Slightly Suburban. Wendy Markham

      “Gecko told me. He also told me the Mad Crapper has struck again.” I fill him in.

      “Nice.” Jack rolls his eyes.

      “Why do we live here, Jack? Let’s move.”

      Oh my God! He’s tilting his head! He only does that when he’s seriously contemplating something!

      Then he straightens his head and says, “This isn’t the greatest time to invest in real estate.”

      “Sure it is!” I don’t care, the initial head-tilt gave me hope, and I’m clinging to it. “This is a great time! We’ve paid down our credit cards, we don’t have kids yet, we’re both making good money in stable jobs…”

      Mental Note: save part II of Operation Fresh Start—in which we quit our jobs, or at least I do—for a later discussion.

      “I don’t mean it’s not a great time in our personal lives,” he clarifies. “I mean it’s not a great time in the country’s general economical climate.”

      “Oh, come on, Jack. It’s not like there are soup-kitchen lines around the block. The economical climate is fine,” I assure him, while wondering, um, is it?

      “Anyway,” I add quickly, lest Jack point out that lately my current-events reading has mostly been limited to page-six blind items, “real estate is the most solid investment you can make.”

      “Not necessarily.”

      “So you’re saying you don’t think we should buy a house somewhere?”

      “No, I’m not saying that.”

      “Then what are you saying?” I ask in a bordering-on-shrill voice I hate.

      But I swear, sometimes Jack’s utter calm makes my voice just go there in response. I can’t help it. It’s like the lower-key he is, the shriller I become.

      He shrugs. “I don’t think we should jump into anything.”

      “We’ve waited over two years!” Shrill, shrill. Yikes. I try to tone it down a little as I ask, “How is that jumping in? The least we can do is start looking at real-estate ads.”

      “That’s fine,” he says with a shrug. “Go ahead and start looking.”

      I promptly reach into the catchall basket on the floor by the chair, which is overflowing with magazines I never have time to read anymore.

      Pulling out the New York Times real-estate section—which I pored over while he was still in bed earlier—I thrust it at him.

      “What’s this?”

      “The listings. For Westchester.”

      “Westchester?” He frowns. “We never said we were moving to Westchester.”

      “Back when we got married, we said we’d look in Westchester.”

      “Did we? I don’t remember.”

      I frown.

      “What? It was a long time ago,” he says with a shrug.

      “Well, then, to refresh your memory…we decided Manhattan is too expensive, the boroughs are also expensive and if we’re going to pay that much we might as well live in Manhattan—”

      “Which we can’t afford,” Jack observes.

      “Right. And Long Island is too inconvenient because we’d have to go through the city to get anywhere else, and the commute from Jersey can be a pain, Rockland is too far away, Connecticut is Red Sox territory…”

      Kiss of death for Jack, the die-hard Yankees fan. I am nothing if not thorough and strategic.

      “So,” I wind down, “by process of elimination, it’s Westchester if we’re going to live in the New York suburbs at all.”

      “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

      “Yup.” Pleased with myself, I watch him scan the page of listings.

      Westchester County, directly north of the city, is an upscale, leafy suburban wonderland. It just so happens that Jack grew up there. His mother still lives there, as do two of his four sisters.

      “Won’t it be nice to live near your mom?” I ask Jack. “This way, you wouldn’t have to run up there every time she needs something. You’ll be close enough to go running over there all the time.”

      To some sons, that might sound like a threat. But Jack adores his mother. They’re really close. And as mothers-in-law go, Wilma Candell is the best.

      “And when we have kids,” I add for good measure as he scans the newspaper page without comment, “your mom can spend a lot of time with them.”

      “I thought we weren’t talking about starting a family yet.”

      “We aren’t. We’re talking about finding the house where we’re going to eventually raise our family when we start one.”

      Jack barely gives the paper another cursory glance before handing it back to me. “Okay, well…good.”

      “Good…what?”

      “This is good. There are houses in our price range, so if we decide to look up there at some point, at least we’ll have something to look at.”

      We have a price range? And these houses are in it?

      Hallelujah.

      “But we have to strike while the iron is hot,” I tell him, and add for good measure, “You know, we can’t let the grass grow under our feet.”

      “Slow and steady wins the race,” Jack returns with a grin.

      “Maybe,” I say, slipping from the arm of his chair onto his lap, “but a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

      What does that even mean? I don’t know. But it sounds motivational.

      I guess not to Jack, though.

      “We’ll look someday,” he says, pushing a clump of my hair out of my eyes, “when we’re ready.”

      “I’m ready.”

      “For family starting?” he asks, and I laugh and shake my head.

      “No family starting yet,” I tell him.

      Jack reaches for the remote, aims it at the CD player and presses a couple of buttons. Alicia Keys gives way to U2’s “With or Without You.”

      Which happens to be a major aphrodisiac—at least for me.

      Go ahead, try it—listen to that song and see if it doesn’t instantly put you in the mood.

      The opening bass is enough to do it for me, every time—and Jack knows it.

      “How about a dry run on the family-starting thing, so to speak?”

      I loop my arms around his neck. “I’m game…if you’re game for a dry run on the house-hunting circuit next weekend.”

      Jack tilts his head.

      I kiss his neck.

      Bono sings.

      We are so there.