"Sure," I say, yearning for tomorrow to come as quickly as possible. "That sounds really nice."

"You sound nice," Leo says. "I like your voice all scratchy like that. Brings back memories…"

I smile, rolling away from Andy's side of the bed, his scent still lingering on the sheets. Then I close my eyes and listen to the thrilling, intimate silence. At least a minute ticks by like that-maybe even longer-as I drift back to our shared past. A time before Andy. A time when I could feel the way I'm feeling, with no remorse, no guilt. Nothing but pure, in-the-moment pleasure. Until I finally give in to the welling inside me, the physical longing that has been building for the longest time.

Afterward, I tell myself that he doesn't know what I've just done-and that he certainly wasn't doing the same. I tell myself that I had to get it out of my system, and that we will be all business in the morning-or at most, just close friends with an incidental romantic past. And most of all, I tell myself that no matter what happens, I love Andy. I will always love Andy.

twenty-nine

A few hours later, Margot's baby shower has concluded, her scores of guests have departed, and I am wandering around Ginny's regal, tasseled living room (complete with oil paintings of her dogs, a tapestry of Craig's family coat of arms, and a baby grand piano that nobody in the house knows how to play-or, for that matter, is allowed to touch), stuffing stray bits of ribbon and wrapping paper into a white Hefty garbage bag and feeling generally conflicted. Par for the course these days, and especially now, on the eve of my trip.

On the one hand, I'm consumed with giddy thoughts of Leo, mentally repacking my suitcase, picturing the moment when I first see him, and the moment we say good-bye again. On the other hand, and completely in spite of myself, I've had a surprisingly decent time-bordering on actual fun, thanks in part to the heavy flow of mimosas. I still maintain that the Buckhead social scene is, at its macro level, superficial and shallow and dull in the extreme, but one-on-one, most of the women at the party were genuine-and more interesting than you'd think they'd be when you see them yapping on their cell phones in their Range Rovers with their designer kids in the backseat.

Moreover, as I sat beside Margot on the couch with the honored role of gift stenographer, I felt a sense of belonging, of pride to be a Graham. Andy's wife. Margot's sister-in-law. Stella's daughter-in-law.

At one moment in particular, my emotional dilemma crystallized when one of Stella's neighbors asked me where my parents live, and I had to make that split-second decision of whether to specify that while my dad still lives in my hometown, my mother passed away years ago. Meanwhile, Stella, the queen of fast-thinking tact, subtly reached over and squeezed my hand, responding in a way that seemed utterly natural and not as if she were answering for me.

"Ellen's father lives in Pittsburgh-in the very house she grew up in. She and Margot have that in common!" she said cheerfully, as the light from Ginny's crystal chandelier glinted off her diamond ring. I gave her a grateful look, relieved that I didn't have to sell my mother's memory short in order to avoid that uneasy moment when my audience looks teary-and I have to choose between feeling sad right along with them or, alternatively, alleviating the discomfort with a nonchalant, "Oh, it's okay. It happened a long time ago."

Because after all, although it did happen a long time ago, it will never really feel okay.

And now, as I wait for Andy to pick me up after his thirty-six holes of golf, I feel another unexpected stab of motherless grief as I sit with Margot, Ginny, and their two mothers, indulging in more champagne and the usual party post-mortem, covering everything including the best present (a bright green Bugaboo stroller given by Margot's tennis friends), the most shameful regift (a Red Envelope quilt that, unbeknownst to the giver, was embroidered with her daughter's name, Ruby), the best-dressed guest (wearing vintage Chanel), the worst-dressed invitee (donning a crocheted magenta halter with a black bra), and aghast speculation about who-in-the-world spilled merlot on Ginny's dining-room chair.

"If only I had turned my nanny cam on," Ginny says, giggling and stumbling in her heels before plopping down on a leopard-print occasional chair.

I smile, thinking how much more tolerable-verging on likable-Ginny is when she's drunk and not constantly posturing, angling, and trying to prove how much closer she is to Margot than I am. She's still a bitch with an amazing sense of entitlement, but at least she's a lighthearted bitch with an amazing sense of entitlement.

"Do you really have one of those?" Stella asks, peering up at the ceiling.

"It's called a hidden camera for a reason," I quip, playing with a strand of yellow raffia. My frugal side is tempted to cart the whole garbage bag home, as Margot unwrapped her gifts so delicately-but given my state of emotional turmoil, it doesn't seem to make much sense to worry about salvaging wrapping paper.

"Of course she has a nanny cam, Stell," Ginny's mother, Pam, says, pointing to an artificial floral arrangement atop a built-in bookcase, in what feels to be a subtle form of worldly goods oneupmanship. "And Margot should have one installed, too… particularly with a newborn and the influx of baby nurses and other help."

I inwardly cringe at the oft-used term help-covering everything from gardeners to nannies to housekeepers to pool guys to even, in Pam's case, drivers (she hasn't been behind the wheel on a highway in twenty-two years-a bizarre point of pride for her). In fact, whether griping or bragging about their help, it has to be my least favorite topic in Margot's world-right up there with their children's private schools and black-tie galas (which are often galas for their children's private schools).

Stella continues, "Have you ever caught anyone doing… anything?" Her eyes widen, as I note that my mother-in-law, otherwise so in charge and dynamic, seems to become somewhat passive around her brash, bossy best friend. I watch them together, fleetingly wondering whether I'm also a different version of myself around Margot.

Ginny shakes her head, plucking a whimsical lavender petit four from an heirloom silver tray that, I feel quite sure, her help polished this morning. "Not so far… But you can never be too careful when it comes to your children."

We all silently nod, as if pausing to observe the profound wisdom of this latest nugget from Ginny-nuggets she always delivers in a revelatory tone, as if she's the first to ever say or think such a thing. My favorite, that I heard her pipe up with as guests speculated that Margot must be having a boy because she's carrying so low, is: "I'm so glad she and Webb are waiting to find out! It's the only surprise left in life." Ahh, you're so original, Ginny! Never heard that one before. And, as an aside, although I have no real opinion on what seems to be a highly charged, value-laden decision, how do so many couples figure that not availing oneself of ultrasound technology qualifies as a surprise? Furthermore, what other surprises have gone by the wayside over the last few decades? People don't throw surprise parties anymore? No more unexpected flower deliveries or gifts? I don't get it.

I finish my glass of champagne, turn to Ginny, and announce, "Well. I think I know who spilled the wine."

"Who?" everyone says at once, even Margot, who can usually tell when I have a joke queued up.

"That ugly slob of a girl," I say, suppressing a smirk.

"Who?" they all say again as Ginny starts to guess, actually tossing out names of less attractive guests.

I shake my head and then proudly announce, "Lucy," referring to Andy's Lucy. His high-school-turned-freshmen-year-in-college sweetheart who Margot added to the invite list after asking for my permission.

"If you're at all uncomfortable with it, I won't do it," Margot said more than once, always going on to explain her various charity fundraiser and country club connections-along with the unfortunate, albeit attenuated, familial overlap (Lucy is married to Webb's second cousin).

I repeatedly reassured Margot that it was no big deal at all, and that I was actually quite curious to meet Andy's first love-and that I'd rather have the meeting under controlled circumstances, i.e., with makeup on. But secretly, I think my real motivation had more to do with Leo. After all, Lucy coming to the shower would serve as another golden rationalization in my battery of internal excuses: Margot's ex does her landscaping; Andy's ex comes to his sister's baby shower. So why can't I occasionally work with mine?

In any event, I am clearly joking now, as Lucy's a far cry from ugly. Her Kewpie-doll features, ivory skin, and ringlet red hair put her squarely in the pretty category, and her body's probably the best I've ever seen in person-a cartoonish hourglass that would have looked even more outrageous had she been dressed less conservatively. Margot and Stella laugh appreciatively-while their petty counterparts exchange a satisfied, raised-brow look, their cat-fight radars delightfully sounding.

I roll my eyes and say, "C'mon. I'm kidding. The girl is gorgeous."

Ginny looks disappointed that there is no controversy while Pam throws back her head with an annoying laugh-track giggle and says, way too enthusiastically, "Isn't she precious?"