Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(12)

"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 f**king palace," Nick replied darkly, "if your father wasn't such an ass**le."

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 br**sts, 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.