Kate Jacobs (25 page)

* * *

Back at the store, Georgia gave Anita a quick
ring to let her know they'd found Dakota, lest she hear it all from Marty and
get upset. Not that Georgia knew if Anita and Marty were talking while she was
down in Atlanta with Nathan's family. Still. She suspected the seeds of a real
relationship were blossoming between those two.
Georgia waited, sitting at her office desk, doodling until Anita came to the
phone.
"Darling! I'm so glad you've called," said Anita cheerily. Then her
voice dropped. "Can you hear me?"
"I can hear you, Anita."
"It's been forty-eight hours and they're driving me bonkers. Taken me to
see two retirement communities on the golf course—who takes up golf at
sixty-five, I ask you?—because I said the guesthouse was too small."
"You're not sixty-five."
"Georgia, you're missing the point. They're trying to lock me away!"
Then Anita giggled. "And they hate my new hairdo! Nathan said he thought
it looked too
mussy
." Georgia thought about
Anita's shorter, flirtier 'do, the face-framing blunt cut softened with layers
and wisps of bangs that drew attention to her gorgeous eyes. Lucie had been
right: Anita did look younger. And no one, especially a middle-aged man,
suddenly wants to see his mother start looking less like mommy, more like a
sexy woman. Who might be dating someone other than his father. But that was a
topic for another time.
She filled her friend in on the details of the upcoming trip—no, the flights
and all those particulars hadn't been finalized but yes, yes, she was committed
to doing it.
"I know school isn't over, but it's only seventh grade," Georgia
insisted. "And I just want to reconnect with her, spend some time with her
before Mr. Let-me-buy-you-a-fancy-bike-so-you-can-ride-to-Baltimore comes up
with any more bright ideas." She paused to listen. "I know it's not
his fault exactly, Anita. But it sort of is."
And then she rehashed the story she'd gone over with Anita already, the kiss,
the store visit, the trip to the zoo, and then, once she'd taken the bait, the
hook. James had wanted to take
his
girl to Baltimore.
Anita was quiet for a moment. "Are you sure that's what he said?" she
asked. Did Anita know something about James that she wasn't letting on? Georgia
wondered.
"Are you absolutely certain he said he only wanted to take Dakota?"
Anita repeated.
"Yes! His girl! His girl! His girl!" Saying it so fast made Georgia
slur the words ever so slightly, a little bit of a
zzzz
sound at the
end.
His
girl
zzz
.
His girl
s
.
Plural.

* * *

There was no time to talk to James. Besides,
what was she about to say anyway?
"That ship has sailed," Georgia said aloud. "And it was the
Titanic
."
"Huh?"
Peri
stood in the doorway of the
office. "If you want to sail to Scotland, the
Queen Mary
might be a
better choice."
Georgia shook her head. "No, no, we're going to fly. If—and it's a big
if—you feel ready to step up and manage the store in my absence." She
motioned for
Peri
to come inside and shut the door.
"We'll let Cat stay out on the floor for a moment and pretend she has a
job or something. It will put a little zing in her pants. You and I, let's
talk."
Peri
pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from
Georgia.
"I wanted to talk to you as well," she began. Oh, no. Was
Peri
going to quit on her now?
"
K.C.'s
cousin has bought fifty bags for
Bloomingdale's and I have until the end of July to deliver them. I was going to
ask for some time off, what with tutoring K.C. for the LSAT and school
and…" Her voice trailed off.
Georgia leaned back. If this conversation had come up yesterday, she would have
panicked. But after this morning's brouhaha, she'd acquired a new perspective
on life's little hiccups.
"
Peri
," she began. "Let me be the
first to say 'Congratulations.' You had a dream and you're out there, making it
happen." Georgia reflected on her early days, on Anita—then Mrs.
Lowenstein—challenging her, encouraging her, believing in her. "But I still
need you—and want you—to be here. Is there a way we can make it all come
together? Maybe if we tried to adjust things so that…"
And then she began to sketch out a plan, shortening the shop hours over the
course of the time she would be away in Scotland,
Peri
assisted by a part-time clerk who could ring up sales while she set up her
sewing machine and her knitting at the table.
"You'll make those bags on time and have room to spare," concluded
Georgia. "Anita is scheduled to be back in two weeks—you can count on the fact
she'll be here sooner than that—and you can tell K.C. that all tutoring takes
place in the shop."
And then she offered the bonuses that clinched the deal.
"Plus I just got in a box of new worsted multi that should felt up very
nicely, in all sorts of shades of eggplant and celadon and sunshine. It's
yours—at cost." Georgia had always been generous with discounts; this
offer was above and beyond. "And when I'm back from Scotland, I promise
you I will take on purse duty, and help you get those suckers knitted and
felted and all your
Peri
Pocketbook labels sewn on
straight and tight. You'll be a success,
Peri
, and I
will help you make it happen."
They both stood up, shook hands over the desk, grinning, a new partnership of
sorts forged from their old manager-employee relationship.
"I better get one of those bags for free!" Georgia joked.
"At Christmas, at Christmas,"
Peri
responded, laughing. She sat down again, feeling more comfortable just hanging
out, for a moment, with Georgia.
"So when do you leave for the big trip? Dakota's been telling all of the
customers."
"I'm thinking about the overnight flight, later this week." She was
finally going to dig deeply into that bank account from James. His little
Baltimore plan had started the wheels in motion, after all.
"Just you and Dakota?"
"Well, we're going to stay with my granny," answered Georgia,
smiling, giddy with anticipation of placing the call to her beloved
grandmother, the curt "Very good" unable to mask
Gran's
pleasure. She leaned back in her chair. "And, of course, every trip needs
a third wheel. Ours is Cat. I'd tell you she's coming along to carry our
luggage, but knowing her, she's going to try and make it go the other way
'round."
Georgia got up and motioned to the door, followed
Peri
out to the shop.
"All right, let's get out here and sell some seriously expensive cashmere
so I can pay for that assistant!"
Peri
pivoted to look at her boss.
"Thank you, Georgia," she said with a sincerity that made the store
owner, residual waterworks still close to the surface after the morning's
shenanigans, feel teary. It was nice to be appreciated.
"You're welcome,
Peri
," said Georgia,
giving her waist a quick squeeze. "All I want is to see everyone
happy."

eighteen

The rain drizzled down the windows of the
car-rental office
at the Edinburgh airport, really just a small trailer in a large
parking lot of cars. It had been a tremendously long flight. Not so much the
time, mind you. Just the company.
"I'm not too pleased about this situation—I could have arranged a driver
for us, Georgia." Cat's arms were crossed over her body as she stood next
to her tired old friend at the counter; Dakota was looking through the glass at
the selection of cars.
"Can we just pick any car?" she asked Georgia. "I like
red."
"You're in luck—the Vauxhall has your name on it," declared the tall,
reedy fellow behind the counter. "Can I give directions?"
Georgia leaned closer to peer at the map, trying to hide her justifiable fear
about driving a car (she did so once a year, during Christmas in Pennsylvania)
and her apprehension about ending up on the right,
er
,
the left side of the road.
"Just remember: the
passenger
is always on the curb side of the
street when you're driving in the UK," the car-rental rep told her
cheerily. "We haven't had a client in a bang-up in quite a while. I'm sure
you'll be fine."
Cat was right—she should have made some sort of arrangement for a driver. But
the expense! The way to become rich is to not spend your money on frivolous
things, Gran had said, and Georgia had followed that advice in building the
business and squirreling away funds for college, rainy days, and important
trips to rediscover her roots. Well, to be honest, she hadn't exactly planned
on the last one, except in the most vague someday-
ish
notion. Now, though, she was committed to driving this car to
Gran's
house near Dumfries, her mind set even firmer
because of Cat's snarky tone.
Sure, Cat had been kind enough to use her air miles to buy all three
tickets—their seats in coach had taken roughly the same number of points that
Cat had planned to use for a first-class spot. (And it prevented Georgia from
having to plunder the bank account.) But really, if she had to hear Cat refer
to their economy-class location as "steerage" one more time!
"You know, I think we can try something a little nicer," Cat was
saying to the car-rental clerk. "Let's upgrade to a Mercedes—like that big
black number out there. We can put it on my card."
Georgia put her hand over the credit card.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
The clerk reached across the counter and slid the card out from both of their
hands; probably on commission, thought Georgia. He looked up at her briefly,
waiting for her to give in. She wasn't about to deny the man his extra funds; she'd
settle up with Cat later.
"Just zip it through and let's be on with it," demanded Cat. Georgia
inclined her head ever so slightly to give her assent, and the clerk was down
to it, punching in numbers on a keypad and sliding the credit card through the
reader, whistling. No doubt calculating what portion of the upgrade would go in
his pocket. Well, good for him, thought Georgia. We worker bees have to stick
together. A moment, then another. The credit card was swiped a second time.
Then the man—who'd stopped whistling by this point—picked up the phone.
"Just need to make a call here, the card company, you know," he said
by way of explanation.
"It must be because we're in a foreign country," Cat said to Georgia.
"My card didn't have a problem."
"Well, yours probably has a much smaller limit," responded Cat
primly.
"I see, I see, right then, okay." The employee had angled his body
ever so slightly so he was no longer looking directly at the women but at the
wall behind them, the phone cord pulled around his body. He turned back, a
blush rising on his cheeks, as he returned the receiver to its cradle on the
counter.
"Ah, well, then," he began. "There's been a slight problem,
Miss"—he glanced at the card now—"Phillips. Seems you were only an
authorized user on this card and that the account holder has withdrawn
authorization. I'm very sorry, but there's nothing we can do. Shall we go back
to the Vauxhall then? It handles well, what my wife and I drive
ourselves."
Cat put out her hand for the card. "I'll call myself," she insisted.
"Ah, that's fine, miss. But I'm afraid I've received instructions from the
company to cut up this little bit here," he said, pulling out the
scissors. His face was now in full flush. He lowered his voice. "I'm
desperately sorry but it'll be my job if the company complains. You know."
He looked past Cat, who was making a rather alarming squeak as though wavering
between crying or yelling, appealing to Georgia.
"Snip it up and let's get ourselves on the road," she responded.
"No!" screamed Cat, her face ashen as the scissors sliced through the
plastic rectangle, finally realizing that the Bank of Adam had absolutely and
truly closed.
A nub of plastic with a holographic image landed face-up on the counter.
"I'll just take this bit," said Cat, clutching the remnant of the
card and following Georgia meekly out to the vehicle.
"Shotgun!" Dakota was quick on the draw all right.
"What?" Cat was in a daze.
"My little girl has beaten you for the front seat, old friend," said
Georgia, putting on a broad and fake accent, vaguely English-Scottish.
"Now let's get our stuff in the boot. Pip, pip!"
Dakota held a giant golf umbrella overhead as Georgia began loading the bags
into the trunk. Cat stood there watching, arms at her side, little girl lost at
thirty-seven.
"It's a good day, Cat."
"How can you say that?"
"You've just reinforced for Dakota two of the most valuable lessons any
girl can know."
"Don't serve your jackass of a husband with divorce papers?"
"Hmmm, nope, not what I was thinking of. I figure that goes on a
case-by-case basis," said Georgia, puffing a bit as she wrestled with
lifting Cat's
overpacked
pieces of luggage. "But
you've just demonstrated rule of life number one. Dakota?"
"Be your own safety and security!" Dakota shouted out to the sky,
jostling the umbrella so that a little rainwater plopped right into Cat's eye.
The blonde made a little squeal.
"And addendum to rule number one—listen up, Dakota," said Georgia,
slamming the trunk shut and tapping on the closed lid for emphasis. "Every
woman should have credit in her own name. Wouldn't you say so, Cat? Ladies, our
carriage awaits."
Dakota charged up to the front seat lest Cat get there first, saw the wheel was
on the side she was accustomed to as the passenger's spot, and bolted around
the front bumper. "I almost lost it there!" She laughed as she
clambered into the passenger seat, pulling down the umbrella and shutting the
door. Georgia held her hand over her head to stave off the water drops, but Cat
remained motionless, still standing, shoulders slumped, by the back end of the
car.
"I really
have
lost it, Georgia."
Georgia Walker took a few steps toward the woman who felt at once like an
interloper and a bosom companion. She couldn't deny that she'd felt a little
thrill watching Cat's card get turned down, seeing the disappearance of the
wealth and privilege previously flaunted. But she felt sad for her, too,
knowing very well what it was like to find yourself without any idea of how to
get from A to B. Landing in a situation of one's own making doesn't mean it was
the circumstance that was truly wanted.
"Well,
CathyCat
, let's see if we can help you
find it again."
"Like what?"
"Like I don't know, but it's up to you to figure it out."
The rain had progressed to a shower and both women were soaked; Georgia gave up
trying to keep the rain off her curly hair. She knew there was no way to avoid
the frizz now.
Motioning to the car, she took the few steps to the driver's door and reached
out for the handle.
"But I'll tell you rule number two—and this one came from my
gran
, good old Glenda Walker herself: 'Your life is what
you make it.'" She opened the car door.
"Georgia?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you have these rules written down somewhere? Because I think it's time
I got myself a copy."
And without making eye contact, Cat climbed over the driver's seat that Georgia
had pushed forward, dripping water off her coat and hair as she settled into
the back seat of the red two-door hatch-back. She buckled in, and then leaned forward,
resting her chin on her knees as Georgia put her fingers to her lips and gave
the universal sign of "be quiet" to her daughter. Dakota nodded as
Georgia fired up the engine and offered a silent prayer that she didn't kill
them all trying to get through the roundabout to exit the airport.