“We’re so lucky to have each other, Nader,” she said, turning to look at his face, highlighted in short intervals by the lights along the expressway.

He kept the wheel steady with his left hand and wove the fingers of his right hand through hers. “When we first met, you hated me. I know you did. I thought you’d never agree to marry me, but I had to try.”

“So you charmed my family to death? Good strategy.”

He took his hand away to switch lanes then surrendered it again. “I just wanted you to like me so badly. If that meant flowers for your mother and American whiskey for your father and uncles …”

“And candy and chocolates for my sister, and perfume for my aunts,” she continued. “That’s what really got me. One day, Nadia walked into my room with chocolate all over her mouth and told me I had to marry you—or else she would!”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Siham smiled to herself. All she’d heard from her mother was that a man was coming to the house to meet her, with the intention of eventual marriage. He was an Amerkani, she’d said to her confused and bewildered daughter, but his roots were Arab. Siham had immediately suspected the brazen Linen Blazer from the bazaar last week and, sure enough, he strode into their living room the next evening, his arms laden with gifts, hair freshly combed, the same linen blazer crisply ironed. He told jokes, did impressions of celebrities, and casually worked in a discussion of the importance of family. He engaged her directly in conversation and seemed thrilled that she could hold her own when it came to culture and politics.

After Nader left, her father called her into the kitchen and asked her opinion of this tall, dark, smooth-faced Arab from America. “You would have to live in America with him,” her father had warned her. “In a city called Philadeelpheea.” One month later, he walked her down the aisle of the Greek Orthodox church.

Now, six months later, she was beside him, on the way to a concert at the seashore. She would make sure this marriage lasted forever. Lasted happily. She clutched his hand even tighter, twisting her fingers between his in the way that she’d seen Carla twist the necks of the lilies.

Carla came up to the apartment one Thursday morning, two weeks later. It was almost Christmas and Siham had all the windows open, trying to infuse the rooms with fresh, cold air before she began to decorate. She had two red stockings on which she planned to embroider their names. She’d considered writing in glitter, but glitter would eventually wear off. Thread would imprint itself forever. She and Nader had bought a tree last night and she had yards of silver garland that she couldn’t wait to use.

“It’s like a freezer up here,” Carla grunted, rubbing her arms. “I brought you two more orders for pillowcases, both black cloth, and this.” She handed her $140. “From the last batch.”