished the floor was littered with wavy black locks, and my hair was medium-length and sleek. "You should never let your hair get longer than this," the stylist told me. "The way you had it before was too much for someone as petite as you. It was overwhelming your face."

I hadn't mentioned to Nick that I was getting a haircut. He loved it long, and I knew he would have tried to talk me out of it. Besides, I thought once he saw how flattering it was, not to mention easier to care for, he would change his mind.

As soon as he picked me up, Nick started to frown. "Looks like you've been busy today." His fingers were tight on the steering wheel.

"Do you like it? It feels great." I shook my head from side to side like a hair model. "It was about time I had a good, healthy trim."

"That's not a trim. Most of your hair is gone." Every word was edged with disapproval and disappointment.

"I was tired of my college look. I think this is more polished."

"Your long hair was special. Now it looks ordinary."

I felt as if someone had just emptied a syringe of liquid anxiety into my veins. "I'm sorry if you don't like it. But it was too much work. And it's my hair, anyway."

"Well, I'm the one who has to look at you every day."

My skin seemed to shrink until my body was compressed in a tight envelope. "The stylist said it was overwhelming my face."

"I'm glad you and she think the world needs to see more of your goddamn face," he muttered.

I endured about fifteen minutes of thick, choking silence while Nick maneuvered through the six o'clock traffic. We were going straight to the restaurant to meet his friends.

"By the way," Nick said abruptly, "just so you won't be surprised, I've told people your name is Marie."

I stared at his profile in complete incomprehension. Marie was my middle name, the one no one had ever used unless I was in trouble. The sound of "Haven Marie" had always been a sure sign that something had hit the fan.

"Why didn't you tell them my first name?" I managed to ask.

Nick didn't look at me. "Because it makes you sound like a hick."

"I like my regular name. I don't want to be Marie. I want — "

"Jesus, can't I just have a normal wife with a normal name?" He was turning red, breathing hard, the air clotted with hostility.

The whole situation felt unreal. I was married to a man who didn't like my name. He'd never said anything about it before. This isn't Nick, I told myself. The real Nick was the guy I'd married. I glanced at him covertly. He looked like an ordinary, exasperated husband. He was asking for normal, and I wasn't altogether certain what that was.

I worked to steady my own breathing. We were almost at the restaurant — we couldn't walk in there looking like we'd just had a light. My face felt as if it had been coated with glass. "Okay," I said. "So we'll be Nick and Marie tonight."

"Okay." He seemed to relax a little.

After that evening, which had gone well, Nick hardly ever called me Haven, even when it was just the two of us. He said it would be too confusing when we went out with other people, if I wasn't used to being called Marie. I told myself it could be a good thing, this name change. I would let go of my past baggage. I could become whoever I wanted, a better person. And it pleased Nick, which I wanted desperately to do.

I'm Marie, I told myself. Marie, the married woman who lives in Dallas and works at the Darlington and knows how to iron a shirt. Marie, whose husband loved her.

Our marriage was like a machine I learned how to operate Inn never understood the inner mechanisms that made it work. I knew how to do the things that kept it running smoothly, all the minor and major requirements that kept Nick on an even keel. When Nick was happy, I was rewarded with affection. Hut when something had set Nick off, he would become sullen or irritable. It could take days to coax him back into a good temper. His changeable mood was the thermostat that regulated our household.

By the time our first anniversary approached, I realized that Nick's bad days, the days I was required to sympathize and compensate for every small injustice done to him, were outnumbering the good days. I didn't know how to fix that, but I suspected it was my fault. I knew other people's marriages were different, that they didn't constantly worry about how to anticipate their husbands' needs, they weren't always walking on eggshells. Certainly my own parents' marriage hadn't been like this. If anything, the household had revolved around my mother's needs and wants, while my father showed up every now and then to appease her.

Nick maintained a steadily percolating anger toward my family, blaming my father for not giving us money to buy a house. He pushed me to make contact with my father and brothers, to ask for things from them, and he got angry when I refused.

"It wouldn't do any good," I told him, even though that wasn't true. Regardless of my father's attitude, my brothers would have given me anything I asked for. Especially Gage. The few occasions we had talked on the phone, he had asked if there was anything he could do for me and Nick, and I had said no, absolutely not, things were fantastic. I was afraid to give Gage any hint of how things really were. One pulled thread and I might unravel completely.

"Your dad will have to start doing things for us when we have kids," Nick told me. "It would be a public embarrassment for him to have grandchildren living in a damn shack. He'll have to cough up some money then, the stingy bastard."

It worried me that Nick seemed to regard our future children as tools that would be used to pry open the Travis family coffers. I'd always planned to have children when I felt ready, but this situation couldn't begin to accommodate a fussy, demanding infant. It was all I could do to keep my fussy, demanding husband happy.

I had never had problems sleeping, but I began having dreams that woke me up at night, leaving me exhausted the next day. Since my tossing and turning kept Nick awake, I often went to the sofa in the middle of the night, shivering beneath a throw blanket. I dreamed of losing my teeth, of falling from tall buildings.

"It was so weird," I told Nick one morning while he was drinking his coffee, "this new one I had last night. I was in a park somewhere, just walking by myself, and my right leg fell off. No blood or anything. It was like I was a Barbie doll. I was so upset, wondering how I was going to get around without that leg, and then my arm broke off at the elbow, and I picked it up and tried to hold it in place, and I was thinking, 'I need this arm, I've got to find someone to reattach it.' So then — "

"Did you take your pill yet this morning?" Nick interrupted.

I had been on birth control ever since we had started sleeping together. "No, I always take it after breakfast. Why? Do you think the hormones may be giving me bad dreams?"

"No, I think you're giving yourself bad dreams. And I asked because it's time for you to go off the pill. We should start having kids while we're still young."

I stared at him. A huge wave of unwillingness went through me, every cell in my body resisting the idea of a great big hormone-fueled helplessness that would make everything impossible But I couldn't say no. Thai would set off a bad mood that might last for days. I had to work Nick around to changing his mind. "Do you really think we're ready?" I asked. "It might be better to put away some money first."

"We won't need to. Your dad will be a lot more reasonable once he finds out Gage and Liberty aren't the only ones who can pop out a kid."

I realized Nick had less interest in the baby itself than in its usefulness as a way to manipulate Churchill Travis. Would he feel differently when the baby was born? Would he be one of those fathers who melted at the sight of the small person he had helped to bring into the world?

As hard as I tried to imagine it, I couldn't see Nick summoning the patience to deal with a screaming infant, a messy toddler, a needy child. It frightened me, thinking of how tightly I would be bound to him, how dependent I would be once we had a baby together.

I went into the bathroom to get ready for work, brushing mascara onto my lashes, slicking on lip gloss. Nick followed, rummaging through the assortment of cosmetics and hair products I had set out on the counter. He found the round plastic container my birth control pills came in, and flipped it open to reveal the wheel of pastel-colored tablets.

"You don't need these anymore." He tossed the pills into the trash.

"I need to finish the cycle," I protested. "And usually before you try to get pregnant, you go in to get a checkup — "

"You're healthy. You'll be fine." He put a hand on my shoulder, forcing me up as I bent to retrieve the pills. "Leave them."

A disbelieving laugh bubbled from my throat. I had been conditioned over months to tolerate Nick's whims for the sake of harmony, but this was too much. I was not going to be forced into having a baby neither of us was ready for.

"Nick, I'd rather wait." I picked up a hairbrush and began to drag it through my tangled hair. "And this really isn't a good time to talk about having children, with both of us getting ready for work and — "

"I'll decide what we talk about and when!" The explosive intensity of his voice startled me into dropping the hairbrush. "I didn't realize I had to make a goddamn appointment with you to talk about our personal life!"

I went white with alarm, my heart kicking into a violent rhythm. "Nick — "

"Do you ever think about anyone or anything besides yourself?" Anger had knotted his throat and the tiny muscles of his face. "It's always about what you want... you selfish bitch, what about what I want?"

He leaned over me, towering and furious, and I shrank against the mirror. "Nick, I just..." My mouth had gone so dry, I could ha rely force the words out. "I'm not saying no. I just want... would like... to talk about it later."

That earned a look of soul-shredding contempt. "I don't know. It may not be worth talking about. This whole marriage may not be worth a shit pile. You think you did me some big fucking favor, marrying me? I was the one who did you a favor. You think anyone else would put up with your crap?"

"Nick — " Panicky and confused, I watched him walk to the bed room. I started to follow, but 1 hung back, fearful of maddening him further. The men in my family were generally slow to anger, and once they worked up to an explosion, it was over soon. Nick's temper was different, a fire that fed on itself, growing until its proportions had far outstripped the cause. In this case, I wasn't sure what the best strategy should be... If I went after him to apologize, it might pour fuel on his rage. But if I stayed in the bathroom, he might take new offense at being ignored.

I settled for hovering at the doorway, straddling both rooms, watching for a sign of what Nick wanted. He went to the closet and pushed through the clothing with quick, vicious movements, hunting for a shirt. Deciding to retreat, I went back into the bathroom.

My cheeks looked white and stiff. I brushed on some pink blush in light strokes, but the tinted powder seemed to sit on top of my skin, not blending. The brush caught at the mist of nervous sweat and made ruddy streaks. I reached for a washcloth, about to clean it all off, and that was when the world seemed to explode.

Nick had come back, cornering me, clutching something in one fist. Screaming. I'd never had someone scream into my face like that before, certainly not a man, and it was a kind of death. I was reduced to the level of an animal under attack, unable to slip beyond the whiteness of fear, frozen in mute incomprehension.

The thing in his hand was a striped shirt... I had ruined it somehow... a mistake... but Nick said it was sabotage. I had done it on purpose, he said. He needed it for an important meeting this morning, and I said no, I didn't mean to I'm so sorry but every word brought murderous heat to his face and his arm drew back and the world caught fire.

My head snapped to the side, my cheek blazing, and droplets of sweat and tears went flying. A burning stillness settled. The veins in my face felt huge and pumping.

I was slow to comprehend that Nick had hit me. I stood swaying, blank, using my fingertips to explore where the heat had turned to numbness.

I couldn't see through the blur in my eyes, but I heard Nick's voice, thick with disgust. "Look what you made me do." He went back into the bedroom.

No retreat. I couldn't run from the apartment. We had only one car. And I didn't know where I would go. I held the washcloth under cold water, sat on the closed toilet seat and held the dripping mass against my cheek.

There was no one I could tell. This was something Todd or my other friends couldn't comfort me about, couldn't say it was part of a normal relationship. Shame spread through me, leaking from the marrow of my bones... the feeling that I must have deserved it, or it wouldn't have happened. I knew that wasn't right. But something in me, in the way I had been formed, made it impossible to escape that spreading shame. It had lurked inside me forever, waiting to surface. Waiting for Nick, or someone like him. I was stained with it, like invisible ink... in the right light, it would show.

I waited without moving while Nick finished getting ready for work. I didn't stir even when I heard him call the Darlington and tell them I wouldn't be in that day. His wife was sick, he said regretfully. The flu or something, he didn't know what. He sounded compassionate and concerned. He chuckled a little at something the other person on the line said. "Yes," he said, "I'll take good care of her."

I waited until I heard the jangle of die keys, and the front door closing.

Moving like an old woman, I reached into the trash and pulled out my pills. I took one, and scooped water into my mouth with my hand, and downed it with a painful swallow.

I found the striped shirt on the floor of the bedroom, and I laid it out on the mattress. I couldn't see anything wrong with it. I couldn't find the flaw that had driven Nick berserk. "What did I do?" I asked aloud, my fingers trailing down the stripes as if clawing through iron bars. What had I done wrong?

The urge to please was a sickness in me. I knew that, and I did it anyway. I washed and starched and ironed the striped shirt all over again. Every thread in the cotton weave was pressed perfectly flat, every button gleaming and pristine. I hung it in the closet and I checked all the other shirts, and aligned his shoes and hung all his ties so the bottoms were all at the same level.

When Nick got home, the condo was clean and the table was set, and I had put a King Ranch casserole in the oven. His favorite dinner. I had a hard time looking at him.

But Nick came in contrite and smiling, bringing a bouquet of mixed flowers. He handed me the fragrant offering, petals rustling in layers of tissue and cellophane. "Here, sweetheart." He leaned down to kiss my cheek, the one he had struck earlier. The side of my face was pink and swollen. I held still while his mouth touched my skin. I wanted to jerk away from him. I wanted to hit him back. Mostly I wanted to cry.

Instead I took the flowers to the sink and began to unwrap them mechanically.

"I shouldn't have done that this morning," Nick said behind me. "I thought about you all day."

"I thought about you too." I put the bouquet into a vase and filled it with water, unable to face the prospect of cutting and arranging the flowers.

"It was just the last straw, seeing what you'd done to my shirt."

I wiped the counter slowly, moving a paper towel in tight circles. "I don't understand what was wrong with it."

"It had about ten times too much starch. I mean, I could have cut a slice of bread with one of those sleeves." A long pause, and then he sighed. "I overreacted. I know that. But like I said, it was the last Straw. So much other stuff has been driving me crazy, and seeing what you'd done to my shirt was too much."

I turned to face him, gripping the edges of my long sleeves over my fingers until they were shrouded like cat paws. "What other stuff?"

"Everything. The way we live. This place is never clean and organized. We never have home-cooked meals. There's always piles of crap everywhere." He raised his hands as if in self-defense as he saw me start to speak. "Oh, I know, it looks great right now. And I can see you've put dinner in the oven. I appreciate that. But it should be like this all the time. And it can't be, with both of us working."

I understood right away what Nick wanted. But I didn't understand why he wanted it. "I can't quit my job," I said numbly. "We can't afford to lose my salary."

"I'm about to get a promotion. We'll be fine."

"But... what would I do all day?"

"Be a wife. Take of the house. And me. And yourself." He

came closer. "And I'll take care of you. You're going to get pregnant soon anyway. You'd have to quit then. So you may as well do it now."

"Nick, I don't think — "

"We're both stressed, sweetheart. This would help take the pressure off, for you to handle all the stuff that never gets done." Reaching out, Nick took one of my hands gently, and brought it to his face. "I'm sorry about what I did this morning," he murmured, nuzzling into my palm. "I swear it'll never happen again. No matter what."

"You scared me, Nick," I whispered. "You weren't yourself."

"You're right. You know that's not me." With infinite care, he brought me against him. "No one could love you as much as I do. You're everything to me. And we're going to take care of each other, right?"

"I don't know." My voice was scratchy and tight. I had never been so torn, wanting to stay and wanting to leave, loving and fearing him.

"You can always get another job if you want," Nick said reasonably. "But let's try it this way. I want you to be free for a change."

I heard myself whisper, "Please don't do it again, Nick."

"Never," he said at once, kissing my head, my ear, my neck. His fingers came very gently to my reddened cheek. "Poor baby," he murmured. "I'm so glad I did it openhanded, or you'd have a hell of a bruise."