I didn’t add that I suspected these traits were only pretensions to gentility. I started noticing the shift in the little things. Like how he delighted in mocking the way I talked, the way I dressed—privately, usually, but occasionally in front of our friends. He took great sport in dismissing all Southerners as inbred, barefoot infidels. When I described my upbringing in rural North Carolina, and mentioned Daddy’s well-meaning overprotectiveness, he said it only proved his point. It was easier to laugh along with him than to deny these hurtful charges. I thought back to all the suitors Daddy had “discouraged.” I guess I was afraid Owen was the only one I’d ever get on the hook, and I wasn’t about to let him get away.

“What kind of man don’t curse? It ain’t natural. Sounds like he’s hiding something.”

Maybe Daddy was right, but I didn’t want to find out. Ignorance was bliss.

Despite my enthusiasm, Mamma had seemed curiously lukewarm about Owen. When Owen started talking marriage, I was both excited and scared. Deep down I knew that if Daddy didn’t approve of my mate, the union might as well be cursed.

The porch door swung open, and Mamma peeked out. “Owen’s waiting for you in the living room. And no more talk about politics.”

Daddy, who could smell bullshit a mile off, was not impressed with how Owen agreed with everything he said. “Your boyfriend does have one talent, Mac. He can talk out of his ass and kiss somebody else’s at the same time.”

Mamma hung by the door waiting for me. I could tell she wasn’t fond of being left alone with Owen. I stood up, kissing Daddy’s cheek before heading inside. “You’ll see, Daddy. Eventually he’ll grow on you.”

“A boy shouldn’t have to grow on me, Mac,” Daddy grumbled. “I can tell in my gut if a boy’s good enough for my daughter, and Owen ain’t. He’s already runnin’ your life. Uppity Yankee bastard thinks his shit don’t stink.”

“Oh, Daddy,” I said, “Owen is not running my life. No man can do that—my daddy taught me that.”

“You don’t see it now, but you will,” Daddy warned. “He’s made you give up your friends, quit your extraparticulars.” I smiled but didn’t bother correcting him.

“He’s right,” Mamma chimed in. “He made you change your major . . . where’s it all end, Mac? You wanted to be a nurse, and now you’re studying communications.”

“I decided I’m not cut out for medicine. I hate needles and get queasy at the sight of blood. That had nothing to do with Owen.”

“Since you were a bitty little thang you talked about traveling and working with Doctors Without Borders,” Mamma clucked. “You were so passionate about doing that, now suddenly you don’t want to? When did that dream die?”