Love the one youre with

vocabulary.

Webb opens my car door, and I thank him and announce that I'm in the mood for sweet tea already. Sweetened iced tea is one of the things I love about the South, right up there with homemade biscuits and cheese grits. Andy and I simply don't understand why the beverage, present in virtually every home and restaurant in the South, including most fast-food chains, hasn't made inroads north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Margot laughs. 'Well, you're in luck,' she says. 'I made up a batch this morning.'

Undoubtedly, she made more than just tea as Margot is a fabulous hostess, just like her mother. Sure enough, we walk into what could be a spread in Southern Living. In Margot's words, the style of their home is 'transitional with a Deco twist.' I'm not sure what that means exactly, but I love that it's beautiful without being at all predictable or overly traditional. The floor plan is open, her kitchen and living area spilling together with an array of seating areas. Her dominant color scheme is chocolate brown and pale sage, and silken fabrics softly drape the windows, creating a feminine, almost dreamy effect. Clearly Webb lets Margot call the shots when it comes to matters of decor because it's certainly not what you'd expect of a strapping sports agent. To this point, his framed, autographed jerseys and pennants, omnipresent in his bachelor pad in Manhattan, are now relegated to the basement and his manly, dark-wood-paneled office.

Andy points to the cream-colored couch in the living room adorned with a carefully arranged sage throw and coordinating pillows. 'Is that new?'

Margot nods. 'Uh-huh. Isn't it yummy?'

'Yeah,' Andy deadpans, and I can tell a joke is coming. 'Real yummy when the kid drops his SpaghettiOs all over it.'

'Or her SpaghettiOs,' Margot says as she leads us into the kitchen where she has prepared a brunch of fruit salad, spinach quiche, and cheese crepes. 'I hope you're hungry.'

'Starving,' Andy says.

Margot suggests that we eat now as we have early dinner reservations at Bacchanalia, the Grahams' favorite restaurant in town.

'Mother and Daddy are joining us. I promised that we wouldn't monopolize you now that we live here.'

'Yeah. Andy and I were wondering about that. Does she mind that we're staying with you?' I ask.

'She understands,' Margot says, drizzling raspberry compote over her crepes. 'But she also informed me, in no uncertain terms, that she expects that her son will continue to sleep under her roof when he's in Atlanta for the holidays.' Margot finishes the sentence in her mother's regal Charleston accent.

Andy rolls his eyes, and I smile, feeling grateful that although he is a dutiful son, he shows no signs of being an outright mama's boy. I don't think I could handle that routine. I went to a wedding recently where the mother of the groom had to be peeled off her son at the end of the reception as she sobbed, 'I don't want to lose you!' The whole scene bordered on unwholesome. Margot's theory on the topic is that when a woman has only sons, and no daughters, this dynamic is more likely to kick in. Perhaps because the mother hasn't had to share any of the limelight with another woman, perhaps because of that adage, 'A son is a son 'til he gets a wife, but a daughter is a daughter all her life.' She might be right about this because although Stella adores her sons, she focuses most of her time and energy on her daughter.

As I watch Margot maneuver around her kitchen, I ask if there's anything I can do to help. She shakes her head and pours tea from a big glass pitcher into three rock-cut glasses and Perrier into her own. Then she calls us to sit down, prompting Webb to say a quick blessing, a practice that seems more cultural than religious, as the two abandoned it, along with church attendance, while in New York.

As Webb finishes his short, formal prayer, and Margot smiles and says, 'Enjoy!' I have the fleeting sense that we have little in common other than our shared past. But within seconds, that feeling is gone, as Margot and I move rapid-fire from topic to topic, discussing and analyzing everything and everyone with what most, Webb and Andy included, would view as excruciating detail. More than anything, it is why Margot and I are such close friends-why we connected in the first place, despite being so different. We simply love to talk to each other.

As such, we barely let the guys get a word in, covering New York and Atlanta gossip with equal scrutiny and fervor. We discuss our single New York friends who still get wasted every night and wonder why they can't meet a nice guy, and then the girls in her neighborhood who have full-time help so that they can play tennis, shop, and lunch every day.

'Who would you rather be?' I ask. 'If you had to pick.'

'Hmm,' Margot says. 'Not sure. Both extremes are sort of sad.'

'Do you ever miss working?' I ask her tentatively. Although I can't imagine giving up my career, I'm not yet a mother-to-be. That might change everything.

Margot shakes her head. 'I really thought I would… but I'm just so busy.'

'Playing tennis?' Andy deadpans.

Margot's mouth twitches ever so defensively. 'Some,' she says. 'But also decorating the house… getting ready for the baby… and doing all my charity work.'

'She bagged the Junior League, though,' Webb says, reaching for another helping of crepes. 'It was too much to take. Even for her.'

'I didn't say the Junior League was too much to take,' Margot says. 'I simply said that the Atlanta League is young. I felt like the old mother hen around all those early- twenty-something girls, most of them fresh out of college and already married to their high school sweethearts.'

Webb's face lights up, as he says, 'Speaking of… Tell your brother and Ellen who you hired to do our landscaping.'

Margot says her husband's name in a playful reprimand, her fair skin turning azalea pink. I smile, ever amused at how easily she and Stella embarrass, even blushing on behalf of others, so great is their empathy. In fact, Stella can't even watch award shows-she is too nervous watching the acceptance speeches.

'C'mon,' Webb says, grinning. 'Go on and tell 'em, honey.'

Margot purses her lips as Andy clamors, 'Who?'

'Portera Brothers,' Webb finally says, which everyone in the room knows is the last name of Margot's high school boyfriend, Ty, the one who still drops by every Thanksgiving.

'Portera Brothers?' Andy says, smirking. 'As in Loverboy Ty?… Ty 'The Right Stuff ' Portera?'

''The Right Stuff'?' Webb says.

'Margot didn't tell you about her little boyfriend's stirring Jordan Knight air-band performance in high school?' Andy says, standing, spinning, and singing, 'Oh! Oh! Girl! You know you got the right stuff!'

'Wait a sec, Margot. Your high school boyfriend lip-synced to the Backstreet Boys?' Webb says, giddy with his fresh ammunition.

'Get it straight, Webb. It was the New Kids on the Block,' Andy says. 'And I think the year before he did Menudo, didn't he, Margot?'

Margot slaps the table. 'No! He most certainly didn't do Menudo!'

I resist the temptation to point out that the only one at the table who can recite New Kids' lyrics is Andy.

'New Kids, huh? Well, I guess that helps ease the blow a little,' Webb says, chuckling. 'I mean, maybe the guy's gay now. Or in a boy band. Or, God forbid, both.'

I smile, although I mentally put this comment in the category of 'What makes Webb different from me'-I'm quite certain he has no gay friends.

Webb continues, 'Seriously. Can y'all believe Margot hired her ex?'

'No,' Andy says with exaggerated somberness. 'I really, really can't. Disgraceful.'

I know Andy and Webb are only joking, but my stomach still jumps thinking of the message waiting on my phone. The message I should have deleted. I look down at my plate, tapping a sprig of parsley with a tine on my fork.

'C'mon, Ellen!' Margot says, resting her elbows on the table, something she would never ordinarily do. 'Help me out here!'

I cast about for a second, trying to think of something helpful but noncommittal. I weakly offer, 'They're just