Love the one youre with

ultimate casually elegant, WASPy, summer snapshot. She blows a speck of dust from the glass and removes a smudge from one corner with her thumb. 'Just a little housewarming gift.'

'You've given us so much already,' I say, thinking of the grandfather clock, the linen hand towels for our powder room, the hand-me-down yet still pristine Italian porch furniture, the oil painting of Andy as a child-all purported housewarming gifts, all things I couldn't refuse, and all in keeping with Stella's benevolent passive aggression. She is so kind, so thoughtful, so generous, that you feel you must do things her way. So you do.

She waves me off and says, 'It's really nothing.'

'Well then, thank you,' I say tersely, thinking that it was Margot who taught me, by example, the rule of protesting once or twice, but ultimately never refusing gifts or compliments.

'You're very welcome, darling,' Stella says, obliviously patting my hand. Her fingernails are red-lacquered perfection, matching her pleated skirt and Ferragamo clutch, and giving the hulking sapphire bauble on her right ring finger a patriotic flair.

'So. Ell,' Andy says, looking anxious. 'What do you say we use these frames for our wedding and honeymoon photos? The ones in the foyer?'

Stella beams, looking at me for my lady-of-the-house stamp of approval.

'Sure,' I say, smiling and thinking that would be a very fitting choice-given that the wedding was done Stella's way, too.

Andy gathers up several frames and motions toward the front of the house. 'C'mon… Let's check 'em out.'

Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.

While Stella hums and begins to neatly fold the shopping bags, I roll my eyes and follow Andy to the foyer on our purported frame-reconnaissance mission.

'I'm so sorry,' he starts in a whisper, leaning on the high-gloss mahogany table (yet another 'gift' from his parents), where our wedding photos are displayed. His expression and body language are sincere, even earnest, but I can't help wondering how much of his readiness to repent is tied into his mother's presence in our home. How the Grahams seem to do everything with one another in mind. 'I'm really sorry,' he says.

'Me, too,' I say, feeling at war with myself as I avoid his gaze. Part of me desperately wants to make up with Andy and feel close to him again, but another part almost wants to keep things broken so I can justify what I'm doing. Whatever it is that I'm doing.

I cross my arms tightly across my chest as he continues, 'I should have said something last night… about the wine comment…'

I finally look into his eyes, feeling slightly defeated that he actually seems to believe that our fight was about a lackluster vineyard near Pittsburgh. Surely he can tell there is more happening here-issues much larger than last night. Like whether I'm happy in Atlanta, if we're as compatible as we once thought, and why our fledgling marriage feels so strained.

'It's okay,' I say, wondering if I'd be so conciliatory if I hadn't just spoken to Leo. 'I probably overreacted.'

Andy nods, as if in agreement, which bolsters my dwindling indignation enough for me to add a petty footnote. 'But I really, really can't stand Ginny and Craig.'

Andy sighs. 'I know… But they're going to be pretty hard to avoid…'

'Can we at least try?' I say, nearly smiling for real this time, as I drop my arms to my sides.

Andy laughs quietly. 'Sure,' he says. 'We'll try.'

I smile back at him as he says, 'And the next fight-let's make up before we go to sleep. My folks have never gone to bed mad at each other-probably why they've lasted so long…'

Another smug notch for the perfect Grahams, I think, as I say, 'Well, technically, I went to the couch mad.'

He smiles. 'Right. Let's not do that either.'

'Okay,' I say with a shrug.

'So we're good?' Andy says, the worry lines gone from his forehead.

I feel a stab of resentment at how easily he thinks we can move on, gloss over our troubles, my feelings. 'Yeah,' I say reluctantly. 'We're fine.'

'Just fine?' Andy presses.

I look into his eyes, and briefly consider spelling everything out for him. Telling him that we're in the midst of a small crisis. Telling him everything. In my heart, I know that is the only way to fix everything, make us whole again. But because I'm not quite ready to be whole again, I halfheartedly smile and say, 'Somewhere between fine and good.'

'Well, I guess that's a start,' Andy says, leaning down to give me a hug. 'I love you so much,' he breathes into my neck.

I close my eyes, relax, and hug him back, trying to forget about our fight, and all my complaints about our life, and most of all, how Margot might have doctored my past, with good intentions or otherwise.

'I love you, too,' I tell my husband, feeling a wave of both affection and attraction-and then relief that I still feel this way about him.

But in the instant before we separate, right there by our wedding photos and with my eyes still closed, all I see is Leo, standing in my lobby all those years ago. And now, sitting in his apartment in Queens, listening to Bob Dylan, and waiting for me to call him back.

twenty-eight

Despite the near-constant urge to do so, I manage to go the rest of the weekend without calling or e-mailing or texting Leo. Instead I do all the right things-all the things I'm supposed to do. I reframe our wedding photos. I write Stella a cheerful, almost-completely-sincere thank-you note. I go to church and brunch with the entire Graham clan. I take nearly one hundred quality black-and-white photos of Webb and Margot and her belly. All the while, I squelch any uprising of anger, reassuring myself that I'm not taking the assignment out of spite or revenge or to revisit the past. Rather, I'm going to New York for the work-and to spend a little time with Leo. I have a perfect right to work-and to be friends with Leo. And neither of these things should, in any way, detract from my marriage or my friendship with Margot or my life in Atlanta.

So, by Sunday evening, as I hunker down at the computer to buy a nonrefundable airline ticket to New York, I am fully convinced that my intentions, if not entirely pure, are pure enough. Yet when I find Andy in the family room watching golf on television and casually mention that I have a shoot on Coney Island for Time Out, my heart fills with familiar guilt.

'That's great,' Andy says, his eyes glued to Tiger Woods.

'Yeah… So I think I'll fly up the week after next… do the shoot… then stay for a night… maybe catch up with a few friends,' I say as if I'm thinking aloud. My heart pounds with worried anticipation. I cross my fingers, hoping that Andy won't ask too many questions, and that I won't have to lie about how I got the assignment.

But when he only says, 'Cool,' rather than inquiring about any specifics, I can't help feeling somewhat slighted, if not downright neglected. After all, we constantly discuss his cases, as well as the interpersonal dynamic in his office-interactions with his father, the secretaries, and the other junior associates. He routinely practices his opening and closing arguments in front of me. And, last week, I went to watch the climax of testimony in an insurance-recovery case, getting gussied up and sitting in the front of the courtroom to silently cheer him on as he led the purportedly very injured plaintiff, sporting a full-body cast, down a path of lies before showing video footage of the guy playing Frisbee in Piedmont Park. Afterward, we laughed in the car, high-fiving each other and gleefully repeating, 'You can't handle the truth!'-our favorite line from A Few Good Men.

And yet-this is the best I can get when my work is involved? One word of generic praise. Cool?

'Yeah,' I say, picturing working alongside Leo. 'It should be good.'