Kate Jacobs (31 page)

twenty-three

One month of bliss. No arguments. No
misunderstandings
. Just lots of dinners in, mostly with Dakota, sometimes without. Bike
rides in the park—yes, Georgia had even tried out that damned bike and ended up
exhausted from a short trek, thank you very much—and evening walks to get a
soft serve from the nearby candy shop or even just braving the tourist horde to
hang out at the Temple of
Dendur
at the Met. James
had treated them to a boat cruise to see the Macy's fireworks on the Fourth and
tickets to Cirque du Soleil on Randall's Island. In the middle of July, all of
them—Cat and Anita and Marty included—had taken the subway up to Yankee Stadium
and watched the Bronx Bombers blast their opponents with home run after home
run. It was, in a word, awesome.
She'd asked Anita to take Dakota out to the movies this Sunday night, had
shaved her legs again, made a trip to Victoria's Secret for something special.
A little purple
cami
set, over which she donned a
black V-neck tank and a not-too-skimpy-but-short-enough denim skirt.
"It's like I'm getting to know the most amazing guy," she told Anita
when they made the arrangements. "And guess what? We already have a
daughter together. It's very postmodern."
Georgia had used that logic on herself when she whipped together a quick pasta
supper: nothing to be nervous about, because they've already been together.
Obviously. Just look at Dakota. But her stomach fell through to the floor when
the buzzer rang. She ran her sweaty palms over her hair, intending to smooth
her curls, instead creating instant static electricity. Out of breath, even
though it took three steps to cross the living room and pull open the door.
James leaned against the doorway, a bright white polo and crisp khakis.
"You look hot! And yes, I'm leering." He nodded appreciatively.
She thought about the
fusilli
on the stove, just
tossed with garden vegetables and a light olive oil and garlic. And she thought
about the recently opened bottle of wine, the half-glass she'd gulped just a
moment ago. Then she thought about Gran and the great charade she was going to
pull, planning to tell James they weren't home when he turned up. Things worked
out better when you were straight up.
Georgia decided to be direct.
"James," she said, reaching out a hand to tug on his shirt collar.
"I think it's time you stayed the night."
She didn't have to ask him twice; he was inside the apartment and pulling her
into his arms instantly, his mouth on hers. Smiling as he kissed her, tasting
so good, familiar but different. His technique was better. More experienced.
She pushed the thought of all those other girls out of her mind; he was hers
now. Hers and hers alone. Memories of long-ago sex with James flashed in her
mind, triggered by the way he ran his fingers up and down her spine—she had
forgotten that!—to how he loved to bite at the hollows of her collarbone, not
so bony as they used to be. He wasn't as impatient as when he was young,
either. Taking his time to look at her body as she undressed, reminding himself
with his fingers and tongue of all of his favorite places. (And when she jumped
off the bed in a panic to pick up any stray items of clothing, lest Dakota come
home early, he helped her do a quick apartment check.)
He spoke to her, not in the shady sex lines of a master of the universe talking
about how she made him hot, baby, so hot…but the soothing, laughing tones of a
man as excited in his mind as his body. Loving every moment. Georgia had
expected to feel embarrassed by her appearance, by the faint tiger stripes on
the side of her abdomen, which marked her long-ago pregnancy; she had been
sneaking in crunches over the past month and tried using some miracle
stretch-mark-remover cream. (Ha!) But, instead, James had kissed every line.
Being with him was just like returning home after a long journey. To a really
mind-blowing location, to be sure, but a safe, familiar, beautiful place
nonetheless.
James was truly hers. And she was his.

* * *

Being invited into a person's living quarters
in New York City is a huge gesture of trust. Certainly their choice of artwork,
furniture, paint color, reveals much about their taste and style. But that's
the case anywhere, isn't it? New York is different; it remains a city of
neighborhoods built up along the lines of class and race: the Upper East Side
for Old Money, the West Side for New. Downtown for the
Trendies
.
And all sorts of strivers and dreamers and regular middle-and working-class
folks sprinkled everywhere in between, snapping up any apartment that is
bug-free (please!) and not too overpriced (pretty please!). But it's not
necessarily the location or address that defines a person. You can lease a
tiny, rent-controlled studio just off the East Side's Madison Avenue—or, one building
over, own a massive
multibedroom
flat inherited from
a wily old grandfather. In midtown offices, coworkers wonder if their peers are
pulling themselves up by their bootstraps or are really just trust-fund babies.
When impressions are everything, would you want anyone to know the truth either
way?
That's why regular, workaday New Yorkers "entertain" in restaurants.
Cocktail bars. Meeting up at the museum. Oh, sure, you'll hear people say it's
because of the size of their apartment. That the kitchen is too small to make a
reasonable meal. But that's just part of the equation. Because unless you go
out of your way to live hugely above or below your means, letting a friend, a
colleague, a significant other into your home reveals everything: your attitudes,
your sense of style…and the state of your pocketbook. It's one thing if your
home is so grand as to intimidate, though in New York there is always someone
who has more, bigger, seemingly better. Opening your apartment door invites
envy or condescension. It changes the playing field.
The truth comes down to this: In a city obsessed with wealth and status, there
are few gestures more intimate than being invited into someone's home.
So when Marty suggested to Anita that it would be fun to just stay in for a
night, cook a meal together, and enjoy some wine, she panicked. Not because she
worried that he was expecting something for dessert beyond a slice of cake—he'd
always been a complete gentleman and let her know that her company was more
than enough. She panicked because they'd never discussed where they lived. In
ten years of casual acquaintance, it had never come up. Which was, in New York,
extremely typical. Ask someone where they live and they'll give out a cross
street—95th and Third, for example—rather than an actual address. And she'd
always told him that her home was "on the way to the park." Marty, on
the other hand, had never mentioned where he lived, either. And he was such a
wonderful man, so proud of his deli and its success, that the last thing she
wanted was for him to see her apartment. In the San Remo. One of the most
beautiful and exclusive buildings in the entire city.
Anita was proud of her means; it signified Stan's hard work and his love for
his family. But, for the first time, she was also embarrassed by it, aware of
her wealth's potential to create discomfort. To make Marty—possibly, she
couldn't be sure—feel inadequate.
"That's a great idea," she said to Marty's suggestion, barreling
right through before he could reply. "Let's do it at your place. I can
come over and cook."
"No, you can be my
sous
-chef," Marty said
with a grin. "I'll be in charge."
A few days later, she found herself on a tree-lined block of West 81st Street.
He lived in apartment 1A in the building, he'd said, so Anita was surprised to
come to his address and find a tall 1890s-style brownstone, wide steps going up
to the double front door and a street-level door below. Once single-family
homes for the well-to-do, many brownstones had been converted into multi-family
dwellings over the previous century, then, in the 1990s, began going back the
other way.
The double front door opened and a toddler wobbled uneasily over to the
railing, followed by an attractive young woman, visibly pregnant and pushing an
empty stroller.
"Oh, let me help you with that," said Anita, moving up the stairs to
take an end and help the young mother carry the equipment down the steps.
"It's okay, my husband is coming right down," said the woman.
"It's a nice night for a summer walk."
"Yes, it is a nice night," answered Anita, standing at the top of the
stairs. "But I think I've got the wrong address. I'm looking for Marty
Popper."
"Oh, Marty? He lives in the basement apartment. You can ring his buzzer
here or just knock on the door downstairs," she said. "He's so
sweet—he built us a big deck with stairs down to the garden."
Just then a tall man came out of the front door, an overstuffed diaper bag
slung across his body and a toy donkey in his hand; the family set out for
their adventure while Anita walked down to ring the doorbell for the basement
apartment, feeling ever more certain that not going to her place had been the
right decision.
Marty came to the door, hair still damp from a recent shower, in a long-sleeved
collared shirt and a pair of navy dress pants.
"Come in, come in," he said.
She walked in, let Marty take her purse, heard him taking a deep breath.
"You smell very pretty," he told her. Anita smiled. She noticed the
gleaming wooden floors, saw the staircase going up to the parlor floor but
closed off at the top for the family above, admired the pocket doors leading to
the rooms. Original? Off to her right was a large living area with two
upholstered couches, an exposed brick wall, a large television, a desk with a
computer. A round table and four chairs stood in the center of the room, then
there was a massive kitchen, outfitted with the latest stainless-steel
appliances. Beyond the kitchen area was a glassed-in sunroom with French doors
to the garden beyond, and to the left of the kitchen was a door that most
likely led to his bedroom.
The apartment was gorgeous. Positively, absolutely gorgeous. Marty had
surprised her once again.
"My niece, Laura, helped me choose the furniture," he offered by way
of explanation. "She gave me two choices on everything—this one or that
one, that one or this one. Couldn't go wrong."
"It's fantastic," said Anita.
"Come on over to the counter. I've been putting out toppings."
"Toppings?"
"Yeah," he said with a chuckle. "I thought we could make our own
pizzas."
It was more fun than she would have guessed, chopping up vegetables and grating
cheeses, sneaking tastes, bumping into each other as they made trips to the
fridge or fumbled in the drawer for Saran Wrap to cover the ingredients until they
were ready to place the items on the dough.
"Ooh!" yelped Marty.
"What is it?" She was concerned.
"I nearly chopped my thumb off there—and I've been slicing pepperoni for
nearly fifty years!" he said, before dropping his voice. "Guess I
just can't keep my mind on things when you're around."
Anita felt that little dance of nerves in her belly, caught sight of her
reflection in the gleaming stainless-steel stove. Even the distorted angles
couldn't hide it. Her face was beaming.
She was in love.

* * *

It's something every person needs to learn,
Georgia was telling Cat a few days later as she packed Dakota's backpack with
extra socks and underwear and the new training bra she'd purchased at
Bloomie's
. (She figured she'd just tuck that in there, let
Dakota find it on her own.) Don't—no, really, don't—agree to things when you're
lying together in bed after making love. It's what leads to adventures like a
family trip to meet the couple who should have been your in-laws, if everything
hadn't been such a disaster for all these years.
But she'd agreed, somewhere between kisses and tickles, that of course Dakota
could meet her Foster grandparents. And of course Georgia would come and meet
them too.
"What are you? Nuts?" Cat was lying on top of Dakota's bed, pretending
to flip through a copy of
Teen People
but actually closely reading the
stories on the rivalries among a gaggle of pop queens. She sat up, conscious
that Georgia had noticed her interest.
"I like to keep up with Dakota," she said, tossing the magazine onto
the floor. "But, seriously, Georgia—you do remember that these are the
people who didn't want James to date a white woman in the first place? And
you're still, well, white."
True enough. The only white person in the room, in fact, when she stepped into
the foyer of the Foster family home, as country in style as James's apartment
was modern gleaming steel and black leather. Here, the soft, blue couches were
overstuffed and welcoming, wooden shelves groaning with books and endless
framed photos of children: Georgia recognized a young James and three girls,
youngsters in short dresses with empire waistlines to teenagers in bell bottoms
and then young women in corduroy blazers and ruffled blouses. There were the
requisite graduation photos on the walls, and over the mantel hung a large
photo of the entire family—those young girls now women entering middle-age,
their children and husbands gathered around, James in the center of the
grouping with his arms around his parents, towering over everyone.
He had called ahead, he told her, to let his parents—Lillian and Joe—know they
would be arriving. He had just forgotten to say exactly
when
he'd
called.
"When James telephoned last night to say you'd be taking the train up
today, I must say we were—" his mother's voice faltered as she searched
for the right word—"unprepared. But I want you to know that we are very
glad to meet you, Dakota, and to meet your mother, of course." She
extended her hand.
About five-foot-four and curvy, Lillian was a dynamic-looking woman, dressed in
a red silk blouse and a flowing shirred skirt, large hoop earrings framing her
face, her hair short and natural. She, like Joe, was a teacher, had made a
career of teaching kids to love the classics; Joe had taught chemistry for
forty years before retiring a few years earlier.
Nearly six feet tall, Joe was a strong-looking man whose hair had hardly grayed
over the years; wearing a polo and dark pants, he looked more like James's
older brother than his father.
Dakota was entranced, shaking her grandparents' hands solemnly as befitted a
serious occasion, before launching into a mile-a-minute monologue followed by a
series of seemingly endless questions. Lillian ushered her into the front room,
took down an old photo album, and began poring over the snapshots of the
family, while Georgia perched alongside her daughter. She wished she hadn't
come.
They sat down to a lunch of sandwiches and green salad, Georgia grateful that
the food gave her something to do with her hands, as Dakota filled them all in
on her trip to Scotland. And her upcoming birthday.
"So I'm going to be thirteen soon and that's huge—starting eighth grade in
September and I'm pretty smart. I got mostly A's last year," she said,
catching a look from her mom. "Not to brag," she finished quietly.
"That's not bragging if it's true," said Lillian. "Your father
was a smart one, and so were his sisters. Your aunts."
"Will I meet them today?"
"I think we'll introduce you to the whole family just as soon as can
be." The woman smiled gently. "All your cousins and aunts and uncles.
They'll love you. But today it's just time for us to get to know you. And I
thought you and your dad could play a little card game with your old grandpa
Joe there while your mom and I do the dishes."
Georgia threw James a mental SOS with her eyes.
"I'll help, Mom," he started, but Lillian held up her hand.
"No, I'd like to have Georgia give me a hand right now. Please and thank
you. Georgia, is that all right with you?"
The two women brought in plates and condiments in silence, Georgia lining
things up on the counter in the way of someone unfamiliar with that particular
kitchen, Lillian moving with brisk efficiency as she loaded the leftovers back
into the fridge.
"Mrs. Foster, I am so sorry this is so out-of-the-blue—it's just
that…" Georgia stood by the sink, making a row of glasses, nervous.
"I love my son, Georgia, make no mistake," said Lillian, stepping out
from behind the fridge door. "But we've got a royal mess of a situation
here." She washed her hands in the sink.
"But I'd like to have you tell me a bit about yourself. What do you do in
that big city up there?" Lillian had a certain kind of presence—honed from
years in a classroom—that commanded acquiescence. Georgia felt like she was
back in high school, called up to the blackboard.
"I run a yarn shop."
"Your own business?"
"Yes, I started it when Dakota was a baby; first I'd take on knitting
commissions. And then the business grew and I got a bit of a loan, from my
friend Anita, and I branched out to selling yarn. I've had the store for years
and it's been a solid living."
"So you're a businesswoman. Good for you. And have you ever been
married?"
"No, I never, it's just, well, I…" Georgia decided to be frank.
"I think I've been waiting for James to come back all this time."
The older woman nodded, rubbing down the counter with vigor, then tackling the
stainless-steel sink with a spray of Windex. It shone.
"So you're patient," she said, still polishing the faucet.
"You're a shock to the system, Georgia Walker, that's for sure, but
sometimes it's the little jolts that keeps things lively. Don't you think so?
Now let's finish up here."
And the women loaded the dishwasher as Georgia told James's mother about
Dakota's hobbies and friends, Lillian occasionally sharing a story or two about
James as a child. In fact, it wasn't as bad as she had expected. Well, at least
not for Georgia.