Love the One You're With Read Free

letter “Warmly, Margot,” a closing that, oddly enough, seemed more cool and sophisticated than warm. I had only ever signed letters with “Love” or “Sincerely” but made a mental note to try “Warmly” on for size. It would be the first of many things I’d copy from Margot.
    I worked up the courage to phone her the next afternoon, clutching a pen and pad in my hand to be sure I didn’t miss anything, such as a suggestion that we coordinate our toiletries—keep everything in the pastel family.
    The phone rang twice and then a male voice said hello. I assumed it was Margot’s father, or perhaps it was the gardener in for a tall glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. In my most proper telephone voice, I asked to speak to Margot.
    “She’s over at the club, playing tennis,” he replied.
    Club, I thought. Bingo. We belonged to a club, technically speaking, but it was really just the neighborhood pool, called a club, which comprised a small, rectangular pool flanked by a Fritos-serving snack bar on one end, a diving board on the other, all surrounded by a chain-link fence. I was fairly certain that Margot’s club was a different sort altogether. I imagined the rows of clay tennis courts, the dainty sandwiches served on china plates, the rolling hills of the golf course spotted with weeping willows, or whatever tree was indigenous to Georgia.
    “May I take a message?” he asked. His Southern accent was subtle, only revealing itself in his I .
    I hesitated, stumbled slightly, and then shyly introduced myself as Margot’s roommate-to-be.
    “Oh, hey there! This is Andy. Margot’s brother.”
    And there it was.
    Andy . My future husband’s name—which I would later learn was short for Andrew Wallace Graham III.
    Andy went on to say that he went to Vanderbilt, but that his best friend from home was going to be a senior at Wake Forest, and he and his buddies would be sure to show us the ropes, share their insight about professors and sororities, keep us out of trouble, and “all that good stuff.”
    I thanked him, feeling myself ease somewhat.
    “No problem,” Andy said. And then, “So Margot’s going to be excited to hear from you. I know she wanted to discuss bedspreads or curtains or something … I sure hope you like the color pink.”
    I replied with an earnest, “Oh. Yes . I love pink.”
    It was a fib that would be recounted for years to come, even working its way into Andy’s toast to me at our rehearsal dinner, much to the delight of Margot and our closest friends, all of whom knew that although I had my feminine side, I was far from a girly-girl.
    “Well. Aw- right,” Andy said. “A match made in pink heaven.”
    I smiled and thought, no matter what else unfolded with Margot, she had a very nice brother.
    As it turned out, I was right about both Andy and Margot. He was nice, and she was just about everything I wasn’t. For starters we were physical opposites. She was a petite yet still curvy, fair-skinned, blue-eyed blonde. I had dark hair and hazel eyes, skin that looked tanned even in the dead of winter, and a tall, athletic frame. We were equally attractive, but Margot had a soft, whimsical look about her while my features were more easily described as handsome.
    Our backgrounds, too, couldn’t be more different. Margot lived in a huge, beautiful home on several acres of gorgeous, tree-lined property in the wealthiest part of Atlanta—an estate by any measure. I grew up in a small ranch with Brady Bunch–orange kitchen counters in a blue-collar part of Pittsburgh. Margot’s father was a prominent attorney who also served on the board of several companies. My dad was a salesman—selling unglamorous goods like those projectors for mind-numbingly boring filmstrips that lazy teachers made you watch in elementary school. Margot’s mother was a former beauty queen from Charleston, with a Babe Paley–esque fashion sensibility and fine, elegant bones. Mine had been a no-nonsense junior-high