Love the one youre with

in Andy's own words, imminent.

To confirm, I say, 'You mean moving there soon?'

Andy nods.

'Like this year? That soon?'

Andy nods again and then rushes into a nervous, heartfelt speech. 'The last thing I want to do is pressure you. If you want to stay in New York-or feel that it would hurt your career to leave-I can stay. I mean, it's not like I hate the city or feel desperate to move out or anything like that… But after that last visit to Atlanta… and looking at houses… and just thinking about our little niece on the way, and my folks getting older, and everything, really… I don't know-I just feel ready for a change. For an easier life. Or at least a different kind of life.'

I nod, my mind racing. None of what Andy is saying is out of left field, not only because we've discussed it all before but because we're at the age where lots of our friends are marrying, having babies, and making an exodus to the suburbs. But it still feels somehow astonishing to think about leaving the city in such immediate terms. My head fills with classic New York images-Central Park on a crisp fall day; ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza; sipping wine on an outdoor terrace in the dizzy height of summer-and I suddenly feel nostalgic for the past. I even feel nostalgic for tonight, for the meal Andy and I are having together, the very memory we are making now.

'Say something,' Andy says, pulling on his ear, something he only does when he's anxious-or when he really cares about something. There was definite ear pullage when he proposed, and it occurs to me that this moment isn't so different. He is asking me how I feel about a big change. A step that we'd be taking together. It is not the same commitment as marriage, but in many ways, it's an even bigger change.

I reach for Andy's hand, taking it in mine, wanting so much to please him, but also wanting to be completely honest with him. 'I think it could be really great,' I say, sounding less tentative than I feel-although the truth is, I'm not quite sure how I feel.

Andy nods and says, 'I know. And believe me, I'm not trying to put you on the spot. But… I did want to show you this.'

He lets go of my hand and reaches into the inner pocket of his sport coat, pulling out a folded piece of paper. 'Here ya go.'

I take the paper from him, unfold it, and gaze down at a large cedar and brick house with a covered front porch, similar to the home listings Margot has been e-mailing me since our last trip, always with subject lines like, 'Next-door neighbors!' or 'Perfect for you!'

But this house isn't from Margot passing the time at her computer during the day. This house comes from Andy over champagne at Bouley.

'Do you like it?' he asks hesitantly, although it is very, very clear what he wants my answer to be.

'Of course,' I say, skimming the details in the written-up section below the photo- five bedrooms, four-and-a-half baths, fenced backyard, heated pool, high ceilings, screened-in porch, finished daylight basement, three-car garage, butler's pantry, dumbwaiter servicing all three levels.

There is absolutely nothing not to like. It is a dream house in every way-like no house in my hometown or even anything I could have imagined as a child. Not even when my mother told me that she was certain that I would have a good life filled with beautiful things, beautiful people.

'I'm not worried about you, Ellie,' she had said, stroking my hair. 'Not at all.'

It was one week before she died, right after she returned from the hospital for the last time, and I remember listening to her soothing voice, picturing my own grown-up life with a husband, a house, and children-and wondering if any of that could ever erase the pain of losing my mother.

I look up from the flyer now and say, 'It's beautiful, Andy. Really beautiful.'

'And it's just as beautiful inside, too,' Andy says, talking rapidly. 'Margot said she's been inside… for some children's clothing trunk show or something. She said there's a huge workspace in the basement where you could set up shop. You wouldn't have to rent an office anymore. Just go right down the steps in your pajamas… And the best part is-it's, like, a hundred yards from Margot and Webb. How awesome would that be?'

I nod, taking it all in.

'It really is perfect,' Andy says. 'Perfect for us. Perfect for the family we want to have.'

I gaze back down at the house, noticing the price tag. 'Shit,' I say.

Money is something Andy and I don't talk about often-he and Margot have that in common-but whereas she seems oblivious to her family fortune, he sometimes seems sheepish about it, almost apologetic. As a result, he makes certain choices, like our small apartment, and I sometimes forget just how wealthy he is. 'You really are rich, huh?' I say, smiling.

Andy looks down and shakes his head. Then he looks back into my eyes and says earnestly, 'We're rich… In more ways than one.'

'I know,' I say, basking in the moment.

We stare at each other for what feels like a long time, until Andy breaks our silence. 'So… What do you think?'

I open my mouth, close it, then open it again.

'I love you, Andy,' I finally say, my head spinning from champagne and so much else. 'That's what I think.'

'I'll take it,' Andy says with a wink, just as our lobster arrives. 'It's no Drake autograph, but I'll take it.'

thirteen

I knew you'd get sucked in all the way,' my sister says a few days later after I call her and tell her about our potential-likely-move to Atlanta. Her tone is not quite critical, but one of definite forbearance. 'I just knew it.'

And I knew this would be your reaction, I think, but instead I say, 'I wouldn't call it 'sucked in.' For one, we haven't even made a final decision-'

Suzanne interrupts, 'Just promise you won't start talking in a Southern accent.'

'Atlantans don't have much of an accent,' I say. 'It's too transient… Andy barely has an accent.'

'And don't start using the word y'all,' she says somberly, as if asking for a pledge that I won't join a creepy religious sect and drink their Kool-Aid. 'You're a Yankee, and don't you forget it.'

'Okay. If we move-and that's still an if-I will safeguard against an accent, and I'll faithfully stand by 'you guys' instead of 'y'all.' I also vow never to drive a pickup truck, fly the Confederate flag, or distill whiskey in the backyard,' I say as I take a break from sorting dirty laundry into a pile of darks and lights and sit cross-legged on the bedroom floor.

Despite the consistent sense I get from Suzanne that she doesn't entirely approve of Andy or Margot or their world, I am still smiling. I have great affection for my sister, and it feels good to finally hear her voice after weeks of playing phone tag. Since college, our communication has been sporadic, depending on our schedules, and more important, depending on Suzanne's mood. Sometimes she simply goes underground, and no amount of pestering will make her reemerge before she is good and ready.

As a result, I have learned to keep a list of topics to catch up on, which I pull out of my date planner now. I know I won't forget the big ticket items-like Atlanta or Drake-but I never want the trivial ones to fall through the cracks for fear that our conversations will lose their everyday, comfortable feel. I can't imagine it happening, and yet I know it does happen between sisters all the time, particularly when they don't live near one another or have a lot in common-or for that matter, a mother holding them together. Somehow I feel that if I catch her up on the mundane details in my life-whether it be the new under-eye cream I'm using, or the out-of-the-blue e-mail I received from a junior high acquaintance, or the random, funny memory I had of our parents taking us back-to- school shoe shopping one Labor Day-we will never be relegated to sisters-in-title only. We will always be more than two adult women who call and visit out of nothing but a thread of familial obligation.

So I tick through my list and then listen to her updates-which aren't really updates, just more of the status