He didn't answer for a moment, and I was afraid I'd offended him. "They're very independent, and very capable of making quick judgment calls, Angel even faster than Shelby maybe," Martin said finally. "But I understand you. Shelby has never been one to talk about himself, and I was sure he'd marry someone who talked nonstop, but he married Angel. She'll tell you more about herself than Shelby will, but she isn't any chatterer." "They're going to be great help with getting the house finished," I said carefully, when it became apparent Martin wasn't going to volunteer any more—like, who were these people? Where had they come from, and what had they been doing there? Why were they willing to be in Lawrenceton, doing what they were doing here? "It's a relief knowing they're there." "Great, honey. I wanted you to get some quiet time before the wedding. That house was running you ragged."

Ragged? I felt the urge to pop in the nearest women's room and stare into the mirror, suddenly terrified I'd see crow's feet and gray hair. Normally I am not morbidly self-conscious about my appearance, but the fittings for the wedding dress and the fuss over clothes in general for the past couple of months had made me very aware of how I looked.

"They took notes," I told Martin absently. "I think they'll do a great job."

"I want you to be happy," he said.

"I am," I told him, surprised. "I've never been happier in my life."

Then we were at the door to Aubrey's office, and we joined hands and went in. Our last session before the wedding, and Aubrey wasn't going to make it easy. He asked hard questions and expected honest answers. We had gone over what we expected from each other financially, emotionally, and in the matter of religion. And we had talked again about having children, with both of us unable to decide. Maybe indecision wasn't good, but it was better than holding opposing views. Right?

The counseling sessions had opened vistas of complexities I'd never imagined, the little and big adjustments and decisions of sharing life with another adult human being. It was the "working" aspect of marriage I'd somehow missed when my friends talked about their married lives. Martin, who was more experienced by reason of his previous marriage, had mentioned Cindy in the course of the sessions more than I'd ever heard him mention her before. Especially since I'd met Cindy, I listened carefully. And this evening, Aubrey asked Martin The Big Question.

"Martin, we've concentrated, naturally, on your relationship with Roe, since you're going to be married. But I wondered if you wanted to share your feelings about why your previous marriage didn't work out. Have we covered anything in these evenings together that rang any bells?"

Martin looked thoughtful. His pale brown eyes focused on the wall above Aubrey's dark head, his hands loosened the knot of his tie. "Yes," he said quietly, after a few seconds. "There were some things we never talked about, important things. Some things I liked to keep to myself. I don't like to think about the woman I love worrying about them."

My eyes widened. My mouth opened. Aubrey shook his head, very slightly. I subsided, but rebelliously. I would worry if I damn well chose to; I deserved the choice.

"But," Martin continued, "that wasn't the way the marriage could survive. Cindy ended up not trusting me about anything. She got sadder and more distant. At the time, I felt that if she had enough faith in me, everything would be okay, and I was resentful that she didn't have that faith." "But now?" Aubrey prompted.

"I wasn't being fair to her," Martin said flatly. "On the other hand, she began to do things that were calculated to gain my attention... flirt with other men, get involved with causes she had very little true feeling for ..." "And you didn't communicate these feelings to each other?" "It was like we couldn't. We'd been talking so long about things like Barrett's grades, what time we had to be at the PTA meeting, whether we should install a sprinkler system, that we couldn't talk about important things very effectively. Our minds would wander."

"And now, in your marriage to Aurora?"

"I'll try." He glanced toward me finally, apologetically. "Roe, I'll try to talk to you about the most important things. But it won't be easy." As we were leaving, Aubrey said, "I almost forgot, Roe. I was visiting a few members of the congregation who live in Peachtree Leisure Apartments yesterday. We were in that big common room in the middle, and an older lady came up to me and asked if I was the minister who was going to conduct the ceremony for your wedding."

"Who was she?"

"A Mrs. Totino. You know her? She said she'd read the engagement notice in the paper. She wanted to meet you."

"Totino," I repeated, trying to attach a face to the name. "Oh, I know! The Julius mother-in-law! I heard at the shower that she was still alive and living here, and I'd completely forgotten it."

"I never met her when I bought the house. Bubba Sewell ran back and forth with all the papers," Martin said.

"Is she in good health, Aubrey?" I asked.

"She seemed pretty frail. But she was full of vinegar and certainly all there mentally. The old gentleman I was visiting says she's the terror of the staff." I pictured a salt-and-peppery little old lady who would say amusingly tart things the staff would quote to their families over supper. "I'll go see her after the wedding," I said.

LATELY I'D been feeling as if I were in one of those movies where calendar pages fly off the wall to indicate the passage of time. Events and preparations made the time blur. Only a few things stood out clearly when I thought about it later.

The night we were riding home from the barbecue Amina's parents held for us, out at their lake house, Martin finally told me where we were going on our honeymoon. He had asked what I wanted, and I had told him to surprise me. I had half-expected the Caymans, or perhaps a Caribbean cruise. "I wanted you to have a choice, so I've made initial preparations for two things," he began, as the Mercedes purred down the dreadful blacktop that led to the state highway back into town. I leaned back against the seat, full of anticipation and barbecued pork.

"We can either go to Washington for two weeks, and do the Smithsonian right."

I breathed out a sigh of delight.

"Or we can go to England."

I was stunned. "Oh, Martin. But is there really something—I mean, both of those are things you would enjoy too?"

"Sure. I've been to the Washington area many times, but I've never had time to see the Smithsonian. And if you pick England, we can go on a walking tour of famous murder sites in London, if you'll come with me to get some suits made on Savile Row, or as close to Savile Row as I can man-age." "How can I pick?" I chewed on my bottom lip in happy agony. "Oh... England! I just can't wait! Martin, what a great idea!"

He was smiling one of his rare broad smiles. "I picked the right things, then." "Yes! I thought for sure we'd be going to some island to lie on gritty sand and get all salty!"

He laughed out loud. "Maybe we can do that sometime, too. But I wanted you to have a really good time, and a beach honeymoon just didn't sound like you." Once again, Martin had surprised me with his perception. If we'd sat down and consulted on it, I would never have thought of suggesting England (going farther than the Caribbean had never crossed my mind), and if I had, I would have dismissed the idea as something that wouldn't have appealed to Martin. We had an absolutely wonderful time after we got to the townhouse.