Kate Jacobs (23 page)

fifteen

Glancing at the clock, Georgia realized that
she'd let
Dakota stay up way too late. It was nine thirty on a Tuesday night!
"Hey, shoo," she said to her daughter. "I'm going to lock up
here, so go up to put on your
jammies
and I'll be
home in two shakes."
"Do you mean
pa
jamas?
Jammies
are for
babies."
"Put on a scuba suit for all I care, kiddo. Just get up and into
bed."
She walked Dakota over to the door just as Cat—looking fantastic in the golden
Phoenix dress—rustled in. Dakota, she noticed, walked right on by and up the
stairs.
Cat, wild-eyed, shut the door behind her and rushed over to grab Georgia's
hands.
"I did it!"
Georgia nodded, pleased to see her design in action.
"I'm glad the dress got the reaction you wanted."
"Yeah, it was fantastic!" Cat was shouting. "I socked it to him,
right in front of his cronies and their wives, half of whom have probably slept
with him anyway."
"You what?"
"I ditched Adam. Sayonara, baby."
"Cat?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you
here
? In my store?"
"Because I'm wiping my slate clean. I'm time-traveling back to the 1980s
and I'm going to fix everything I did wrong."
"Ah, Dartmouth again."
"Yes. Dartmouth." Cat walked over to the window. "Georgia, when
you didn't take up that place at school…eventually, I moved off the wait-list
and was offered a real spot. And I accepted it."
"Figured that out, Cat, but thanks for the update." Georgia began
emptying out the till. "By the way, sweetie pie, I didn't accept the
Dartmouth offer because
you
didn't get in. And we'd promised to stick
together…" She let her voice trail off. Accusing.
"I didn't want to leave you behind!" Cat turned away from the view of
the dark street, her upswept hair coming loose and falling around the top of
her golden gown. Georgia's face offered no reaction.
"Okay," Cat pleaded. "I wanted to go to a school like that. But
I didn't want to leave you behind. It's just, my parents—the guidance
counselor—everyone said, 'This is your big chance, Cathy,' and I believed it.
Then I didn't make anything of it, and you, you've become this big success. I
see it all so clearly now."
"See what?"
"All that life-is-what-you-make-of-it crap! It's true." Cat plopped
down at the table, looking at Georgia across the room. "It's true."
Georgia pushed the register drawer closed and hesitated. Then she strode across
the store and sat down across from Cat.
"I didn't have a choice. Sink or swim. I had a daughter to support."
"That's not the whole story, Georgia Walker. You could have gone home to
Bess and Tom anytime."
"Never to leave again."
"I used to call Bess, you know." Cat sat back with her legs crossed,
picked up the hem with her fingers and began to rub it lightly. Quit playing
with Phoenix, thought Georgia; I spent a ton of hours making her fall straight.
"Georgia? Did you hear me? I used to call Bess, after I left for
Dartmouth. 'Hello, Mrs. Walker, will you please let Georgia know I telephoned.'
'Mrs. Walker, did Georgia get my Christmas card?' And you never replied."
"Of course, the old 'It's in the mail' excuse." Georgia shrugged.
"I never knew; Mom didn't let on."
"No?"
"No."
So there it was. Cat had tried to apologize; she had tried to hold on to their
friendship. All those years ago. And something more: Bess, the mother who
always seemed so uninterested in Georgia, had tried to shield her from a girl
she believed couldn't be trusted, who would hurt her only daughter even more.
Knowing that was a gift, the closure Georgia hadn't actively been seeking but
wanted nonetheless.
"Thank you, Cat, for telling me."
"Georgia, I want us to be friends. Real friends. Like in the old
days."
The store owner regarded the glamorous blonde, careening toward a bitter
divorce and an uncertain future, no doubt fearful and looking for something
solid to cling to. But Georgia didn't have time to be anyone else's mommy but
Dakota's. And she was all out of second chances, James having squandered what
optimism she had left.
She shook her head.
"Okay, I get it," said Cat, her voice cracking with emotion. "I
get it. You're done. You've been done for a while. Of course you are. Who would
blame you? And so there's just me, right? On my own." She began pacing
around the shop as Georgia watched her with mounting concern.
"Oh my God, Georgia, I'm all alone," whispered Cat, still pacing.
"What's going to happen to me?" She pointed to the cover of a
knitting magazine in a wall rack, started breathing fast as though she might
begin hyperventilating. Georgia suspected she was having an anxiety attack.
"Okay, so, okay. It's done. What's done is done." Cat took the
magazine off the shelf, tossed it to Georgia. "So tell me, how much would
it cost to get a few things for my new Adam-free life? One of those blanket
things, an Afghanistan? A tea cozy? Curtains?"
She was getting more frantic. Georgia had to admit, knitted curtains would be
an intriguing choice. Granny-gone-wild decorating. She reached out a hand,
gently touched an arm.
"Cat, Cat, what are you doing?"
"I don't know. I don't know!" Cat tilted her head and nibbled at her
lip. Georgia saw again the willowy girl who had so often wanted her to take the
lead.
"But while I'm figuring out this new life of mine, I think I might need a
sweater or two or something." Cat wasn't about to let the matter drop.
"I can still pay you—I'm selling off my jewelry."
Cat folded her arms across her chest; her bare arms had goose bumps.
"Can I come over on Saturday before the store opens? Maybe help you come
up with a pattern? I'm staying at the Lowell. It's not far. I'll just cab
it."
Georgia pursed her lips together, held them tightly closed; they made a popping
sound as she eased the tension in her face. Cat stood stock-still.
"Okay," said Georgia, her voice cautious. "Okay."

* * *

"Mom! Mom! Are you ever going to get
up?" Georgia cracked open one eye. She could barely believe she'd had a
night's sleep since seeing Cat in the shop. Now she was surprised to find
Dakota standing before her, dressed in a blue merino V-neck that she had knit
for her the previous Christmas. Already it was just that little too tight,
pulling at the
bustline
.
"Wow, look at you…" started Georgia, before catching herself. Best
not to make some dumb comment about her daughter's breasts and make her
self-conscious. Still. The signs were all there. Her baby was growing up; she'd
be thirteen by the summer. Georgia felt a lump in her throat, sitting up in
bed, sneaking a peek down the front of her pajamas at her own breasts, just
that little bit less perky than they once were. She and her daughter were both
getting older.
"It's almost eight A.M.! I'm completely going to be late for school—your
radio has been playing for over an hour." Dakota was not amused. "I'd
be on my way if you didn't insist on walking with me every day. I'm not a little
girl. I can go on my own."
"Hey, hey, what's with all the attitude, young lady?" Young lady. Did
she just say that?
Omigod
, she was turning into her
mother, Bess, all bossy boots and dourness. She swiveled to look at the clock,
disbelieving the time: 7:50 A.M. She hadn't slept through her alarm in ages,
had always been a morning person, more often turning off the radio before it
could flip on and padding out in her slippers to enjoy an early coffee and the
paper at the kitchen table. Dakota, on the other hand, was always sleeping in,
grumbling through breakfast and dawdling on the walk to school.
Should she just give in, let Dakota go to school on her own, and fall back into
another hour of sweet slumber? She still had the heavy feeling of exhaustion,
enticing her head back to her pillow, where she could just close her eyes and
let herself drift slowly…
"
Moooom
! Are you getting up or what? I have a
math test today." Dakota's words were coming out in a rush. Georgia
flipped out of bed, grabbed a pair of jeans, and pulled a fleece over her
pajamas; it may be May, but the morning air could still be cool.
"I won't walk you the entire way—just to the school block but not right to
school," explained Georgia, seeing Dakota's look of horror at her outfit.
She made a pit stop in the bathroom—a quick brush of the teeth and a token
attempt to pat down her hair, all without looking in the mirror. Somehow, it
had happened: she'd turned into one of those crazy mothers who took their kids
to school in their pajamas. "At least it's just my pajama top," she
insisted to her little girl. "When I was growing up, there were moms who
dropped their kids off in robes, slippers, and hair curlers!" She waited
for Dakota's laughter as she gave her a quick pinch.
"Yeah, like hair curlers are the last thing you'd need," her daughter
replied, sullen. "Let's just go. And we don't need to talk, okay?"
Where did her sweet baby go? Had she slept for more than a night?
It was as though a teenager had come in the night and stolen her darling
muffingirl
. Even though there was no logic to it, Georgia
had just sort of assumed the hormones and moodiness wouldn't really kick in
until after Dakota's thirteenth birthday in July. Well, old momma, she told
herself, guess again.

* * *

The sun was barely up, but Lucie sat in her
dining room—really just a corner of the living area, a folding table and two
IKEA chairs set up—and slowly crunched her way through a bowl of granola with
milk. Then another. After all, she
was
eating for two. Thanks to the
hormones, she still had nights when she couldn't sleep. Lucie flipped through
the calendar to October and the big red star she'd made: Baby! God, if this
little one didn't come out on time, she'd turn forty-three before it arrived.
Rosie had been considered an older mother when she gave birth to Lucie at
thirty-five. Oh, how things change.
Just a year ago she was settling into the idea of being a single woman,
confident and capable all on her own. And now she was going to become a mother.
She finished off her food and got down to the day's business, planning to watch
some of the raw footage from last week's club meeting and then the explanations
of
slipknotting
and casting on, filmed separately
with Georgia and Anita. It had gone well last Sunday, once she'd convinced
Georgia that she didn't need to dress up as if she was going to be an extra in
Harper
Valley PTA
. So Georgia had ditched the suit, changed back into her usual
attire, and brought down some knitted pillow covers her granny had made years
ago, just to show Lucie. She'd been impressed by the mosaic pattern, to be
sure; also amused that Georgia had misinterpreted her comment that she wanted
to start focusing on smaller projects. As in tiny. Infant-sized. Why couldn't
she just say it? Baby
baby
baby
.
Everyone had to be suspecting, but, God bless '
em
,
the members of the knitting club were a classy bunch. Not even K.C. had said
boo, every person allowing her the space to just be. To share her news in her
own good time.
She flipped on the camcorder, watching on the LCD screen. There was Georgia,
opening the door and strolling into the shop—okay, a bit too Mister Rogers,
she'd have to cut that—and introducing the viewer to her store.
"Welcome to my…world." Georgia's voice on the tape was shaky.
"I'm Georgia Walker and this is my yarn store on New York City's Upper
West Side"—a quick pan of the bins with the colorful
chenilles
,
cottons,
bouclés
,
mohairs
,
then coming to rest on the table—"and this is the spot where it all
happens." Her voice was becoming more assertive. "This is the home of
the Friday Night Knitting Club," continued Georgia, walking into the shot
now, pulling out a chair and sitting down, followed by Anita. "And right
here, at this very table, with my good friend and mentor Anita Lowenstein, is
where we pass along all the techniques and secrets of knitting that make it
such fun"—here was the point when Lucie was going to splice in some of the
club footage and then jump back to Georgia—"and also the challenge that
keeps it interesting." Cue lesson 1: Anita explaining a slipknot. Lucie
switched off the camcorder. So far, so good. She still had to do more in-depth
interviews with Georgia and Anita, to find out about the beginning of the store
and the
hows
and whys of when the women learned to knit.
Lucie stood up, stretched, went into the bathroom, as she did several times
every day, pulled off her shirt (one of the new ones Darwin had helped select),
and turned sideways, evaluating her swelling abdomen in the mirror.
"Looking good, kid," she told herself, cupping her belly with her
hands. This baby was going to be so loved, cherished by a mommy who was eagerly
anticipating its arrival. She still wished, though, that she could go home for
the annual Brennan start-of-summer barbecue, ribs on the grill and red sauce
simmering on the stove. Could see her mother, Rosie, wearing white
sunblock
on her nose as she coached the boys—now in their
fifties—playing touch football on the grass; her dad, now elderly, would offer
up play-by-play from his plastic lawn chair. But Lucie wasn't ready to risk her
family's reaction to her new, expanding figure. She grabbed her top and ambled
back to the couch, considered going back to work before she remembered the bag
that Georgia had handed her earlier this week, which she'd just dumped into her
messenger bag before schlepping on home. "Hey, I know we're paying
you—sort of—but it's not enough," Georgia said. "So take this, just a
little something."
Lucie had been so busy she hadn't bothered to look, knowing it was yarn, of
course. Now, a bit idle, she zipped open her case and upended the Walker and
Daughter bag onto her lap. Six skeins each of sunny yellow, white, and
celery-green multi. Acrylic blend; machine washable. Soft. Lucie rubbed a
corner against her cheek. Very soft. She turned over the skein to read the
gauge, then smiled to herself, finally in on Georgia's little tease with the
knitted pillow covers.
TODDLER TOUCH proclaimed the label.
Yup. Georgia knew.